A Journey to the World: Reminiscences and Moments

By Don Harris Oben

This is about the fascinating stories that the author’s father told him when he was a little boy and of his travels during his employment in Nigeria, which invoked in him a burning desire to undertake his own journey to broaden his horizons. It is a journey during which the author experienced the good, the bad, and the ugly in human behavior and character. This book is an honest and captivating story of that journey, penned with the style of an experienced writer and publisher.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984559302

Don Harris Oben

The Author, Don Harris Oben holds a Ph.D degree in Agricultural Economics with specialization in Agricultural Development and Policy. He has written extensively and consulted on a wide range of agricultural and rural development policy issues reflecting not only his academic, but also his career backgrounds. In a distinguished and enriching career spanning several decades, he worked as a rubber planter in the Cameroon Development Corporation plantations, acquired veterinary experiences, was a post-doctoral fellow/researcher with the Consultative Group on International Agricultural Research, had tenures in two universities, ending up with a 21-year career in international development, cooperation and diplomacy with the United Nations. Comments: - A wonderful read that takes the reader around the world, crossing bridges of culture and nature – Sammy Oke Akombi, Cameroonian Novelist and Publisher - Truly, a book that should not just be read and kept away. It should be chewed and swallowed – New Times

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Copyright © 2018 by Don Harris Oben.

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The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Rev. date: 02/10/2020

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Contents

Dedication

Abbreviations/Acronyms

Preface

Acknowledgments

Part 1 – Before the Journey

Chapter 1 Growing Up In Mamfe Town: The Early Years

Mamfe Town In The 1950S

A Conversation With My Mother

My Father

Chapter 2 Preparing For The Journey

My Years In Primary School In Mamfe

My Years In The Late 1950S

Part 2 – The Journey

Chapter 3 The First Few Steps: The Interview At Owerri, Nigeria

Chapter 4 Studying At Government Secondary School, Owerri, Eastern Nigeria

Chapter 5 Buea In The Mid-1960S

Chapter 6 The Journey Through Nsukka To Ibadan

At The University Of Nigeria, Nsukka (UNN)

Veterinary Experiences

The Debriefing That Changed My Career And Life

Crossing Over From Nsukka To Ibadan

Chapter 7 Into The Plantations

Planting Rubber In The Cdc

Mbonge Plantation: A Mine Field In Waiting

The Senior Overseer Puts Me To The Test

The Salesman From Renault

Down At The Coast At Last

Chapter 8 Graduate Study On Rockefeller And Ford Foundation Fellowships

To Leave Or Not To Leave Is The Question

Studying For The Master’s Degree At Ibadan On A Rockefeller Fellowship

Our Wedding

From Rockefeller To Ford Foundation

At The University Of California At Davis, United States Of America.

Back In Ibadan

Chapter 9 Joining The Consultative Group On International Agricultural Research (CGIAR) At The International Institute Of Tropical Agriculture (IITA), Ibadan, Nigeria

The Accommodation Issue

Working At IITA

Research On Cassava And Hydrocyanic Acid

Research On Hydromorphic Toposequences

Chapter 10 Into Academia

My Welcome In Yaounde

Teaching And Research At The Dschang University Centre

The Second Letter From The ECA And The Challenge Of Leaving

Chapter 11 Joining The World Of International Development And Diplomacy: The Un Economic Commission For Africa (ECA), Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

Arrival In Ethiopia

The United Nations Economic Commission For Africa Or ECA: Its Mandate And Structure

Settling Down To Work

The Regional Programmes And Plans Of Action

ECA-Sponsored Institutions

Moving On And Getting A Permanent Contract

Looking Outside The ECA

Chapter 12 The World Of International Development And Diplomacy: The United Nations World Food Council (WFC), Rome, Italy

Mandate And Initiatives

Arrival And Work At The WFC

The WFC And The Un Financial Crisis

Closure, Redeployments, And Separations

Redeployment To The ECA—To Tangier, Morocco

Chapter 13 The World Of International Development And Diplomacy: The ECA Subregional Office For North Africa, Tangier, Morocco

My Reception In Tangier

Serving Countries Of The North African Subregion

Chapter 14 The World Of International Development And Diplomacy: The ECA Headquarters, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

Ethiopia: New Changes

ECA: The New Strategic Directions

A Study Tour Of New Zealand For West African Senior Policy And Decision Makers

The Program On Agriculture: A New Orientation

The Nexus Of Population, Agriculture, And Environment

The PEDA Model

ECA And FSSDD: The Last Years

The Cameroon Community In Ethiopia

Preparing For Retirement

The Preretirement Arrangements And Workshops

My Retirement

Part 3 – The End of the Journey

Chapter 15 Returning From The Journey

Repatriation And Relocation

On Relocation: Our Experience

Part 4 – Looking Back at the Journey

Chapter 16 Some Reflections

ECA And Africa’s Development

The Solution To Africa’s Problems

Political Will And Africa’s Development

The Journey: Challenges And Opportunities

Chapter 17 Some Reminiscences And Moments

These Reminiscences And Moments

R&M1. In Accordance With

R&M2. Forgetting My Name

R&M3. The Accident At Eyang Hill

R&M4. Trusting 1: A Goat Eats Where It Is Tied

R&M5. Trusting 2: Man Must Wack (Survive)

R&M6. Trusting 3: Trusting The Auc

R&M7 Me And Dogs

R&M8. The Misguided Fool

R&M9. It’s A Small World

R&M10. Working With Appetite

R&M11. A Case Of Two Cities

R&M12. Being Mean Or Being Just

R&M13. Attaché Militaire

R&M14. Dress Code

R&M15. Air Travel In Africa

R&M16. What’s In A Name?

