::: Sketches Of Cameroon... Part1 :::

Limbe

A friend once told me that the Anglophone part of Cameroon was like a different world from the rest of the country. I did not believe him then. Coming in on the road from Douala, we cross into the Southwest. The roads look newly tarred and tidy. The ditches are uncluttered. The traffic is moving in an orderly fashion. The taxis are neat.

 A different world!

There is a Cultural Arts and Crafts Festival this weekend. Opposite the Botanical Garden a dozen stalls have been erected. Displaying various hand-made items and instruments. We stroll across the short dry grass appraising traditional dresses and robes, bags and hats from different regions. Paintings and musical instruments. Carved and woven goods. Spices, herbs and medical concoctions. We proceed to the tribune where rows of white-clothed chairs are waiting. A chief, very old and fragile, and other local dignitaries arrive. Wearing long owing robes, boubous of various styles. They take their seats. The band starts playing. The first group of dancers move forward in swaying steps. The show begins. The evening is filled with the sound of drums and traditional dances as diverse as Cameroon itself. From time to time one of the spectators steps down from the tribune, joining in,showering the performers with money. The dancers exert themselves. Lost in rhythm.

 Clouds are gathering. The wind is picking up. We leave the festival and head home. A storm is building. No sooner do we enter the house than the clouds burst. Heavy rains are drumming on the roof. Water spraying through the slits of the windows. We rush through the house to close them. Before gathering in the living room. The light is gone. We are sitting in darkness. Chatting. Laughing. Listening to the downpour. The light comes and goes. It is late. I fall asleep to a song of water and wind.

By K.L.E