Creative Writing Pieces

So, there are two of these, and they are both pretty long. I'll post them separately so as to overwhelm anyone who chooses to torture themselves by reading them less.

The General Ridiculousness of My Life in Yaoundé

Who do I think I am?

I can see it in their eyes. They resent me; and I can’t blame them. They are three majestic looking African women. I am a puny white girl. I am walking back to what I have come to realize is a very expensive apartment in the heart of the capital city. They sit in front of a small building which I might have described as a shack several weeks ago, but is in fact a normal business arrangement. Usually, they gut shiny silver fish into huge metal bowls, occasionally donating some fish innards to a passing dog. Today, there are no fish in front of them. They watch a wiry teenage boy push a wheelbarrow filled with crates of Isenbeck beer towards them, and rise to help him unload the commodity into their building. I have come to realize that this is a bar. In the evening, they grill the fish they are always gutting and the three or four tables outside of the small wooden building are places for their customers to sit and drink, and maybe eat fish. It is late afternoon now, four o’clock. I am walking back with an empty plastic plate and a large avocado, products of a failed trip to the omelets shop. It was closed. I am watching a small girl in a brightly colored kabba as I pass them. She is in the way of the wheelbarrow with the Isenbeck. I can’t help thinking that she is unimaginably adorable. This is when I look up at the women, who are just beginning to arouse themselves from their slightly less than sturdy plastic lawn chairs in order to help unload the Isenbeck. I see them looking at me. Who am I? Why am I constantly walking by them, purchasing random things, thinking my life is hard because I have to walk on various missions for thirty minutes to find mangos and to not find headphones? Who the hell do I think I am?

I feel this way often in Yaoundé. I almost want to go up and say “It’s not my fault! I didn’t ask to be born a rich American and for you not to be. Maybe that’s not why you’re angry. Maybe you think I’m lazy? Well, I can’t argue there, by all African standards I am immeasurably lazy. But look! I’m admitting it! I’m trying! Really, I’m a nice person!” But even if I could say all of that effectively in French, they would probably just think I was slightly crazy, or arrogant, or both. Maybe I am.

Walking the Walk, and Daily Life with the Elakias

Sometimes, I think it’s a wonderful idea to walk around the city. I like walking. Usually it turns out well. I’ve learned to deflect the ever so common “Ma Cheri! C’est comment?!” with laughter, smiles or just plain ignoring, depending on the situation. I feel shock proof. I am fine. I can handle it all. I walk into the bakery to buy cookies for my host siblings. I am thirsty. I buy a small bottle of topamplemousse. It tastes like sugared seltzer water, but it is delicious. I take several sips, seal the bottle, place it in my blue canvas messenger bag, and walk out onto the dusty orange street that has more potholes than asphalt, towards home. It is getting dark. Crap. That is not on the list of things I have shock proofed myself against. Dark is bad. Scary even. Anything can happen in Africa in the dark. I walk quickly. The Tam tam market seems so far away, and that is only halfway home. In my hurry, I trip over my feet. A man sitting at a wooden table underneath a beach umbrella adorned in triangles of primary colors with dirty laminated signs hanging from it says something to me. I assume it is unkind and shoot him a hurt look after recovering my footing and continue my hurried walk, trying to escape from the darkness. I am sweating a lot. Even though it is getting dark, it’s very hot out. There is a dark patch on my light grey V-neck top where the strap of my bag crosses my body. I feel something dripping down my leg. I walk faster. The dark is catching up. I put my hand on my bag to shove it aside as I pass a large dumpster and I stop. My bag is wet. The topamplemousse. Shit. I open my bag to discover the nearly empty bottle with its lid seemingly secure resting where I had left it. The little grapefruits that adorn the bottle give me sinister looks. I curse and throw the mostly empty bottle into the dumpster. The men sitting next to the dumpster in old, moldy green car seats are taunting me. My frustration clouds my ability to decipher their language. I zip up my sticky bag and walk on. All of my books will be slightly moist. I try to hail a cab. One. Two. Three. Four. Five turn me down. Fuck it. I’m walking. It is dark now. There is a slight choking feeling in my throat. The frustration is getting the better of me. But I’ve made it to Rond Point Express. I dodge behind the flock of moto drivers so they can’t oogle and yell at the silly white girl. I can make it. I do. After several hills which seem like small mountains and minimal stumbling over large rocks which have become invisible in the dark, I arrive at the rust colored gate with the gold Mercedes symbol. Deep breath. Ring doorbell.

