Scourge of Hope

By Pa Otto and St Mbongo

‘Scourge of Hope’ follows two best friends who take on the clandestine, most often murderous journey across Sub-Saharan Africa, through to the Sahel and across the great Saharan desert, seeking to cross the Mediterranean into Europe; the land where all is green.

Treacherous roads plagued by all brands of banditry, the merciless desert, its minions and scorching heat. Confronting warlords and slavers in the war-torn state of Libya to get to the sea… It sure is no cake walk.

It is a story of true camaraderie, loss and sacrifice. Finding love and courage in the face of hardship, slavery and utter brutality, by known forces and those that lurk in the shadows, pulling on strings.

Riveting, visceral and heart-wrenching, it is a story inspired by true events.

• Language: English
• Publisher: COMMUNE WRITERS INT'L
• Release date: Dec 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9791222490373

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SCOURGE OF HOPE

WRITTEN BY

PA OTTO and ST MBONGO

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COPYRIGHT (C) 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author or publisher.

Published by:

COMMUNE WRITERS INT’L

www.communewriters.com

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6, Amusa Street, Agodo-Egbe, Lagos

Published in the Federal Republic of Nigeria

CHAPTER ONE

DIEUDONNE

'Land of Promise. Land of Glory.' Pff! Theo was right. This country is a dream killer!

On that bike, I was grateful for the breeze blowing against my face. The day was a scorcher and I had walked in it for hours; from one office to the next, wearing a plastered smile and a brave face, nodding to every interviewer like I was in total agreement with all that was being said to me. Of course, the day had turned out to be no different from the hundreds of days I had been ardently searching the job market – fruitless.

As the bike sped through the streets of Bonamoussadi, I sat as far away from its rider as I possibly could, with one hand clutching my file to my chest as if it contained my whole life; which it did. My other hand gripped tightly onto the carriage bars.

Why do bikers almost always have to reek of something repulsive? It’s nauseating!

I could not fathom how uncomfortably hot and sweaty the biker must have been, wearing a winter jacket in Douala’s infamous heat. I have always thought it was akin to a safety suit for them, something to cushion a fall in case of an accident, which happened so frequently you wouldn’t even believe it.  I was drenched; the shirt I had on was stuck to my body with sweat and it felt like I had wet myself down there. I took a peep, then looked to the heavens…

If so, please, let it be unnoticeable!

Like most of them, this biker was just as reckless. He was speeding and cutting through traffic, yelling profanities at protesting car drivers, and blaring his horn almost incessantly. All I could do was hold my breath for long moments in silent prayers.

At last, the biker pulled to a stop next to a local football field – Petit terrain. I couldn’t jump off that cursed machine fast enough. The bike was not at fault here, its rider was.

Babana!

I fished out a five-hundred-franc bill from my pocket and handed it over. The guy collected it, quickly shoved it into his pocket and revved his engine.

Are you mad?

ME

Mais gars? Est-ce que je t’avait pas dit combien j’allais payé?

I extended my hand, demanding my change. The biker had the nerve to scoff like...

BABANA

Petit, toi aussi! Avec tout les problèmes dans ce pays vous voulez que on survivre comment?

Anger flashed across his face as he handed my change, revved his engine once more and gunned down the street, cussing out more profanities.

Pff! Like I plug money from trees!

I turned and jogged to the edge of the field as AS Matelots FC, a second-division football team of the Elite 2 Championship, went through training drills.

I watched for a while.

I am a huge football fan and like every kid, I played all through my teenage years. I wasn’t too good at it or at being an athlete, but I sure gave it my best every time I was picked. It was my best friend who had given up everything to follow his football dreams.

Theo.

The rascal I had come to see before going home.

Their kits were typical of those of the lower leagues; near-tattered footwear, dirty socks and cheap jerseys, kicking old worn-out balls. The only shiny thing was their jackets, and only because they were fluorescent hi-vi working vests.

Truly, Matheo was a joy to watch as he played down the wings and dribbled with great ease. I always thought he was a little bit of a showoff which invited the very hard tackles he frequently endured from adversaries. No one liked being humiliated the way he so gleefully made his opponents feel.

During their break, Matheo broke off from his teammates and ran towards me. I was older than him by a year and two months. Matheo had the build and physique of a professional footballer; lean and muscled, with that boyish grin and deep-set eyes that made him popular among the girls.