R&M17. Nowhere To Go

R&M18. Cold Beer And Teapots

R&M19. A Committee That Never Met Again

R&M20. When Not To Tell The Truth

R&M21. Passing Out In The Skies

R&M 22. Enforcing The Law

R&M23. A Silent Listener

R&M24. Mugged In Washington, DC

Appendix 1 Eye-Witness Account Of How Pa J. A. Oben Ceded Land For The Construction Of Federal Government Bilingual Secondary School, Mamfe.

Appendix 2 ECA-Sponsored Institutions

References

Some Of The Other Publications And Reports

To my father, Joseph Ako-aragbor Oben (Ta Ako-Aragbor),

and my mother, Rose Ayuk-ebet Oben (Ma Orosa).

They prepared me for the journey.

ABBREVIATIONS/ACRONYMS

AAF-SAP African Alternative Framework to Structural Adjustment Programmes

AATPO Association of African Trade Promotion Organizations

ACMAD African Centre of Meteorological Applications for Development

AEC African Economic Community

AMU Arab Maghreb Union

AOCRS African Organization for Cartography and Remote Sensing

APPER Africa’s Priority Programme for Economic Recovery

ARCEDEM African Regional Centre for Engineering Design and Manufacturing

ARCT African Regional Centre for Technology

ARSO African Regional Organization for Standardization

ATRCW African Training and Research Centre for Women

AU African Union

AUC African Union Commission

BCI Banca Commerciale Italiana

CAFRAD Centre Africain de Formation et de Recherche Administratives pour le Développement/African Training and Research Centre in Administration for Development (ATRCAD)

CAREL Centre Audio-visuel de Royan pour l’Etudes de Langues

CASIN Centre for Applied Studies in International Negotiations

CEMAC Communaute Economique et Monetaire d’Afrique Centrale (Customs and Economic Union of Central Africa)

CGIAR Consultative Group for International Agricultural Research

CILLS Inter-governmental Committee for Combatting Drought in the Sahel

CRTO Centre Regional de Teledetection

CUD Centre Universitaire de Dschang/Dschang University Centre

DALF Diplôme Approfondi de Langue Franςaise

DELF Diplôme d’Études en Langue Franςaise

DPCSD Department of Policy Coordination and Sustainable Development

ECA Economic Commission for Africa

ECCAS Economic Community of Central African States

ECE Economic Commission for Europe

ECOSOC Economic and Social Council

ECOWAS Economic Community of West African States

ECLAC Economic Commission for Latin America and the Caribbean

ENSA École Nationale Supérieure d’Agriculture (Higher National School of Agriculture)

EPLF Eritrian Peoples Liberation Front

EPRDF Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Democratic Front

ESAMI Eastern and Southern African Management Institute

ESCAP Economic and Social Commission for Asia and the Pacific

ESCWA Economic and Social Commission for Western Asia

ESL English as a Foreign Language

FAO Food and Agriculture Organization

GATT General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade

GTZ German Agency for Technical Cooperation

HRO Human Resources Officer

IAW International Alliance of Women

IBRD International Bank for Reconstruction and Development (World Bank)