The night guard opens the gate. “Bonsoir!” He is one of the more sane people in my household, but I don’t get to exchange pleasantries for long. Ten year old Gracias runs down the three white tile stairs that lead onto the concrete ground where cars are parked at night and children play during the day. “Auntie Carrie! You’re late!”
“Um, sorry?” is the response that falls out of my mouth before I can kick myself into the more polite version of Carrie that I attempt to keep up in the house. “I’m going to put my stuff down,” I tell her. She follows me into my room. I just wanted a minute to take a deep breath. Oh well. I dump the contents of my sticky bag onto my untidy bed and carefully separate out the book I am reading. It seems to have suffered minimal damage. I place my journal and French book on my colorful plastic shoe rack to dry and tell Gracias I am going to the bathroom so she will leave. But then Sarah comes in and takes my hand.

“You will eat now,” she says softly while looking me straight in the eyes in that completely unashamed and alarming way which only the mentally handicapped can manage.
“Two minutes Sarah. I’ll be there.” I go wash my face and take about twenty deep breaths before I feel like I can deal with other humans. I walk down the T-shaped hallway and make a left into the kitchen where Sarah is waiting for me with a plate. She attempts to put four huge boiled plantains on my plate, but I refuse two of them. I am then led to a large pot of Ndole sitting on the stove. I am learning to like Ndole, but the meat in it will probably always be beyond me. I’m pretty sure it’s chopped up cow knees or some equally undesirable part of the animal. She dishes two large pieces of the bone-and-cartilage filled chunks onto my plate and minimal vegetables. It’s really not my day. “Is there any Tangui?” I practically beg. She takes a bottle of what I am well aware is filtered tap water out of the fridge. Whatever. I don’t feel like arguing. I’ll deal with the stomach trouble I know will be the result of drinking it. Both of us march to the dining room through the beige brocade curtains up the single step onto the raised platform where I set my plate of food on the white imitation marble table decorated with little circles of imitation jade on each corner of the tabletop. I walk to the cabinet across from the table to pull out a woven placemat. Sarah half heartedly protests. I lay my placemat down under my plate of food and bottle of not-Tangui and take a seat on a white wooden chair with a green cushion to match the jade ornaments on the table. Sarah sits down across from me. I eat. She stares.

Thankfully, she tires of this after several minutes and leaves. I attempt to negotiate the cow knees and give up, but I finish my plantains and vegetable before returning my plate to the kitchen and sneaking quietly into the comfort of my room. After a much needed shower, I lay down on my bed with my moistened book. I get through about three pages before Manfred, the incredibly spoiled two year old, pushes open my door and heads straight for my paper covered armoire, which he begins poking holes in. There is already a forest of finger holes from previous attacks. He is quickly followed by Ella, the much more tolerable three year old. Reading in my room is a lost cause. I usher everybody out and retreat to the porch with my book where I am nibbled by mosquitoes and other hungry insects, but able to read in relative peace for a few minutes. Then Gracias informs me that she needs to plait my hair and I completely give up on the damp book. At least there are fewer bugs in the parlor.
I sit comfortably in front of the television on the floor while Gracias nestles in a plasticky grey armchair behind me, an evil looking comb with a pointed end in her hand. She uses the end of the comb to carve out sections of hair all along the sides of my head. She is making me into Alicia Keyes from the music video “Empire State of Mind” which played several minutes ago on TRACE, the African variation of MTV. This is a vast improvement over the usual plaiting which comes with brightly colored plastic beads in the shapes of both cowry shells and monkeys. I can’t complain too much.