I, on the other hand, was a regular guy. I was a tad fairer compared to Matheo’s dark skin but with sharp features as well. I was lean but not for sport’s sake, more like from menial labour, anxiety and stress. At twenty-three, I was already a university graduate but had been jobless for two years while counting the days until I would be free to be my own man because living with my uncle was a special kind of hell.

I had never dared to follow my passion like Matheo had done. At heart, I am an artist. I can draw and paint like no other I have ever met. But braving the odds would have meant my uncle skinning me alive and hanging my skin to dry like cowhide.

That has been a recurring nightmare for many, many years.

So, I stuck to the plan everyone else stuck to; graduate from the university with the best possible grades and get a job.

Any government job would be golden!

Matheo came to a stop and gave me an incredulous look before he burst out cackling in that annoying way of his.

MATHEO

Mister man, how many jobs did you seek today?

ME

Massa, this pays na die. Been to all kinds of offices and dropped all kinds of applications but no luck.

Matheo laughed like it was the funniest thing he had heard all day.

Someday, I am going to wipe that smirk off his face!

MATHEO

Two years now and you are still a jobseeker.

ME

And how much does this league pay you? Better play inter-quartier mon frère.

MATHEO

It is better than job seeking. At least, this is my passion, my career.

ME

Do you call this a career?

MATHEO

Don't worry Dieu. I have big dreams and bigger plans; maybe not on Samuel Eto'o level, but that of Alex Song before he left Arsenal. I’m aiming for the stars mon frère.

A whistle blasted and we both turned to see the rest of Matheo’s team gathering around the coach. I looked at my old watch.

4:37. Merde!

ME

I have to go open the bar. And way I nova chop since morning massa.

MATHEO

Run oh, before your uncle kills someone.

ME

That man thinks he’s still in the army. He did not fight any war. So all that training and suffering without actually fighting is making him transfer his aggression on us.

MATHEO

Too bad he retired before Boko Haram started that nonsense in the north.

ME

I tell you.

Then we did our signature handshake. It was inspired by a movie we had sneaked into a video club to watch many years back.

MATHEO

Bro, later.

ME

Yah man.

As Matheo ran back to join his teammates, I reluctantly turned to the road to hail another bike.

Nah! This time, I was going to vet the rider first. He should be older, a man with a family to get back to.

So, I stood there and eyeballed several bikers before hailing one down. He looked like he was in his late thirties, plus not smelly nor dirty looking like the last one.

The ride to my uncle’s house was less dramatic and death-seeking than the last one. I paid off the man and headed towards the side gate of the compound which was fenced like a small prison. The walls were high and the iron bars had grey plastic roofing sheets tied to them with wires. No one could see through.

Nobody living outside the walls of this compound knew what happened in it or how many people lived in it. Apart from the usual screaming and banging every time my uncle was having one of his murderous fits, you hardly heard a sound. Not music. Not banter. Not even the cry of the baby.

We rarely have any visitors.

Yep. Retired Lieutenant Colonel Mokoum of the Cameroon Armed Forces ran his household like a small prison.

I opened the side gate just a fraction, quietly stepped in and closed the gate, just as silently as I had opened it. I walked towards the main house and stopped.

The silence was scarier than usual. Not even a bird chirped.

I looked around for any signs of life. There were none.

The old beat-up Mercedes Benz was in the garage. This means the Lieutenant was home. The doors to the adjacent boys’ quarter building, that housed Samira and her unfortunate husband, Paul, together with their most unfortunate nine-month-old baby, Siri, were all locked.

Paul's bike!

It was parked to a side at this time of day and that was unusual.

I took tentative steps towards the main house, leaned against the wall and made my way to the window that ventilated the living room. Slowly and carefully, I raised my head and peeped through.

The tension was palpable.

My uncle was heaving and puffing, with sweat running down his bald head and neck, making his shirt stick to his body. He was a giant man and though in his mid-sixties, he still had the build of the soldier he once was.

On their knees before him were Samira, his eighteen-year-old daughter and Paul, the twenty-six-year-old man who became his son-in-law through one unforgivable act. The matrimonial union had been forced on them by the colonel, to avoid further shame and humiliation that the pair had brought onto his good name.

