Martin Jumbam

The Petrine and Pauline elements in Christian Cardinal Tumi.

(First published in Summit Magazine, July-September 2021 edition).

There is, or there should be, a Petrine and a Pauline element in every Catholic priest, bishop, archbishop, cardinal, or pope.  The Petrine element emerges when the priest, like Saint Peter, governs, directs and establishes order in the church, and guides his flock to recognise Christ as the “Son of the living God,” (Mt 16: 16).

I was a member of the Top Executive in CCAST Bambili

Did you say culture shock? That feeling of disorientation when you are suddenly subjected to an unfamiliar culture, way of life, or set of attitudes? Yes, I experienced one just within a few days of my arrival in the then prestigious, elitist and yet-to-be rivalled Cameroon College of Arts, Science and Technology (CCAST) in Bambili in northwestern Cameroon.

Creative Writing - A Drink by the Wouri River

Martin Jumbam

There’s a beer house overlooking the turbid, heavily polluted waters of the Wouri River in the Akwa District of Douala, Cameroon’s economic capital. To my friend, Andy “Young” and me, it is the best drinking spot anywhere in the city. What with its little booth-like cubicles called “buckaroos”, and its still-to-be-rivalled bevy of heavy-bosomed, hip-swinging ladies, some in see-through dresses, who dance around rather than walk.

Let's build bridges of goodness

Martin Jumbam

A few months ago, I was asked to speak at a niece’s wedding, on behalf of my family. The Master of Ceremony, a young man in his mid-thirties, dynamic, vibrant and fluent in speech, said it was now the turn of a representative of the bride’s family to say a word. As I strode up to the podium, he asked the audience to put their hands together for one of Cameroon’s most renowned writers, Mr. Martin Kenjo wan Jumbam. As the applause rose from the hall, the young man talked about the books he said I had written, citing particularly The White Man of God, which he said he had read in his secondary school days, and how much he had enjoyed reading it.

Have you given your shoulder to someone?

Martin Jumbam

A friend of mine lost his son abroad, a very tragic thing, as you would well imagine. We were at the cargo terminal of the Douala International Airport to wait for his mortal remains.

Yes, the young man had become mere cargo!

When my friend and his family arrived a little after us, I suddenly noticed how awkward it was for me to go up to him and greet him. For some strange reason, I didn’t seem to know what to say to him. I also noticed the same feeling of uneasiness among other friends, who all walked up to him when he alighted from his car, greeted him, said a few words of consolation, and then drifted away in small groups to talk uneasily about one thing or another.

Soon, our friend was left standing by himself a distance away. I was wondering what to do next when an elderly woman from the Catholic Women’s Association (CWA), came to me and said, “Pa, make wuna no leave he alone, ooh. Go hold he hand, ah beg.” It was as if a knife had just been put through the rope that was holding me in place.

I walked up to him, took him by the hand and led him to an empty seat by the corner. We sat down and I was still not sure what to say to him. Without a word, I merely put my hand on his shoulder, squeezed him gently and felt a shudder run through his body from head to toe. He then turned his head towards my shoulder and I suddenly felt a torrent of hot tears drenching my shoulder. I let him bury his face in my shoulder and listened to him sobbing, violently at first, then the sobs began to die down. I reached into my pocket for some paper tissue, which I handed to him. I also felt my nose clogging up, which is always a prelude to a flood of tears, which I also let flow, albeit less audibly.

He lifted his head after weeping, looked at me in deep gratitude and said he was sorry his tears had dampened my clothes. I tapped him gently on his shoulder and asked him not to worry about it. “Without your tears, I would still be dripping with the sweat from the hot, damp Douala weather.” We laughed and I could feel how much tension and stress he had released within the short time he wept on my shoulders, and I was glad I gave him my shoulder to cry on.

This brought to mind a story of a three or four-year old boy who is said to have gone to a neighbor’s house. The man had just lost his wife and was in great mourning. The young boy climbed on the grieving man’s lap as he wept, said nothing to him but just sat there for long time. His mother saw him sitting on the man’s lap but did not disturb them. Afterwards, intrigued by his action, she asked him why he decided to sit on uncle’s lap when he was in tears. The kid’s answer was simple: “I was helping him to cry”. In his own way, he had given the old man his shoulder to cry on.

Contrary to what many may think, crying is therapeutic. I believe it was the United States’ President Abraham Lincoln, who once wrote to his son’s teacher with a number of recommendations, among which is my favorite: “Tell him that there is nothing wrong in crying”. Indeed, let the flood of tears flow and the result is always a feeling of great relief.

