Tag: Cameroonian writer

‘Ma vie est une chanson / My Life is a Song’ by Francis Bebey

On By Dr. Y.In Great Literature, Great PeopleLeave a comment

music_1Below is ‘Ma vie est une chanson‘ or ‘My Life is a Song‘, a love poem by Cameroonian author Francis Bebey, a poem celebrating his love for the African woman, in this case for his lover. As we remember that Francis Bebey was multi-talented as a journalist, writer, sculptor and musician, it is no surprise that the title of his poem is “My Life is a Song”. He even headed the UNESCO music department researching and documenting traditional African music. In the poem, he highlights that he was born from the love of the earth with the sun, thus a birth that was very celebrated and a life full of love. As we read the poem, Bebey’s love for his country is abundantly clear as he dreams of taking his lover there, and not only that, but lets her know that his country is where to find the love between the earth and the sun; it is almost as if he was telling all that he was born on the equator. Moreover, let’s face it, the link between the earth and the sun is undeniable, unbreakable, unavoidable, constant, and forever omnipresent. He is so taken by the love so much so that his life is a song that he will sing everyday to his precious one. Wouldn’t you all like to be loved like that? Enjoy!

The poem ‘Ma vie est une chanson‘ by Francis Bebey, was published in Anthologie africaine: poésie, Jacques Chevrier, Collection Monde Noir Poche, Hatier 1988. Translated to English by Dr. Y. Afrolegends.com.

Ma vie est une chansonOn me demande parfois d’où je viens

Et je reponds “je n’en sais rien

Depuis longtemps je suis sur le chemin

Qui me conduit jusqu’ici

Mais je sais que je suis né de l’amour

De la terre avec le soleil”

Toute ma vie est une chanson

Que je chante pour dire combien je t’aime

Toute ma vie est une chanson

Que je fredonne auprès de toi

Ce soir il a plu, la route est mouillée

Mais je veux rester près de toi

Et t’emmener au pays d’où je viens

Ou j’ai caché mon secret

Et toi aussi tu naîtras de l’amour de la terre avec le soleil

Toute ma vie est une chanson

Que je chante pour dire combien je t’aime

Toute ma vie est une chanson

Que je fredonne auprès de toi.

 My Life is a SongI am sometimes asked where I come from

And I answer “I don’t know

For a long time I have been on the way

That leads me here

But I know that I was born from the love

between the land and the sun”

My whole life is a song

That I sing to tell you how much I love you

My whole life is a song

That I hum next to you

Tonight it has rained, the road is wet

But I want to stay close to you

And take you to the land where I come from

Where I hid my secret

And you too will be born from the love of the earth with the sun

My whole life is a song

That I sing to tell you how much I love you

My whole life is a song

That I hum next to you.

‘Ils Sont Venus’ de François Sengat-Kuo / ‘They Came’ by François Sengat-Kuo

On By Dr. Y.In Great Literature, Great Moments2 Comments
Le partage de l'Afrique a la Conference de Berlin de 1884
Le partage de l’Afrique à la Conférence de Berlin de 1884

As we talk about neo-colonialism, and the new scramble for Africa, I thought about sharing this poem ‘They Came‘ by Cameroonian writer François Sengat-Kuo published in Fleurs de Latérite, Heures Rouges Éditions Clé, 1971. I had previously shared this poem here.  In the poem, Sengat-Kuo talks about colonization and how Africans were fooled by European missionaries who were always preceding European explorers and armies.  I particularly like the sentence: “they came, … bible on hand, guns behind.” Jomo Kenyatta, first president of Kenya, said it slightly differently, “When the missionaries came to Africa they had the Bible and we had the land. They said ‘Let us pray.’ We closed our eyes. When we opened them we had the Bible and they had the land.” (Nobel Peace prize Laureate, Desmond Tutu, of South Africa, is said to have popularized the quote). How true! In the days of colonization, Europeans claimed to be bringing civilization and Christianity to pagans across the globe.  Today, they bring development, globalization, and democracy…  same ol’ thing → submission and slavery to the people.  Enjoy!