I could see that Samira had been crying for hours. She had red bulging eyes, tear-marred face, dishevelled hair and a haggard look which were notable signs. Both she and her husband were trembling like pebbles in an earthquake.

And the Lieutenant allowed Paul into his living room with his dirty mechanic overalls on? This was bad!

The colonel spoke with a controlled anger.

COL. MOUKUM

How did this happen... again?

No one said a word.

I stayed rooted to the spot for if I made any sudden movement, he might notice me.

Samira's voice was hoarse when she spoke at last.

SAMIRA

Daddy, it was a mistake. We didn't mean to…

Oh my God. What did you do?

COL. MOKOUM

The first time was a mistake, you said. And now, you are telling me, after everything, you still made the same mistake?

Silence.

COL. MOKOUM

Your first child was out of wedlock and has not even started walking, yet you are pregnant again, Samira?

Samira wailed.

PAUL

But sir, we are married now and…

YOU DIDN'T JUST DO THAT!

The colonel exploded.

COL. MOKOUM

DID I ASK YOU A QUESTION? DID I SPEAK TO YOU, BOY?

In that instance, my uncle's demeanour changed from one of tightly leashed anger to one of murderous rage. I had seen it so many times and my reaction when that rage was aimed at me or any other person had always been the same. Goosebumps crawled all over my skin like a plague and my hands began to shake so bad. I squeezed them into fists.

PAUL

Sor... Sorry sir.

COL. MOKOUM

SORRY FOR YOURSELF, YOU GOOD-FOR-NOTHING BUFFOON.

PAUL

Sorry sir.

COL. MOKOUM

YOU SAY YOU ARE NOW MARRIED. DID YOU ASK FOR HER HAND FROM ME? DID YOU ASK FOR MY PERMISSION BEFORE YOU TOUCHED HER? BEFORE YOU IMPREGNATED HER?

Silence.

COL. MOKOUM

I ASKED YOU A QUESTION BOY.

PAUL

No sir.

COL. MOKOUM

YOU SOILED MY DAUGHTER AND DRAGGED MY NAME IN THE MUD. NOT ONE FRANC CAME FROM YOU. YET, I ALLOWED YOU TO MARRY HER. I GAVE YOU A ROOM IN MY COMPOUND. DO YOU PAY RENT?

My heart thundered louder.

I should not be here. I should not be caught.

Still, I could not move!

COL. MOKOUM

ANSWER ME BOY!

PAUL

No sir.

COL. MOKOUM

AND WITH THAT STUPID MECHANIC JOB, HOW CAN YOU FEED ANOTHER BABY? WHEN IT IS I WHO FEEDS THE FIRST ONE. I FEED ALL OF YOU.

My uncle moved back and forth, pacing, having an internal debate as I have often seen. As usual, it never lasted longer than a few moments. When it came to it, which was quite often, my uncle was a man of few threatening words and far more terrifying actions.

With a surreal calm, he said,

COL. MOKOUM

Both of you, pack up whatever wretched things you have and leave my compound. Now!

Samira wailed while rolling on the floor before her father. Paul grovelled before the man on his knees with hands outstretched and his head touching the ground, pleading with his father-in-law.

PAUL

Please sir, please.

My aunt Agatha must have been hiding close by, for she came running into the living room with Samira’s infant baby in her arms. She went on her knees before her husband and pleaded for clemency for the children.

AGATHA

Please papa, where will they go to?

COL. MOKOUM

He says he is a married man. He should provide a home and food for his wife and children.

AGATHA

She is your only daughter. Look at your granddaughter.

My uncle did look at the infant his wife presented to him. Giddy and flapping her tiny arms as if demanding to be let down, baby Siri was heartwarmingly innocent.

But cold and unforgiving best describe my uncle.

COL. MOKOUM

If you want, you can follow them.

Then there were loud grunts, jumping and hitting animalistic noises.

Roger! My uncle's first child, the twenty-seven-year-old imbecile.

Roger wasn't born that way.

Rumours have it that he had been a difficult child and he mingled with the wrong crowd. He robbed someone who had some questionable spiritual affiliations and got cursed in the process. Others gossiped that it was the colonel’s military rivals who had spiritual affiliations and had struck the poor boy, apparently in retaliation to something his father had done. A few breathed out that the colonel was the one with the spiritual affiliations and had offered his son's sanity as a sacrifice to speed up his rise in power within the army.