The plaiting takes forever, or an hour at least. Daddy comes home and TRACE, which he does not approve of, is switched to Africa Magic: the channel which plays Nigerian films and soap operas. The characters all speak very quickly, and although it is English that they are speaking, their accents are very strong and I understand little of what is being said. My Alicia Keyes hair turns out pretty well, but forces me to stay awake long enough to participate in “taking the texts,” my family’s Jehovah’s Witness version of nightly Bible study. I routinely reach varying degrees of anger during this family gathering, and attempt to avoid it to varying degrees of success. Once or twice, the gathering has turned into “preach to Carrie” time, but this is not a usual occurrence. Thankfully tonight we learn about how we should appreciate all things great and small before saying a quick prayer. I then escape to bed. What a day! I can’t help contemplating the twists, turns, and general ridiculousness of my life as I attempt to fall asleep against a wall which is sandwiched between me and the Africa Magic blaring television.

The Joke Isn’t Always on Us!

There are so many moments when I am forced to look at my life and laugh; sometimes because crying only makes it worse, but oftentimes because really, it’s very funny. Twice a week there is dance class, traditional Cameroonian dance class. The whole group goes; all thirteen of us awkward white people who can’t shake the right parts of our bodies fast enough or sometimes even at all. It’s generally a very good time. Our accompaniment is made up of traditional drums played by Marcel and Nono. These drums vary; there is the large hollow log called a Balafon, the widely known Djembe which actually originated in South Africa, and the wooden xylophone type instrument; sometimes small bongos make an appearance as well. Our teacher is called Alain. Marcel, Nono, and Alain all get a huge laugh out of watching all of us and our complete disability to replicate pretty much all movements demonstrated by Alain. Our enthusiastic, yet largely failed attempts to copy Alain’s movement always leave us drenched in sweat by the time we descend to the floor for the yoga-esque movements which we have learned are a signal that the end of class is coming soon.

Class has just ended, and it is ‘le huit mars:’ women’s day. Alain invites the class to a show that he is going to be in later that night. Six of us decide to go. We change into our women’s day outfits and walk out of the dimly lit studio with its partially sprung wooden, and partially concrete flooring surrounded by colorful artwork which takes up all available space on each of the walls. We follow Alain, Nono, and Marcel down the dusty alleyway to the street where we manage to hail some cabs that are headed in our general direction. We help Nono and Marcel not so carefully put their instruments into the trunks of the taxis and split; four people to the back of one cab and three to the other. The cab I am in pulls up across the street from Yaoundé’s very large and extravagant Hilton hotel. Nono, Alain, myself, and Amelia stumble out. I help Nono get the Djembe out of the cab. It has its own Djembe backpack. I put the Djembe backpack on my back and Amelia and I file across the street after our instructors. We enter what seems like an overly extravagant restaurant for Yaoundé, where a waiter dressed in a suit of yellow women’s day fabric asks us if we’d like to be isolated or together. Amelia picks the together option for us, and when we learn that together means we would be split up and placed at tables where neither of us knew anyone else (and everyone else spoke only French) we quickly change our response to isolated, at which point we are ushered over to a table in the far corner. The tables are long and covered in white table cloths. The chairs are also covered in white cloths which are elegantly tied at the back. There is a stage at one end of the room and directly across from it a large buffet of silver chafing dishes. A round table in the middle of the room is also covered in a white table cloth and silver chafing dishes. On the other two sides of the room, long, dressed up banquet tables take up as much space as possible. There are bottles of wine on each table along with enough silverware for two courses and a plate of small round deep fried things which turn out to be similar to pound cake.

Our first thought when we walk into the room is ‘What did we get ourselves into?’ which is quickly followed by ‘we can’t afford this!’ Amelia and I question each other. I have 2000 CFA, she has 3000. We are sure a meal here for one person will cost between 7000 and 10000. The banquet hall is perhaps forty percent full. Everyone who is there looks affluent. The women all wear women’s day dresses, and some of the men wear suits made out of the fabric of the day, while others sport business suits. Everyone is making small talk and nibbling the fried appetizers on their tables. Everyone is also African. Amelia and I eye the friend pound cake balls hungrily while waiting for the rest of our group.

