By Bate Besong
Genesis: as in dirge
Carnation placed on the coco-nut head of a Father of the Nation
without good judgement; is a gold ring affixed in a bush-pig's snout;
like a Foumban referendum lamp, flickering out in the charnel
power; of an incestuous lure. So
Many are the Gerard Emmanuel Ondo Ndong's of capricious money politics who have
ended their careers sitting on the ground, while their mesmeric
narcissus were worn by cinderellas no one heard of before.
A dog that is fated to lose its way in the bush will remain deaf
to the hunter's whistle; whenever
a fresh hurricane of sleeze
and avarice blows across the Exchequer
and new thugs-in-state rig themselves to power by deceit.
We have seen such things and have heard of even more striking
examples.
You are too busy making money, busy pursuing honour and
prestige, and all that goes to bring momentary pleasure.
You will be judged by your populist geraniums, not by the multiple kleig-lights of
the Ngoa-Ekele House of Prodigal Illusions whose
kalashnikov-point ambush of the Cameroonian people's will, serenade;
the slit-drums of
a commodious goon-of-state;
a chronic magida-in-state.
(I)
Statesmen who look straight ahead with honest conviction; never hang
their heads in shame
A city is happy when honest people have good fortune, and they are joyful
when Delegué du governement riding the barbican of l'ennemies
dans la maison die.
Only diplomatic missions with zero luminence and foolishly misguided
would think that redeemers who fill
their houses with loot in Ghana-must-go-bags
and parade themselves
in the handsome turban of
parliamentary immunity
plebiscited by the macarana'a Labrador of
Francois Xavier Mbouyoum's National Electoral
Observatory, have gained,
an honourable reputation.
(II)
whenever a
sludge of sycophancy
tp a disgraced autocrat, yeilds the unctuous
mat of patriotism so deeply soaked in ultimate conceit; and I.M.F.
Indifference to the sorcery of tribal atavism, gorges;
mbambas, worse
than Evil herself; and our hopes, our tomorrows, our aspirations; our
everything have been slaughtered.
A sensible person
does not become a pariah; among his own people by
hiding behind the iron curtain of
PARTY DISCIPLINE
A bee is very small, but the honey it makes is the sweetest
of food.
Valedictory: with flutes and drums as in a homecoming
You would have stretched the horizon of Um Nyobe Reuben, Mpodol
and your caravan of galaxies would have plowed the immaculate vineyard of
Foumban, and made you the century's mason - in a wash of moonlight-the chrysanthemums of federal stars would have endowed you with
the smithery of Toussaint L'Ouverture!
You would have enamoured the mami-water of the Mentchoum Falls;
surprised even the salvation sapphires of Boumnyebel with the hunchback totem
of the Barombi; opened the hill-crests of Mayo-Louti.
Your barns would have been filled with citrus fruit, vegetal ark, sweetcorn, green beans and
pepper sauce; you would have
had much honeycomb and cacao to be able to surmount
the algebra of
monopoly capitalism masquerading
as the democratic
hyacinth to the Prodigal ambition of
aimless drift.
Your equinox of immortality would have been likened to the
escutheon of sunrise, getting
brighter and brighter, until the
motorised infantry of a New Jerusalem
had come.
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