ICRISAT International Crops Research Institute for the Semi-Arid Tropics

IDDA Industrial Development Decade for Africa

IDEP Institute for Development and Economic Planning

IFAD International Fund for Agricultural Development

IFDC International Fertilizer Development Centre

IFPRI International Food Policy Research Institute

IIASA International Institute for applied Systems Analysis

IITA International Institute for Tropical Agriculture

ILCA International Livestock Centre for Africa

IMF International Monetary Fund

ISNAR International Service for National Agricultural Research

ITA Institut Technique Agricole

LPA Lagos Plan of Action

LUTH Lagos University Teaching Hospital

MULPOC Multinational Programming and Operational Centre

NEPAD New Partnership for Africa’s Development

NRD Natural Resources Division

OAU Organization of African Unity

ODG Overseas Development Group

OGSS Owerri Government Secondary School

OHRM Office of Human Resources and Management

PTA Preferential Trade Area

RCSSMRS Regional Centre for Services in Surveying, Mapping and Remote Sensing

RECs Regional Economic Communities

RECTAS Regional Centre for Training in Aerospace Surveys

RIPs Regional Institute for Population Studies

SADC Southern Africa Development Community

SAP Structural Adjustment Programme

SERPD Socio-Economic Research and Policy Division

SRO Subregional Office

SSA Sub-Saharan Africa

TEPCOW Technical Preparatory Committee of the Whole

TCD Transport and Communication Division

TGE Transitional Government of Ethiopia

TPLF Tigray Peoples Liberation Front

UCH University Teaching Hospital

UN United Nations

UNCTAD United Nations Conference on Trade and Development

UNDP United Nations Development Programme

UNGA United Nations General Assembly

UNICEF United Nations International Children’s Emergency Fund

UNIDO United Nations Industrial Development Organization

USSR Union of Socialist Soviet Republics

WASC West African School Certificate

WBI World Bank Institute

WFC World Food Council

WFP World Food Programme

WHO World Health Organization

PREFACE

While I was a little boy growing up in Mamfe town, my father used to tell me fascinating stories of his travels during his employment in Nigeria during the colonial era. These stories invoked in me a burning desire to undertake my own journey to broaden my horizons. This autobiography, A Journey to the World: Reminiscences and Moments is an account of that journey.

It is a book in which my private, social, academic, and professional lives have been woven into a fascinating story. It tells how, I, as a little frail lad at the tender age of fourteen, embarked on a bumpy journey in a mammy wagon to the unknown world. It was a journey that started from the small town of Mamfe in the former Southern Cameroons and lasted forty-six years and took me to Nigeria, America, and to over forty-five countries in Africa and many countries in Europe, the Middle East, and East Asia before leading me back home to Cameroon in 2003. Along the journey, I had to take some of the most difficult decisions in my life and made hard choices either in response to perceived opportunities or to open up new opportunities, decisions and choices that posed immense challenges of their own in the wake of profound changes taking place around the world

Decisions and choices come with implications and consequences; so they did for me, my spouse, my children, the extended family and my friends. I wrote this autobiography because I wanted my journey to provide learning experiences, especially to the young people who will read this book. For instance, should one tell the truth if one knows that he or she will face dire consequences if one told the truth or is there a time when one should or should not tell the truth? This is one of many tricky situations I faced on my journey. Some events occurred where I experienced great moments. I remember some with nostalgia, but some were agonizing, traumatic. They were all experiences worth sharing.

I had a story to share. Very few contemporaries have had as wide, varied, and rich experiences as I have had in my private life, academic life, and working and professional life. Most people practice one and the same profession all their lives. I was many things at different times. A Journey to the World: Reminiscences and Moments tells the story about my journey from the small town of Mamfe, where I grew up, to Owerri and then to Nsukka and Ibadan in Nigeria and to the United States and back to Nigeria and Cameroon. It would later take me to Ethiopia, Italy, and Morocco and back to Ethiopia and several other countries before bringing me back home to Cameroon after forty-six years.

During the journey, I studied at Government Secondary School, Owerri; the universities of Nsukka and Ibadan; and the University of California at Davis. I got veterinary experiences before finally settling on agronomy and agricultural economics and specializing in development economics and policy. With time, the journey took me progressively into a wide range of professional domains and activities. It took me into the Cameroon public service, the plantations of the Cameroon Development Corporations (CDC), the Consultative Group for International Agricultural Research (CGIAR), the universities of Ibadan and Dschang, and finally into the world of international development and diplomacy of the United Nations system. I surely had experiences to share, and I wanted to share them through an autobiography.

I have written this autobiography like a novel rather than in the traditional manner of a treatise. It recalls enduring and memorable moments during my journey and combines humor with serious analysis, depending on the issue under discussion. My very private and personal incidents and issues are written in a lighter mood. But the issues of professional and academic nature are presented and discussed with a seriousness of purpose—to inform, arouse, and tickle the mind. This book is for both the light- and serious-minded.

Every book has its constituency. This book has many constituencies. For the Manyu old timers of my generation who wish to relive the glorious days of the golden fifties, the book provides cherished reminiscences of their days. For the young Manyu elites who were not around at that time, this book offers them an insight into how life was in Mamfe town in the golden days of Southern Cameroon. University students, teachers, researchers and development economists who are interested in the Consultative Group for International Agricultural Research or in international development and diplomacy will find a lot of invaluable content in this book.

The autobiography is divided into four parts. Part 1 Before the Journey highlights some aspects of life in Mamfe town where I grew up and how it helped shape my early life. Much of the account is, however, centered on my family, particularly my father and mother, who provided the underpinnings for a very rewarding education and a burning desire for travel. They prepared me for my journey. This part contains chapters 1 and 2. Part 2 The Journey, is the road map, so to speak, of the journey and thus contains the bulk of the chapters, i.e., chapters 3 to 14. This part presents the details of my academic and professional journey and ends with an account of the preparations for my eventual retirement from the UN. Part 3 The End of the Journey consists of chapter 15. This chapter provides an account of my repatriation to and relocation in Cameroon after my retirement. Part 4 Looking Back at the Journey consists of chapter 16. In this chapter, I look back at ECA’s role in Africa’s development and the issue of whether, in fact, Africa’s continued underdevelopment has been as a result of the lack of political will by member states to fully implement development strategies and regional plans of action crafted by the ECA with the political blessings of the OAU. I also look back at some of the opportunities and challenges I faced during the journey. Most importantly, I examine the big question of whether I did fulfill my early childhood dream—the dream of journeying to the world and broadening my horizons. Were my expectations met?