They arrive four or five minutes later, and they share our fear of not being able to afford anything. We sit around our isolated, white-robed banquet table and laugh at the ridiculousness of our lives. A woman in a pink women’s day suit holding a microphone makes welcoming announcements in French. We hear her say something about our awkward table and we giggle to ourselves. Eventually someone convinces Amelia to question our hosts about the price of food. She comes back with wonderful news. This is a sponsored event and all of the guests will eat and drink for free! The evening has just improved. A lot. Several people go off on Smirnoff Ice finding missions and the rest of us tuck into the fried pound cake balls with zest before heading off to the chafing dishes, which are being opened by men and women in black and white uniforms. I am particularly excited about the two trays of salad which are covered in very sanitary looking cling film that is being removed by a uniformed waiter. Salad is very uncommon in Cameroon, and one of my favorite things to eat. This salad is delicious. I heap a plate full of it, as do many of my companions. I wolf it all down in a manner that is much too quick to be any version of polite. Seconds are in order.

There is dancing too; Alain in a turquoise silk shirt appears with three rather scantily clad women. I do pay attention to the dancing, but not half as much attention as I pay to the food. I think I had forgotten to eat lunch, so I am particularly hungry, and the food is particularly excellent. Overall, the experience is a wonderful success. Unfortunately, we have to go. It is nearing eleven o’clock, and we don’t want our host families to be worried about us. I arrive home to a locked door. Everyone has gone to bed; even the night watchman isn’t there. I guess women’s day is a holiday for him too. After I ring both bells; the one that looks like a light switch and the one that looks like a button, six or seven times, my eighteen year old host brother unlocks the door to the compound and lets me in. He scolds me lightly for being late, something which I have learned to shrug off as playful teasing. I go to my room and, with much displeasure, realize that there is no running water. Showering will have to wait until the morning. I lay down on my bed and fall asleep almost instantly, despite the blare of Nigerian soap operas from the other side of the wall.

Running Feet and Working Feet

There are moments when I’m taken aback by my privilege in regard to the hardships of others. There is the very obvious, like the women I so often run past with huge, heavy looking bags on their heads. They are always well dressed, because, in Cameroon, everyone dresses well. Bright pagne cloth wraps around their bodies and usually covers their heads too. It is their feet which always strike me. They look swollen in their blue or green plastic flip flops. Maybe it is only because my feet are so thin that I think theirs look swollen and ill. I know my feet haven’t had incredibly easy lives, but that was all more or less self-imposed. That was for an art, not for survival. I feel like their feet have known much more pain than mine, yet my arrogant skinny feet run right past their painfully swollen ones, and my feet think nothing of it. Never before have I been forced to so blatantly examine the arrogance and privilege I thoughtlessly enjoy than when I run for recreation past women carrying sacks of corn, cocoyams, cassava, or something else on their heads up a steep hill to a market that is not close so that they can sell it and maybe earn enough money to feed their families. It’s almost as if I’m highlighting my privilege by running for recreation next to them.

For some reason, this does not shame me enough to keep me from running. Maybe it would if their quiet resilience was the only form of human life I encountered on my excursions. If the herds of school children didn’t point and laugh at the silly, slow white girl; if the taxi drivers didn’t “Bon Courage” me from their windows during rush hour; these are the things that make me running on some of the same roads where women carry huge sacks on their heads marginally okay.
There are other things that happen which make me angry; like when the man who slices pineapple at the top of Carrefour Vogt imitates my slow jog while I pass him and shouts “Ma Cheri, I love you!” at me, or when the school children point and laugh, or when a man tells me that he will join me “la prochaine fois.” Sometimes I garner an audience from the top floor of the next building while I stretch after running, but that doesn’t make me too unhappy. They are far away and not shouting things.