And there Roger was, wreaking havoc in the living room.

COL. MOKOUM

I SWEAR, IF THAT BOY DOES NOT SHUT UP, I WILL KILL SOMEBODY.

My aunt hesitated, torn between her son and daughter. Then she scrambled away to wherever Roger was. The infant began to cry as well.

My uncle turned and his gaze fell on me. I froze and my heart stopped beating literally. I saw white lights and felt a biting cold as my whole life flashed before my eyes.

I am going to die a virgin!

I could not say how much time passed before I blinked but when I did, my uncle's stare was still on me. I swallowed hard as my heart began beating again and I decided that if I was going to die a virgin, I was at least going to die like a man. Well, I need to act like one.

So I braced myself. I counted each step as I walked to the main door, held the knob and counted thirty breaths before I turned it and walked into the house.

The living room smelled of delicious food, cigarettes, sweat and fear.

Paul remained at my uncle's feet. Samira was still crying on the floor and my uncle stood where he was and assessed me in one look.

COL. MOKOUM

Why are you all failures? Can't any of you do something worthwhile? Anything you want to do, I will sponsor it with my money, just so you all can leave my house.

He looked at us all with disappointment.

COL. MOKOUM

You have two months to take your wife and leave this compound.

He walked away.

I choked and took a few steps backwards as I started breathing again.

Pew! I live to die another day.

CHAPTER TWO

DIEUDONNE.

This was going to be a long night!

The bar was almost at full capacity with just a few seats left. This made sense as the month was ending and salaries had just been paid.

Since it is a bar, most days are busy.

No matter the adversity, we always find the time and money for the pleasure of a beer.

As salaries has been paid, the men could afford more bottles, take their mistresses out for a good time and support their wives and children for a little while.

As the music was thumping, loud-mouthed labourers argued amongst themselves and their dates. Older men with finer clothing and their way younger female companions occupied more secluded tables.

I just hope there will be no fight like last month.

An angry wife had attacked a girl who could easily have been her daughter's age, with a broken beer bottle. The husband in question had taken flight the first chance he got, leaving the poor girl, a trail of broken bottles, overturned tables and angry customers in his wake. It had taken everyone at the bar to pull the angry wife off the young girl.

The said young girl had been feisty. She was more a talker than a fighter. She had unleashed a slew of insults and graphic details of how it went down whenever the husband came visiting. She said it always starts with the husband moping about his wife’s lack of skill in performing her marital duties and ends with him in high spirits, with a big smile and empty pockets.

At that point, all those struggling to keep the fuming wife away from her mouthy target had to let go.

Oh, you can talk trash. Let us see you back that up!

The mistress had gotten a beating; broken nose, split lip, ripped hair, and torn clothes. I was left to clean up the bloody mess and cater for the young woman until she recovered well enough to drag herself away.

Aie! I haven't seen that man since that fateful day. I hope his wife didn't gut him with that broken bottle!

I did my job; taking orders, bringing bottles and writing everything in my notepad. It was tedious, given that I ran the bar all by myself.

I was headed towards the counter after handing the change to a customer sitting at a table with a younger man when their conversation caught my interest.

CUSTOMER #1

When is your flight again?

CUSTOMER #2

In two weeks. Massa, at last, I am leaving this useless country.

I jumped into the nearest seat.

CUSTOMER #1

You see? I told you to trust my guys. Those people are connected. They are real professionals.

CUSTOMER #2

They handled everything; from gaining the admission, to getting a house, a job on campus and even getting me the visa.

CUSTOMER #1

All for a small fee.

Now, they had my full attention as I blatantly listened in. One looked a little older and clean-shaven; that was The Plug. The Traveller was around my age and he had said he was leaving this wretched country.

TRAVELLER

That was the most amazing part. And it was quick. Thank you very much.

They shook hands from across the table.

TRAVELLER

It is a dream come true. Let me go and further my studies and hopefully, get a good job there.

THE PLUG

You are not coming back to Cameroon?

TRAVELLER

Why? What am I coming back for?

THE PLUG

No place like home my brother.

TRAVELLER

Home is where you make it to be. As for me, my home is in Sweden.

THE PLUG

I hear