Chapter 17, the last chapter looks back at some of the memorable events and moments during the journey. These events and moments that occurred during the journey were not elaborated upon and, at times, not even mentioned in the appropriate chapters of the book in order to keep the reader focused on the story, the journey. These reminiscences have been distilled from the journey and recounted here in twenty-four short stories. They are wonderful stories of incidences that happened during my journey, and each incident had its moment. Some were life threatening, some caused me embarrassment, some caused frustration, some were mind-boggling while others were simply hilarious. The reader will cherish these reminiscences. He or she will find himself or herself infected with laughter. More importantly, however, these reminiscences give us an insight into human nature—how goodness and ugliness can both coexist side by side in human behavior and character.

During the journey, I had to tread through very difficult terrain—very slippery in some places, with land mines in others. Along the journey, I made decisions affecting my life, which my friends thought were misguided. I was sent to work in places where my expected collaborators were hostile due to preconceived ideas about me. I was sent to areas where the climate was not friendly. I had to fight for my rights, and I faced dire consequences for telling the truth. Yet I not only survived, but I prevailed. I won foes over and made them my friends along the journey.

This book raises some moral and other questions which provide food for thought. A famous poet once wrote, A good book is not just to be read and put away. It is to be chewed and swallowed. A Journey to the World: Reminiscences and Moments is one such book.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Quite a number of people made the publication of this book possible. Sammy Oke Akombi read and corrected the first draft of the manuscript. Don Jr. helped me with selecting, arranging, and scanning the images. I’m grateful to both of them.

My father, Ta Ako-aragbor prepared me well for the journey and the fascinating stories he told me when I was a little boy invoked in me a burning desire to undertake my own journey to broaden my horizons. My mother did not only give birth to me, she ensured that I survived to undertake this journey. To her and my father, I owe a debt of great love and gratitude.

I acknowledge my wife, Dorothy, for her love and devotion and the sacrifices she made during the course of this journey; my children - Lilian, Lorraine, Don Jr., Vanessa, and Valentina, who were all born during the journey and shared with me the opportunities we had and the challenges we faced during the journey; and my loving sister, Eunice Besem who struggled with me to help our mother and ourselves in those agonizing childhood days when our mother lost an eye from an accident. With much gratitude, I acknowledge her and her husband, Dr. Bernard Nzo-Nguty for taking great care of our mother during most of the time I was on my journey. My gratitude also goes to my late sister, Janet Arah, and her husband, Pa Laban Namme, for the love they showed my wife and me throughout our lives. I remember with much appreciation late Pa Amos, who served as the caretaker of the family compound and lands during most of his life; I am grateful also to all my other sisters and brothers (especially Ako Joseph), nephews, nieces, cousins, and daughters (sisters-in-law) for their love and the assistance they have given me as the head of the Oben family since 1987.

I seize this opportunity to also express my deepest gratitude to cousin Peter Besong and his wife, Grace Besong for helping us with our children especially in their early years in London, and to our longtime family friends, Dr. Frank Attere, and his wife, Christiana Attere for being guardians to our eldest two children when they were in Tigoni Academy in Kenya. I thank cousin John Tabi and his wife, Patience, and our longtime family friends Dr. Effi Eyong and his wife, Evelyn for their roles during our children’s student days in the UK. Last and among the best are our longtime family friends, Professor Emeritus Anthony Ikpi, and his wife, Tonia Ikpi. I am indebted especially to Anthony for his role in my academic journey. My gratitude also goes to Cousin Elizabeth and her husband, Jacques Bovier who often hosted me during my frequent stopovers in Nairobi.

I couldn’t have undertaken such a long and enduring journey without the strong financial support of the Mamfe Town and Area Council, the West Cameroon Government, the Government of the Federal Republic of Cameroon, and the Rockefeller and Ford Foundations of the United States of America. My heart will for ever remain grateful to them for their respective scholarships and fellowships.

Of course this book could not have seen the light of day without a publisher. Xlibris LLC provided the service and tools that transformed my manuscript into a well-designed, customized, and well-published book. In this connection, my gratitude goes to my publishing team.

But my greatest debt is to God almighty. Through His abundant grace, He did not only enable me undertake the journey, but He kept me alive and able to report on the journey more than a decade after it ended. Finally, I thank my daughters, Lorraine and Vanessa for the painstaking corrections they made in this edition of the book.

Part 1

Before the Journey

Maps of Nigeria and Cameroon

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CHAPTER 1

Growing Up in Mamfe

Town: The Early Years

Mamfe Town in the 1950s

Sarah Ban Breathnach¹ once wrote, Life is not made up of minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, or years, but of moments. You must experience each one before you can appreciate it. Life in Mamfe Town where I was born and I grew up, was full of moments in the 1950s. Those moments are worth reminiscing about.

