Blessing. Florence Ndiyah

boys are still too young to try their luck with the paper and pen.’

      ‘Well done, Pa Fopou. You are a real man, and I am happy that you decided to bring Mosa to school. Anyway, how do you people say it again? If the wind does not blow ...’

      ‘If the wind does not blow, no man will see the anus of a fowl.’ Temkeu completed, eyeing Fr. Max askance. ‘You have learnt a little but you still have a long way to go. And do not even try to think that you can learn all our culture.’

      Fr. Max smiled. ‘Let us allow Teacher Alfred to register Mosa since he is already late. Come and let us go to my office, Pa Fopou?’

      ‘No, Mr. Father, I have to go to my workshop now.’

      ‘I know that your time is very special, Pa Fopou, but I want us to talk about your children registered here …’ Fr. Max hesitated and then quickly added ‘and your other children. I will not take much of your time.’

      Temkeu reluctantly, Fr. Max eagerly, both men walked out into the schoolyard of CS Nchumuluh. One rectangular block of earth bricks plastered with cement and roofed with metal sheets– that was the school. The block was divided into five classrooms. Four teachers bore the responsibility of imparting knowledge to the pupils spread across classes one to eight, most of whom were former pupils or dropouts from other schools in neighbouring villages. Unlike the other classes, only the pupils of classes seven and eight had the privilege of having a teacher and room to themselves. Not only were the pupils of class eight the most educated of the school, but they were also its torch – the better their performance at the Primary School Leaving Certificate Examination, the brighter the school colours shone. The examination was also the first and last public examination three-quarters of the class of four was likely to ever take.

      That morning the pupils had assembled and were chewing their tongues, dropping out undecipherable sounds as they sang to the unadorned tricolour – green, red, yellow – flag dangling on the flagstaff at the entrance to the school compound. It was a country with one flag, two people with two languages from two colonial masters, the French and the British. In fact, on the 1st of January that very year, 1960, French Cameroons had gained independence from the French to become The Republic of Cameroon. British Southern Cameroons was still a United Kingdom trustee territory. Situated on the border between the North West Province in British Southern Cameroons and the West Province in The Republic of Cameroon, the inhabitants of Nchumuluh were torn between two languages and two cultures: English and French and the Graffi and Bamileke cultures respectively. Officially, they were part of British Southern Cameroons.

      As the British National anthem died down, the pupils listened to announcements while waiting for the bell. Though it spoke only one language, it gave out different messages at different times of the day. At 7.30 in the morning, the voice of the bell commanded the less than sixty pupils to march to their classrooms. Bare feet for the most part, sky blue dresses and shirts hanging on their bodies, one or two exercise books clasped in their armpits, finger-length broken pens and pencil stumps clutched in their hands, the future of Nchumuluh headed after knowledge.

      ‘Good morning, children,’ Fr. Max acknowledging greetings from some pupils and then turned to Temkeu: ‘How is your girl doing?’

      ‘Ah, you mean my Fatti? She is doing fine.’ Temkeu gave a wide, brown smile. ‘I have many children but Fatti is my only daughter. She has gone to the farm with her mother.’

      ‘Why did you not bring her to school?’

      ‘School? For her to do what here? I already have Totso and Mosa in school. And again if I send my only daughter to school, whom I am going to send to marriage?’

      ‘Nobody says a woman who goes to school is not fit for marriage.’

      ‘Nobody will marry a woman who has gone to school to have big sense!’ Temkeu stated. ‘I have only one daughter and she will go to marriage. All that she needs to learn before marriage, she will learn at home and on the farm, not in any school.’

      ‘God will give you other daughters if you pray and if He judges that you really need them.’

      ‘Hm, that your God! You turn left – God. You go right – God. A child is sick – God. Harvest is bad – God. You do not think He gets tired?’

      Fr. Max smiled. ‘He is an Almighty God who is everywhere at the same time and hears the prayers of all people at the same time. He is with you in your workshop and with me in my office and with your wives on their farms, listening to all of us. But you say we ask our God too much? What about your gods? I am sure you also ask many things from them.’

      ‘I have not gone to your school but we have plurals even in my vernacular. So you yourself have answered your question. Our “gods” are many. It means we can ask them whatever we want any time. They join their heads and their powers to look into our problems. My son from Yaoundé always says something like: “Many heads join together to make the work easy.”’

      ‘Many heads do light work.’

      ‘Yes, something like that,’ Temkeu said with a wave of the hand. ‘But even if our gods give me twelve daughters, I will not send any of them to school.’

      Fr. Max started saying something but Temkeu did not let him finish.

      ‘You see that young and strong man coming this way?’ Temkeu asked, pointing towards the road. ‘That is my son, the one I was just talking about. I sent him to school and he followed school right to Yaoundé. Now he is in the army. He knocked on my door yesterday night.’

      Short-sleeve shirt tucked into matching army khaki trousers, the trousers in turn tucked into military boots, a white bowler dancing on his head – everything about Makam said he was an indigene only in blood. He looked and sounded like one from another culture. ‘Good morning, Father. Papa, I came to check if all was going well with Mosa’s registration.’

      ‘Everything went well, Makam.’ Temkeu’s pride shone on his smile.

      ‘Good morning, Makam. Your father was just talking about you.’

      ‘Oh, yes, my daddy is a very hard working man who went via a lot of hard work to establish me in the world. I am very happy seeing him again after years of absolute separation; yes, I am happy being here among my people whom I greatly missed. Well, let us put aside the customs of rural dwellings and expand upon this unintended encounter. May I be opportuned to be granted temporal possession of your nomenclature?’ Makam smiled at Fr. Max.

      ‘I am Fr. Max, parish priest here.’ His voice was subtle, his gaze baffled.

      ‘Yes, that much I know,’ Makam carried on. ‘What I want is more lip action from you. I want to know which part of the galaxy hosted your body and soul before you landed on this patriotic soil of ours.’

      Fr. Max looked lost.

      ‘Apparently, you seem to have problems deciphering my humble intercession. Allow me to assist you with a verbal illustration: I am Makam Fopou, corporal in the Republic of Cameroon army. You have educated knowledge of the Cameroon army, do you?’

      Fr. Max apparently had an invisible muzzle over his mouth.

      Temkeu just kept nodding.

      Makam took advantage of the silence: ‘So how are your activities within your domain of definition? I hope everything is going on smoothly without any entropy. Oh, my ears have just grasped penetration of my former friend’s voice down the road. Let me give velocity control over my body and leave you two to continue gallivanting your tongues. Gaining your acquaintance brought me much gratification.’

      Makam walked away.

      Fr. Maxworth nodded after him.

      Temkeu’s smile stretched.

      ‘Is Makam your first son?’ Fr. Maxworth asked.

      ‘What?

      ‘I asked if Makam is your first son?’

      ‘Yes, my first born from all my women.