Ils sont venus

au clair de lune

au rythme du tam-tam

ce soir-là comme toujours

l’on dansait

l’on riait

brillant avenir

ils sont venus

civilisation

bibles sous le bras

fusils en mains

les morts se sont entassés

l’on a pleuré

et le tam-tam s’est tu

silence profond comme la mort

 

 They came

by the light of the moon

to the rhythm of the tam-tam

that night as always

we were dancing

we were laughing

brilliant future

they came

civilization

bibles under the arm

guns in hand

the dead bodies piled up

we cried

and the tam-tam was silenced

profound silence like death

Being Complicated is Incurable

On By Dr. Y.In Great Legends & TalesLeave a comment
tall and short

There were once two friends. One was tall, and the other short.

One day, they decided to go to the market. Since they were going through a narrow path, the tall one left the short one behind.

  • It is because you underestimate me that you leave me behind you, complained the short one.

A bit further, the tall one, trying to satisfy his friend, made him move in front.

  • It is, to better look at me, and laugh at my short height, growled the other.

They reached the market. The place was full of people. The tall one wanting to correct the errors which had been reproached him, brought his friend back to his sides and the two of them walked hand in hand.

  • You put us side by side now to show everyone that you are taller than I, growled the short one.
  • My friend, I think that it is impossible to satisfy a dwarf. You are complicated and it is an incurable disease.

Fables des Montagnes de Patrice Kayo, Collection Les CLES de l’avenir, Editions CLE, Yaounde, p. 38 (1998). Translated to English by Dr. Y., Afrolegends.com

“Chant Funèbre Bangou / Bangou Requiem” by Etienne Noumé

On By Dr. Y.In Great Literature, Great People1 Comment
Dry your tears African

There has been so much loss this year that I thought to introduce you to the “Bangou Requiem,” a poem written by the Cameroonian poet and author Etienne Noumé. Bangou (pronounce Ban-gu in English) is a town in the Western province of Cameroon, and is part of the Bamiléké grassfields. Noumé’s description of his loss is so profound, and uses typical Bamileke imagery, “My body is numb… the palms have dried under the moonlight“, “My sun went down“, my joy, my everything, “… blown away by the wind.” It is hard to lose someone dear, especially one’s child. In Bamileke culture, the parent is supposed to bury his child and not the contrary, so you can imagine the heart wrenching pain… that numbs you. “The palms have dried under the moonlight“… think about it for a minute: … can a palm dry under the moonlight?… this is Bamileke imagery for you. “My reddened pot burst” my hope blown away in an instant, without any notice, the impossible has happened. This here is a Bangou Requiem, “Chant Funebre Bangou” by Etienne Noumé, first published in Angoisse quotidienne, Le Flambeau, Yaoundé, re-published in Anthologie Africaine: Poésie Vol2, Jacques Chevrier, Collection Monde Noir Poche, 1988, and translated to English by Dr. Y. Afrolegends.com . Enjoy!

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Chant funèbre Bangou

 

Mon corps est engourdi

et je me meurs de froid;

mon enfant est allé

couper du bois, hélas

et n’est pas revenu

Les palmes

ont séché

à la lueur

de la lune

Sur le foyer ardent

mon pot rougi éclate :

à l’aube au marigot

mon enfant est allé

et n’est pas revenu.

Les palmes

ont séché,

à la lueur

de la lune

Mon soleil s’est couché :

mon enfant est allé

derrière la colline

emporté par le vent

et n’en reviendra jamais plus

Les palmes

ont séché,

à la lueur

de la lune

 Bangou Requiem

 

My body is numb

and I am dying of cold;

my child went

to cut wood, alas

and did not come back

the palms

have dried

under the

moonlight

On the fiery hearth

my reddened pot burst :

at dawn in the backwater

my child went

and did not come back.

The palms

have dried

under the

moonlight

My sun went down :

my child went

behind the hill

blown away by the wind

and will never come back

the palms

have dried

under the

moonlight
   

The Taro and Its Neighbors

On By Dr. Y.In Great Legends & TalesLeave a comment
Dotted taro leaf

From its large leaves, the taro collected water and without gathering any for itself, or absorbing enough, watered its neighbors who bloomed and produced abundantly. For the benefit of others, generous taro forgot itself.