Mamfe Town is where I started my journey. In the 1950s, it was the headquarters of Mamfe division of the Southern Cameroons, a trust territory administered along with Nigeria by the British colonial powers. Sitting at the junction of three major road arteries, it enjoyed a lot of road traffic from Kumba and Victoria in the south, Bamenda in the north, and from Nigeria in the west. It was thus a very lively town in the 1950s, in fact, much more than it is now in the 2000s.

I remember in particular, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, when mammy wagons and other passenger vehicles and trucks arrived from Bamenda and Kumba and from Onitsha via Enugu, Abakaliki, and Ikom in Nigeria. The town bustled with activity. As each vehicle blared its horn on arriving at Main Street, onlookers and bystanders would let out shouts of No Condition Is Permanent or God’s Case, No Appeal or whatever name was written on the vehicle. These vehicles all had very philosophical names.

I was always elated, going round in the evenings, reading these names as the vehicles lined up along Main Street, unloading and preparing for the next day’s journey. There they were: No Condition Is Permanent; God’s Case, No Appeal; Watch and Pray; God’s Time Is the Best, which all plied the Nigeria–Cameroon route, and Mandu Mandu² (Little by Little), Semoh Sengoh (Let’s Try and See), Mandem Achi (God Is Great), and Save Me O God (S.M.O.G), which arrived from Kumba and Bamenda.

Because the roads were not wide enough for traffic to go both ways conveniently and safely to and from Mamfe to Kumba and Bamenda, it had been decided that on certain days of the week, traffic would go one way, and on other days, it would go the other way. So there came into being days known as Mamfe come down and Mamfe go up when traffic came to Mamfe or went to Kumba and Bamenda respectively.

On those days in the fifties, Mamfe town usually came alive as from four o’clock in the afternoon, when the passenger lorries started arriving from Nigeria and from Kumba and Bamenda—women selling food in roadside canteens, boys and girls hawking various wares, and truck pushers and bambe boys (porters) fighting to carry passengers’ luggage to their homes. The hustle and bustle always continued right into the night under moonlight or candlelight or light from dozens of kerosene lanterns.

Sitting also on the banks of the Cross River that straddles the border between southwestern Cameroon and southeastern Nigeria, Mamfe town enjoyed the status of an important river port in the 1950s. During the rainy season, the Cross River became another hub of activities, in fact, a lifeline in Mamfe town. During this season, the river overflowed its banks and became a very important trading route between Calabar in Nigeria and Mamfe town. This was the season when the two mini river ports in Mamfe town came to life with activity as small ships brought cargo from Europe via Nigeria to supply the warehouses of the United Africa Company (UAC) and the John Holt Co. Ltd. As each ship approached the town but was still miles away, it would blow its horn to announce its impending arrival.

Almost immediately, Mamfe town would be overwhelmed by an almost contagious excitement—an excitement deriving from the knowledge that the arrival of the ships heralded a small economic boom for the town and its people: small new jobs and some quick money, new supplies of consumer goods from abroad, and more eating and drinking and happy times. In a twinkle of an eye, the whole town had drifted to the UAC beach where the UAC premises and warehouses were located. As the ships approached the harbor and their names could be read, shouts of "A.A. Cawan"³ or "James Fettin would rise from the excited crowds. Many of the people who rushed there came for work, but many came just to marvel at such gigantic canoes" that came to those waters only at the height of the rainy season.

However, a lot of people came to watch the flurry of activities that would follow: lighters (rafters containing goods) towed to the shore, names of overseers and headmen who had many days earlier been recruited as supervisors called; porters recruited, and the main work started which was off-loading cargo from the ships to the warehouses. This cargo included bags of salt, building materials (cement, corrugated iron sheets, etc.), household goods, bales of cloth, tinned food, fuel, etc. Those activities would continue right into the night, under the supervision and watchful eyes of Mr. S. A. Akpey, a Ghanaian businessman who had settled in Mamfe.

After days of unloading the goods destined for the UAC warehouses, the ships would steam a mile up the river to a second port/harbor called John Holt beach, which housed the warehouses of the John Holt Company Ltd., to deliver its own supplies. Similar activities would take place there for the next week or two, after which the ships would set sail back to Calabar and on to the United Kingdom, carrying the country’s exports of cocoa, coffee, timber, palm oil and palm kernels, etc.

The Cross River was not only a transport route. With its four beaches—the UAC, Otto-bonne, John Holt, and the D.O beaches, about a mile apart from each other—it was the lifeline of the inhabitants of Mamfe town. Afikpo men (Nigerian nationals from Afikpo) resident in Mamfe made their living selling fresh and smoked fish caught in the Cross River. The inhabitants of Mamfe bathed and swam there, washed their clothes there, carried out some fishing there, sometimes defecated along the banks, and carried their drinking water from there. During weekends, in particular, the John Holt beach was like a picnic ground. And as the river flowed from the D.O Beach downward through the John Holt, Ottoborne, and UAC beaches and onward toward Calabar, so did it carry all the pollution from bathing, laundry, and defecation through these beaches. And it was this river that was the only source of drinking water, except in the rainy season, in those days. It is a miracle that the inhabitants did not die in the hundreds of typhoid, diarrhea, cholera, and other water-borne diseases from drinking contaminated water! It is probable that after decades drinking from this river, they must have acquired immunity from these diseases.