In many Cameroonian societies, it is almost unthinkable for a man to be seen shedding tears, especially in public. But shedding tears, whether in private or in public, is curative. It lightens the soul and the mind. Wherever and whenever possible, give your shoulder to someone to cry on. You would be doing them a great favor.

Where can my “son” Dieudonné be now?

Martin Jumbam 

Strange things can sometimes happen to you on the bus from Yaoundé to Douala. One afternoon about a month ago, l took a seat on a bus from the capital city. I thought it was just going to be a calm trip back to base but how wrong I was! Just as the bus was about to crawl out of the station, a young woman walked in with a small boy, five or six years old. I was sitting way at the back by the window and the seat beside me seemed to be the only one that was empty. They walked up to it and the woman asked me if there was anyone on it. The answer being negative, she sat the kid on it, fastened his seatbelt and then turned round and I thought she was going to her own seat, but then she instead headed for the door. I called out to her and, pointing to the child, asked if she was leaving him all by himself. She said she was not leaving him alone since I was there and that I should not worry as there would be someone at the Douala end of the journey to collect him; “Je vous le confie donc!”, and with that, she was gone.

“President Paul Biya and I are friends,” says Christian Cardinal Tumi.

Martin Jumbam

Among the numerous people Christian Cardinal Tumi highlighted for thanks for their messages of condolence to him and his family, when his mother passed on, was the presidential family, Mr. Paul Biya and his family. Sensing, and rightly so, that many eyebrows were being raised in the audience over what sounded like his effusive thanks to the Head of State, Cardinal Tumi humorously mentioned that even though many have always thought that he and President Biya were long-time enemies, they were actually good friends. President Biya, he told the bemused audience, was the first person to send him and his family a condolence message once it became clear that his mother had stood up, answered present to the Master’s inevitable call, and gone forward to receive her eternal reward.

 

Fiftieth Anniversary of Cameroon's Reunification: The Summit Magazine Story

By Martin Jumbam

If there is one positive thing the recent celebration of Cameroon's reunification seems to have done, it is that it has awakened, for some, and re-awakened, for others, the desire to know more about what really happened in Foumban in June 1961. In that regard, I am impressed by the October-December 2013 issue of the Yaoundé-based Summit Magazine, 'the brainchild of CRTV journalist, William Wassaloko. The lead story is entitled ‘The Re-unification Story' with contributions coming from well-seasoned Anglophone minds – historians, for the most part!

 

It is almost entirely dedicated to the increasingly contentious issue of our 1961 reunification. Was Foumban really the Anglophone ‘Waterloo’ some say it was? The magazine was out on the stands before the recent celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of our union, which, ironically enough, came 53 years later. So we should in fact have been celebrating the fifty third, not the fiftieth anniversary. That said, let's move on! 

A prayer at the University of Buea

By Martin Jumbam

I am at the University of Buea (UB) on a Saturday morning for a meeting with a translator/interpreter colleague of mine. I have arrived much earlier than the meeting time and, to my surprise, UB stands unbelievably empty and quiet. It’s true that I am not a regular visitor to UB but the few times I’ve been here, I’ve always been greeted by a beehive of student activities. This morning is different. It is Saturday and there is hardly anyone around. It rained last night and the air is clean, refreshing and odourless; what a sharp contrast with the foul air I breathe each morning as I drive to work through some of our neighbourhoods in Douala; or the stench-stewed air from industrial chimneys that I breathe all day long.

 

Since it rained last night in Buea, the well-manicured lawns at UB are attractively green; from the tree leaves water drops like tears onto the lawn. The rains have purged the air of dust and the cool wind, flowing down from the flank of the majestic Fako towering above, gently fondles my ear lobes. The trees are swaying gently in the wind as the birds land on their branches, bringing to mind the biblical mustard seed, the smallest seed of all, producing huge trees in whose branches the birds of the air build their nests.

I Salute the Memory of Chinua Achebe

By Martin Jumbam

I had the singular privilege and honour of meeting Chinua Achebe on two occasions: the first was at the African Literature Association Conference in Gainesville, Florida in the spring of 1980. On the opening day of the Conference, what had started as a rumour became reality as Achebe appeared and took a seat of honour on the podium alongside Afro-American writer James Baldwin. I recall that as Baldwin was greeting what he called 'my brother whom I haven't met in 400 years' a hate-filled voice suddenly broke through the communication system, asking James Baldwin to take his niggers out of town. Boy, was that ever scary!