When the dry season came, it was the first to suffer from the lack of water. Turning to its neighbors who had great reserves, it begged them to share enough to survive until the rainy season. Everyone closed their door to its face and fell back on their complacency.

It is while dying that he understood that forgetting oneself for the benefit of others is a failure and that one must always be satisfied before adding to others.

Fables des Montagnes de Patrice Kayo, Collection Les CLES de l’avenir, Editions CLE, Yaounde, p. 59 (1998). Translated to English by Dr. Y., Afrolegends.com

“Jébalè / Jebale” by Elolongue Epanya Yondo

On By Dr. Y.In Great Literature, Great People3 Comments

Douala_Wouri River_2_Djebale
Wouri river and the Djebale island seen on the other side

I share here a poem by the Cameroonian poet Elolongue Epanya Yondo about his beautiful native island of Jebale, Cameroon. Note that Elolongue Epanya is the uncle of another great Senegalese-Cameroonian poet David M. Diop known for his amazing poem “Afrique / Africa“. Jebale (Jébalè or Djebale) is an island on the Wouri River, in Douala, Cameroon. It is also one of the places whose kings signed on 15 July 1884, a treaty of protectorate with German merchants from the firm Jantzen & Thormählen, thereby agreeing to the infamous Germano – Duala Treaty signed 3 days earlier on 12 July 1884 by King Bell and others. In 1884, Jebale was then known as Jibarret.

Douala_Wouri River
View of Jebale and the Wouri river, Douala, Cameroon

As you read Yondo’s words, you can imagine the beauty of his homeland, this island, Jebale, on the Wouri river. Jebale is known as the “emerald island, flamboyant jewel” on the Wouri estuary, on the coast of Cameroon. The author cites well-known coastal rivers of Cameroon, the Bimbia creek, the Sanaga River, the  Dibamba river, the Kwa-Kwa river, and also notes other islands of the Littoral, Malimba and Suellaba. In this poem, the author anchors his words in the rich tradition of the coastal Sawa people as he cites the Miengu and the Mbeatoe, those big shrimps known as Camarões which led to the name of the country Cameroun via the Wouri River – Rio dos Camarões. For those who have visited Jebale, it is indeed an emerald island, mostly known as a small fishing village; however in the eye of Elolongue Epanya Yondo, it is his love, the one he cannot wait to come back to, from exile. Enjoy!

This poem was published in Paris on February 25th 1972, in revue Présence Africaine, numéro 84 (4e trimestre 1972), re-published in Anthologie Africaine: Poésie Vol2, Jacques Chevrier, Collection Monde Noir Poche, 1988, and translated to English by Dr. Y. Afrolegends.com .

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Jebale by Elolongue Epanya Yondo

‘Jébalè’

A mon neveu David Morsamba Diop.

Jébalè mon île d’émeraude

Joyau flamboyant au confluent

De la gorge altière du Wouri

Je me souviens

De tes nattes verdoyantes

Fouettant en cascade

L’haleine salée du littoral

Jébalè mon île d’émeraude

Terre dont le souffle

Des Miengu et des Mamy-Wata

Féconde le cycle des Mbéatoè

Enigmatiques hommes d’eau

Qui sèment l’abondance

Jébalè mon île d’émeraude

Je cherche dans les fissures du temps

Dans la gueule écumante

de la baie du Biafra

tous les replis d’eau

qui mangèrent goutte à goutte

un chapelet d’îles

jaillies des entrailles de l’océan

comme des gerbes de nénuphars

Jébalè mon île d’émeraude

Je cherche dans l’écume poreuse

Les cônes bleu-gris

Dont la beauté effervescente

Arrachait des soupirs

          De lame de fond a l’océan

          Tombé en pâmoison

Jébalè mon île d’émeraude

Je cherche le chemin du retour

Du maquis de mon long exil

A travers l’île des buffles

Que fixait hier

La pointe multicolore de Suellaba

Je cherche sur tes flancs

Le point de repère de l’estuaire subjugué

Lançant à l’assaut de l’esprit gardien

De la crique du Bimbia

A l’île Malimba

Du Wouri coiffé de palétuviers

A la Dibamba des grandes profondeurs

De la Sanaga hydre immense

A la bouche silencieuse de la Kwa-Kwa…

Des gueules d’eau déchaînées

Et des bras de mers insaisissables

Pour pénétrer ton mystère

Consacrant ta légende des légendes

Jébalè mon île d’émeraude

Terre première de mon enfance

Dont le sel fermente ma mémoire

Je grave ton image impérissable

Sur la grève qui se moire

Au miroir d’un ballet lumineux

Du flux et du reflux

Qui propagent ton nom

Par la voix claire des clapotis.