This was the town where my mother had brought me as a little boy many years earlier from Besongabang village, her home village some four miles from Mamfe town, to rejoin her husband, my father after our long stay there. It is the town where I was born and grew up in. I remember Mamfe town and most of what went on there in the early 1950s because I was a part of this milieu at an early age. I remember the days of Mamfe come down and Mamfe go up; I remember the names of the passenger vehicles which plied the routes. Their bodies were built of wood and attached to the chassis, and they had names which were boldly written above the windscreens.

Most days when Main Street was a beehive of activities, when food sellers sold food by the roadside, when vendors hawked their wares, when music blared from loudspeakers from roadside shops and carriers with head loads struggled for right of passage through the crowded street, I was part of it all. I hawked cigarettes. The popular brands in those days were Bicycle and Craven A, and I did portering, carrying passengers’ luggage. When the ships arrived, I was also there. I carried small bags of salt from the lighters to the UAC and the John Holt warehouses to earn a few pennies. For young active boys, hawking little wares and portering were lucrative jobs. We earned a few pennies, which could buy a plate of rice and stew at school during lunch break—rice and stew, which, in those days, we were privileged to eat only at Christmas. And I washed clothes and swam in and fetched drinking water from the Cross River at the John Holt and Ottoborne beaches. So I was there in the good old days of Mamfe town.

A Conversation with My Mother

Yes, Mamfe town was the town to which my mother, Ma Rose Ayuk-ebet had brought me after her long stay in Besongabang, her paternal and my father’s maternal village. I must have been about two or three years old. I remember the day when my mother had told me her story, why she had to return to Small Mamfe sooner than she had anticipated. My father, Ta Ako-Aragbor, had left her with his maternal people in Besongabang village to rest and recuperate for some time after she had given birth to me, but he visited us regularly in Besongabang. At the time I was born, he was establishing himself in his father’s compound and farmlands in Small Mamfe, the part of Mamfe town owned and inhabited by the natives, which extended from the John Holt Road/Main Street roundabout to the boundary with Egbekaw village. He had just recently returned home after an extended period of duty in Nigeria.

According to my mother, I was always sick and frail right from the time I was brought to Besongabang village, and she always feared I would die. She had every reason to believe so.

You better return to Mamfe before some village people kill your child, some people had advised my mother, so she had recounted to me during one of our conversations much later in life.

Why would some village people want to kill me? I had asked.

It’s a long story. My mother sighed.

Then let me hear it, tell me, I responded, adjusting my stool to face her more directly as we sat in the sitting room of her house.

She cleared her throat and began. You think you are my first child. You are not, she said, and a sad shadow crossed her face.

What! I exclaimed, having known and believed all my life that I was her first child.

You are not my first child—

Wait a minute, I cut in, wondering whether I heard her well. Did you say I am not your first child?

Yes. Neither are you the second, nor third—

What? I jumped up surprised. I am not even the third? What are you saying, Mama?

Covering her face and heaving a big sigh of anguish, she broke down, almost sobbing. You are not even the fourth nor fifth nor sixth.

For a long while, I could not talk. I just stared at her with my mouth wide open. So if I am not the fourth nor the fifth nor the sixth, then I am what? I asked, still in shock.

"You are, in fact, my seventh child,’’ she finally said, wiping a tear.

"Then what happened to the other children, my siblings? Where are they?’’ I asked when I was finally able to recover myself.

Beautiful children they were. They died, she said slowly. Each passed away in infancy before the next was born. Some died a few days after birth, some a few months, and one or two a few years after. None survived the age of four or so. Some passed away after a little fever or convulsion in ‘bright daylight.’ Some died suddenly without even being sick.

I stared at her, unable to speak for a while.

My first child, Enowraw, was a plump, handsome, healthy boy whom we gave birth to in Nigeria. He took my complexion but was much lighter, like a white child. He died mysteriously and suddenly one afternoon in broad daylight. I was heartbroken, my mother continued.

It was believed that all the children were being taken by witchcraft by some witches in the village because they died during times when I was spending time in the village. And they were now after you. You were not sickly after you were born. But you became sickly, thin, fragile, and losing weight when we came to Besongabang. No one could diagnose what was wrong with you. Many people in the village thought that you would go the same way as your six siblings before you. Hence the advice that I should leave Besongabang and take you to your father’s village where the evildoers will not be able to see or reach you. So I took you to Mamfe to rejoin your father, my mother finished.

I was stunned, dumfounded. And did you believe that people could use witchcraft on me? I finally asked.

Whether I believed or not, I would do anything to save your life. In any case, I was to be in the village just for a while. I was also feeling your father’s absence and believed it was time I left to join my husband, your father. So I took you and left.

How she continued to try and have a child, hoping that the next will survive was beyond my comprehension. She continued until the seventh baby eventually did survive. And that was me. She must have been a woman of faith. Two other siblings came after me and also survived, my sister Eunice Besem (now Mrs. Nzo-nguty) and brother, James Agbortar (now of late). James was cute but born with a cleft lip, a birth defect that occurs when a baby’s lip does not form properly during pregnancy. Because such birth defects had probably not been seen before, baby James was often a source of curious attention wherever my mother took him. I remembered the embarrassing questions her fellow women often asked her, What kind of child is this? What happened to his mouth? Others would just stare at her and the baby and sneer. Many were sympathetic and understanding though. But my mother never got offended. She always smiled and told them proudly he was her baby and that is how God had given him to her. She was proud of him, and she loved him. She was probably happy that her ninth child, now the third alive, had not died like the first six children.

I say my mother was a woman of faith because she experienced another major tragedy or happening in her life. This one caused her so much pain and left her blind in one eye for more than half of her lifetime. Early in life, as a young mother, she had gone to the farm to harvest cassava tubers. As she was cutting the cassava stems, one with a pointed end plunged into her right eye. My sister, Eunice, and I were too young then, but we felt the agony and pain she was going through as she cried and groaned every day, especially when the eye was being subjected to all kinds of traditional treatment. I do not remember ever having seen eye drops or any Western medication administered into her eye. Rather, only traditional concoctions of herbs mixed sometimes with pepper were squeezed into the eye three times daily amidst her wailing. It was one of the saddest points in our lives, as we watched helplessly as our mother’s eye turned red, shrank, deteriorated, and she eventually lost sight in that right eye. It was really very devastating for her to lose one eye at the prime of her youth. Left with only one eye, she lived her life still fulfilling her chores and thanking God for his abundant grace. But that period was one of the saddest for both her and my sister and me, as we struggled to help her with cooking and other household chores during our childhood.

My Father

According to family history, my father, Joseph Ako-Aragbor Oben, started work as a houseboy to some German colonial administrators in Cameroon at the time when the country was under German rule. Each time the tour of one German master came to an end, he handed my father to his successor, and that went on until the Second World War broke out. However, before the last one left the country, he left a note about my father, and in it, he included his name and the address at which he could be found. He left that note for the benefit of any incoming officer. After the end of the war, when Southern Cameroon became a trust territory administered by the British, a messenger appeared one day at my father’s door with a summons for him to appear at the new administration’s office in Mamfe. The summons was for him to commence work as a steward to the new administrators. That time, he was to serve a British doctor as a steward. Thus, my father started a second tour/service with a number of British officers, which took him from Mamfe, his hometown, to several other stations/towns, including Kumba and Bamenda in Cameroon and to Okigwi and other towns in Nigeria. The last of them was one Dr. Wilson, a medical doctor.

My father could not read or write when he started serving those Europeans. Early in his service, when his master realized that he was illiterate, he admonished him and advised him to go to school during the months when he was away on leave in England. My father, therefore, enrolled himself in primary school each time his master was away and returned to work when he came back from home leave. That went on until my father had a total of three years of primary school education, i.e., he had reached standard 1 before he stopped. By that time, he could read and write, but by the time I grew up and knew him, we thought he had finished primary school, judging from the way he read, wrote, and spoke English and kept his records. According to him, he got much of his education also from reading and through his interactions with others in the performance of his duties. In fact, in the evenings, he told us stories and fairy tales like Cinderella, Little Red Riding Hood, Rumpelstiltskin, etc., and sang nursery rhymes such as Humpty Dumpty. These are fairy tales and rhymes which our own children were to learn in nursery schools in the 1970s and 1980s! That was amazing and demonstrates how well-read he was in the 1950s when most of his peers were illiterates.

The end of his service came when his latest master at the time, Dr. Wilson, whom he liked very much and who really loved him, retired and returned finally to Britain. My father also decided it was time he too retired and returned to Cameroon. They were in Nigeria at the time. So he was discharged and given a certificate exempting him from paying tax when he returned to Cameroon. And he never paid any tax. I was not born then.

By the time I became aware of my environment several years after my father retired and relocated to Small Mamfe, I found myself growing up in a large compound in Small Mamfe that consisted of a big front house occupied by tenants, my father’s house, and a long rectangular thatched house housing five women—his widowed sister, Aunty Susanah Ebai-nso, and his four wives: Ma Alice Takor (the first wife), Mama Rose Ayuk-ebet (my mother, his second wife), Ma Alice Ayuk Mbuoh (his third wife), and Mama Manyi (the fourth). He later married a fifth wife, a much younger woman called Nancy, who didn’t last long in the marriage. Aunty Susanah had five children, Ma Alice Takor and my mother had three children each while Mama Manyi and Ma Alice Ayuk Mbuoh each had two children. One of his wives had died when I was still a child, leaving behind a son, Nathaniel. Ma Nancy had one child, a son.