 ‘Jebale’ 

To my nephew David Morsamba Diop.

Jebale my emerald island

Flamboyant jewel at the confluence

Of the haughty Wouri gorge

I remember

Your green braids

Whipping in cascade

The salted breath of the coast

Jebale my emerald island

Land whose breath

Of the Miengu and the Mamy-Wata

Fertilizes the cycle of the Mbeatoe

Enigmatic men of water

Who sow abundance

Jebale my emerald island

I search through the cracks of time

In the foaming mouth

Of the Biafra bay

All the folds of water

Which ate drop by drop

A rosary of islands

Sprung from the bowels of the ocean

Like sheaves of water lilies

Jebale my emerald island

I search in the porous foam

The gray-blue cones

Whose effervescent beauty

Drew out sighs

          Of groundswell from the ocean

          Fallen into a swoon

Jebale my emerald island

I am looking for the way back

From the maquis of my long exile

Through the buffalo island

That set yesterday

The multicolored tip of Suellaba point

I am looking on your sides

For the landmark of the subjugated estuary

Launching the assault of the guardian spirit

From the Bimbia creek

To the Malimba island

Of the Wouri dressed with mangroves

To the great depths of the Dibamba

To the Sanaga immense hydra

To the silent mouth of the Kwa-Kwa…

Ramps of water

And the elusive arms of the sea

To penetrate your mystery

Consecrating your legend of legends

Jebale my emerald island

First land of my childhood

Whose salt ferments my memory

I engrave your imperishable image

On the shore which shines

In the mirror of a luminous ballet

Of ebb and flow

Which spread your name

By the clear voice of the ripples.

‘Je suis venu chercher du travail’ / ‘I Came to Look for Work’ by Francis Bebey

On By Dr. Y.In Great Literature, Great People1 Comment

Francis Bebey_1
Francis Bebey

Today, as states and countries are slowly reopening after the shelter-in-place due to the coronavirus pandemic, many have been left jobless, and are looking for a job now or in the near future. I think the poem ‘Je suis venu chercher du travail / I came to look for work‘ by the great Cameroonian writer and musician Francis Bebey is very appropriate. The poem below is the story of many immigrants traveling to a foreign land in search of a job, a better life, leaving all behind: families, friends, and country. This poem is very simple, yet so deep as it details the losses taken today, in hope for a better tomorrow. As you think about the immigrants dying in the Mediterranean sea, or those crossing the Mexico-US border, or all the countless faces in the world, take a moment to imagine families torn apart, lives in peril, and possibly no light at the end of the tunnel.

Francis Bebey_Agatha Moudio Son
‘Agatha Moudio’s Son’ by Francis Bebey (Amazon)

Francis Bebey was sort of a genius: in his early years, he studied mathematics, before going into broadcasting. He was called to Ghana by President Kwame Nkrumah, where he served as a journalist. He began his literary career as a journalist in the 1950s and worked in Ghana and other African countries for the French radio network, Société de radiodiffusion de la France d’outre-mer (SORAFOM) and Radio France International. Later, he wrote novels, poetry, plays, tales, short stories, nonfiction works, and established himself as a musician, sculptor, and writer.  His first novel, Le Fils d’Agatha Moudio (Agatha Moudio’s Son), was published in 1967 and awarded the Grand prix littéraire d’Afrique noire in 1968; it remains his best-known work to this day. He also headed the music department at the UNESCO‘s office in Paris, where he focused on researching and documenting African traditional music.

Enjoy ‘Je suis venu chercher du travail‘ by Francis Bebey, published in Anthologie africaine: poésie, Jacques Chevrier, Collection Monde Noir Poche, Hatier 1988. Translated to English by Dr. Y. Afrolegends.com.

Je suis venu chercher du travail

Je suis venu chercher du travail

J’espère qu’il y en aura

Je suis venu de mon lointain pays

Pour travailler chez vous

J’ai tout laissé, ma femme, mes amis

Au pays tout là-bas

J’espère les retrouver tous en vie

Le jour de mon retour

Ma pauvre mère était bien désolée

En me voyant partir

Je lui ai dit qu’un jour je reviendrai

Mettre fin à sa misère

J’ai parcouru de longs jours de voyage

Pour venir jusqu’ici

Ne m’a-t-on pas assuré d’un accueil

Qui vaudrait bien cette peine

Regardez-moi, je suis fatigué

D’aller par les chemins

Voici des jours que je n’ai rien mangé

Auriez-vous un peu de pain?

Mon pantalon est tout déchiré

Mais je n’en ai pas d’autre

Ne criez pas, ce n’est pas un scandale

Je suis seulement pauvre

Je suis venu chercher du travail

J’espère qu’il y en aura

Je suis venu de mon lointain pays

Pour travailler chez vous

 I came to look for work

I came to look for work

I hope that there will be

I came from my far away country

To work for you

I left everything, my wife, my kids

In my country over there

I hope to find them all alive

On the day of my return

My poor mother was very sorry

To see me go

I told her that I will come back one day

To put an end to her misery

I had long days of travel

To get here

Was I not assured of a welcome

Which will be worth all this trouble

Look at me, I am tired

To go by the ways

It has been days since I ate anything

Do you have some bread?

My trouser is all ripped

But I don’t have another

Do not scream, it is not a scandal

I am just poor

I came to look for work

I hope there will be

I came from my far away country

To work for you

Inédit

‘Angoisse Quotidienne / Daily Anxiety’ by Etienne Noumé

On By Dr. Y.In Great Literature1 Comment

20150624_FleurIn these uncertain times, I thought about sharing with you this poem by the Cameroonian author Etienne Noumé, ‘Angoisse quotidienne‘ or ‘Daily Anxiety.’ His poem was published in Anthologie de la poésie camerounaise, edited by Patrice Kayo, Le Flambeau. As you read Noumé’s poem, you will find the daily anxiety of the author mounting, as he wonders where he will flee to as hurricanes come and take away his roof, where he will flee to as the torrents sweep away his fields, when will the happy future come? His questions remain of actuality: the hurricanes coming is like wondering ‘where will you sleep, or live?’; the torrents sweeping his fields is like asking ‘where will your income, your food come from?’ the question about the future is like asking ‘when will the spring come? when will this anxiety go away? when will happiness come?’

The poem ‘Angoisse quotidienne‘ by Etienne Noumé, published in Anthologie de la poésie camerounaise, P. Kayo, Le Flambeau. The translation to English is from Dr. Y. Afrolegends.com. I chose the flower above because of all the uncertainty surrounding it, and also because in the end, the light still shines on that flower!

Enjoy the poem below, and let me know what this poem brings to mind.

Angoisse quotidienne

 

Quand viendra la rigueur

des saisons orageuses

ébranchant les dômes

des futaies sauvages,

 

où fuirais-je

la chute meurtrière

des poutres sur les crânes

Quand, froissant, étirant

les cheveux de jungle

l’ouragan dans ses bras

tordra toute la terre,

où dormirai-je,

la paille de mon toit

volant à tous les vents,

où fuirais-je,

la fureur des torrents

balayant tous mes champs,

roulant des allluvions

pour fumer le vallon

Où

germera l’Avenir

en heureuses ombelles?

 Daily Anxiety

 

When will come the rigor

of stormy seasons

pruning the domes

of wild forests,

 

where would I flee

the deadly fall

of beams on skulls

When, crumpling, stretching

the jungle hairs

the hurricane in his arms

will twist the whole earth,

where would I sleep,

the straw from my roof

flying off in all winds,

where would I flee,

the fury of torrents

sweeping all my fields

rolling alluvium

to smoke the valley

Where

will sprout the future

in happy umbels?