Altogether, he had about twelve children when I was growing up.⁴ His sister’s children were like his children, and we all grew up together like brothers and sisters. In fact, it was much later when we were teens that we came to realize that Aunty Susanah was our father’s sister and not one of his wives and that her children were our cousins. But that did not change anything. Except for those children who were in attendance in colleges outside Mamfe, each child stayed with his or her mother. Ma Alice Ayuk Mbuoh had brought with her three young children from her previous marriage and her younger brother. Ma Manyi had also brought with her two children from her previous marriage. So we must have been more than fifteen children living together in the compound as one large family at any one time. We regarded our aunty and all our father’s wives as our mothers, and all his children and our mothers’ nephews and nieces who had come to live with us as our brothers and sisters. Likewise, he loved and treated all his children, nieces, and nephews as his children. His sister, Aunty Susana, was his confidante. He sought her advice on most issues on his mind. I shall return to my father later.

Below left, my father.

Below right, my father, me, and my mother.

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Below left, my mother in her youth and my mother in later years (right).

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CHAPTER 2

Preparing for the Journey

My Years in Primary School in Mamfe

My early recollection of school was when I was about seven years old and in infant 2, the second year in primary school in the government school Mamfe. It is from that time that I do recollect the events in my life. I remember we had a little white boy of my age in our class, something which was very rare in those days. He was probably the son of the expatriate doctor. While we wore green khaki shorts and white shirts and no shoes, he was always dressed in black shorts, white short-sleeved shirt and tie, and black shoes with white socks. He was chauffeur-driven to school in a black car every day. At 10:00 a.m. every morning while we were on short break, the same car would arrive with a steward and any child still in the classroom would be sent out; a table would be laid out, covered with a small white tablecloth, and the boy would quietly and gently have tea and a sandwich while the steward stood in attendance and the driver waited in the car. The rest of us would climb on top of the short classroom walls to watch in amazement at the dignified way in which he ate his sandwich and drank his tea and wondered whether what he ate was enough to satisfy a hungry boy. Afterward, when he joined us in the playground after his tea, we would bombard him with questions regarding what food it was that he always ate, and at the slightest opportunity, we would not hesitate to give him some knocks on the head for being so privileged and selfish. At closing time, the same car would come to pick him up while we marched home barefooted. His stay in the school was very short, for we never saw him again after a short while.

I was funny as a little boy. I could dance and make people laugh. The teachers probably took notice of that because I was always given acting roles that would make me cause laughter. In those days, the school always put up some entertainment for the public at the end of term or end of year, which involved singing and acting. Pupils were selected or volunteered to take part in those performances. I remember one of the plays in which I was made to act the part of an akara seller (bean cake seller). I would lay down my wares by the roadside or at the market place and dance some funny gigs to attract buyers. People would gather and clap and laugh their lungs out. Such scenes were hilarious. However, as I grew older, I stopped being funny.

I learned to draw early in primary school. I would rather say it was a natural gift because I was never taught pencil drawing. By the time I got to standard 1 and standard 2, I was good at drawing. I spent a lot of my spare time with a classmate, the late Thomas Ako-njang, drawing pictures of boxers like Hogan Bassey, the British featherweight boxing champion; pictures of cars; animals; houses, etc. In fact, in standard 2, our class teacher, Mr. Nyukechen, one morning during the time for manual labor, gave me a large cardboard paper to draw a human skeleton from a biology book. Any student of biology knows how complicated and difficult a human skeleton is, and for a nine-year-old to be asked to produce an enlarged drawing from a small photograph was not funny. However, I produced what seemed like a masterpiece to the delight of the whole school because the picture was hung on the classroom wall for teaching purposes.

But I was not aware that I wasn’t an academically bright child in my early years in primary school. It was not until I was sent from standard 2 to standard 3 on trial at the end-of-year exams in 1952 that that became a big issue. Had I not been doing well? Why did I not know before then that I was not doing well in school? In those days, promotional exams were held at the end of the school year, and the results were read on the last day of school in a general assembly and in full view of all the teachers and pupils. The results were written on special examination results registers kept by each class teacher. Beginning with infant 1 right up to standard 6, each teacher would step forward when it was his or her turn and read the class results amidst thunderous shouting and clapping for those who did well. After the names of those who passed were read, the names of those who were sent on trial, if any, were then read. Those who did not hear their names were considered to have failed.

I remember that morning in December 1952 very vividly. When it was the turn of the standard 2 results to be read, Mr. Nyukechen stepped forward. My name was not among those who passed. I gasped for breath and covered my face with my hands. Then he cleared his throat and said that he was sending one boy on trial to standard 3. His name is Oben Oben (that was how I was called in primary school). In those days, a pupil was sent on trial to the next class if he/she failed the promotional exams but there was a probability that he/she could improve if given a chance to proceed to the next class. So the child was promoted with the proviso that if he/she did not show any marked improvement in the next class, he/she would be sent back to his previous class after the first term.

Hell broke loose when I got home and my father heard that I had been sent to the next class on trial. According to him, education is the foundation on which every child must build his or her life—if not other children, his own. So the greatest irresponsibility a child could show is not to be academically bright. I was to learn in later years that the surest way to his heart was to be a bright student. In fact, to him, being brilliant was not just passing exams but being at the top. He felt I was sent to standard 3 on trial out of pity and that was a disgrace. For putting myself in a situation to be pitied, he declared he would not pay my school fees anymore. He had better things to do with his money than waste it on a dull boy.

When I broke the news to my mother that Papa was not