 

‘Ils m’ont dit’ de Francois Sengat-Kuo / ‘They told me’ by Francois Sengat-Kuo

On By Dr. Y.In Great Literature10 Comments

I would like to share another poem ‘Ils m’ont dit‘ by  François Sengat-Kuo published in Fleurs de Latérite, Heures Rouges Éditions Clé, 1971. This poem ‘They told me’ is all about reclaiming African-ness. I know it doesn’t quite sound like it, but here is someone who left all to please others, in this case the European masters, and in the end decides to reclaim what is his, his culture, and above all himself. The poem deals with colonization times, the service of African soldiers in World war I and II, and then independence or rather the quest to find oneself. And yes, once he decides to put himself first, they tell him that he is a traitor. I bring you here “Ils m’ont dit” (They Told Me) translated to English by Dr. Y. on Afrolegends.com

 

Sengat_Kuo2

‘A la Princesse’ de Patrice Kayo / ‘To the Princess’ by Patrice Kayo

On By Dr. Y.In Great LiteratureLeave a comment

A true African beauty: Mama Africa, Miriam Makeba
A true African beauty: Mama Africa, Miriam Makeba

Queen Nzingha of Angola
Queen Nzingha of Angola

I read this love poem written by the Cameroonian writer Patrice Kayo. I thought it so deep, beautiful, and worth sharing with all. Enjoy this poem ‘A la princesse / To the princess’! The original was published in Paroles intimes 1972, P.-J. Oswald. The French version of the poem was taken from ‘Anthologie Africaine: Poesie, Jacques Chevrier, Hatier 1988, P.129.‘ Translated to English by Dr. Y., afrolegends.com .

A la Princesse

Tu es l’innocence des fleurs et le sourire de l’aurore

tu es le doux éclat du soir

et la virginité de l’inconnu

tu es la gaiété du ciel etoilé

la candeur des clairs de lune.

 

Tu es la douceur des nuages des belles saisons

tu es la corolle qui s’ouvre

sur l’humble hauteur de ma colline

mais le chemin est long

qui mène jusqu’à toi

tu es l’aube lourde de promesses

et ton sourire, le murmure joyeux

du vent sur la savane

tu es le havre de mon Coeur déchiré

lorsqu’y volète le papillon

du doute et de l’angoisse.

 

Tu es la fertilité de la terre

et la limpidité du matin

tu es le beau pays de mes rêves

le champignon

que je voudrais cueillir

au lever de l’aube de l’amour

tu es l’eau pour ma soif tenace

et dans le gouffre de mon silence

je ne murmure que pour toi.

 

Tu es la hutte élevée par le destin

sur mon chemin sans abri.

 

Tu es l’oiseau posé

sur l’arbre de ma solitude

et quand tu t’envoleras

tu emporteras mon espoir.

 

Tu es le kolatier

planté dans l’étroit champ de mon destin

laisse tomber pour moi

le salutaire fruit de l’accord

pour que par le même chemin

nous titubions ensemble

vers la grande mer

la mer de l’éternité

 

Ecoute je t’aime comme on meurt

innocemment, totalement

et je t’attendrai comme le bonheur :

tous les jours.

 

 To the Princess

You are the innocence of flowers and the smile of the dawn

you are the soft evening glow

and the virginity of the unknown

you are the gaiety of the starry sky

the candor of moonlights.

 

You are the clouds’ gentleness on beautiful seasons

you are the corolla which opens

on the humble height of my hill

but the path is long

that leads up to you

you are the dawn heavy with promises

and your smile, the joyous murmur

of the wind on the savannah

you are the haven of my broken heart

as flutters the butterfly

of doubt and anguish.

 

You are earth’s fertility

and the morning’s clarity

you are the beautiful country of my dreams

the mushroom

that I would like to pick

at the dawn of my love

you are the water for my tenacious thirst

and in the pit of my silence

I murmur only for you.

 

you are the hut elevated by fate

on my way without shelter.

 

You are the bird resting

on the tree of my solitude

and when you will fly away

you will take away my hope.

 

You are the kola tree

planted in the narrow field of my destiny

drop for me

the salutary fruit of agreement

so that by the same path

we stagger together

towards the great sea

the sea of eternity

 

Listen, I love you as one dies

innocently, totally

and I will wait for you like happiness:

every day.