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Papalapala Magazine #8: Tori Long Time Short

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In Memoriam: Mbella Sonne Dipoko - The Bard Who Dared To Be Different

By Dibussi Tande

Mbella Sonne Dipoko, one of the leading first generation Cameroonian writers and, without doubt, the most internationally recognized Anglophone writer, died on December 5, 2009 in his hometown of Tiko. His death not only leaves a huge void on the Cameroonian literary landscape, but also marks the end of a most storied and colorful life that began 73 years ago on the banks of the River Mungo and continued through the Southern Cameroons, Nigeria, Europe and then back to the banks of the Mungo. 

Dipoko began writing very early on in his life. In 1960, he left for France at age 24, after a brief stint as an accounts clerk with the Cameroon Development Corporation and a news reporter for the Nigerian Broadcasting Corporation.

Petit Pays: Nudity and the King

Kangsen Feka Wakai

Petit Pays owned the nineties.  And if he didn't own the entire decade, then he owned the most significant part of it.  And if he didn't own the airwaves, he certainly owned sidewalk speakers and dance floors.  The 'matinee' generation would come of age dancing to the sounds of  'Nioxxer', 'Maria' and 'Polissy'. 

If Lapiro de Mbanga stormed through the gates of censorship in Cameroonian popular music in the mid-eighties with his abrasive diatribes against the socio-political order, then Petit Pays widened those walls with lyrics that were at once irreverent and suggestive.  His were songs that were layered with  innuendos, social commentary and were meant to provoke.  

Music - Rumba on the River

V. Muna Kangsen

For decades, the music emanating from the Democratic Republic of Congo and its neighbor and musical rival, the Republic of Congo, has dominated African airwaves and record charts influencing artists from across the continent, who in turn borrowed generously from its aesthetics.

Generally referred to simply as “Congolese”, the popular music of both Congos evolved against a backdrop tampered by the vicissitudes of colonialism, Western-backed military dictatorships, as well as civil wars, which saw the deposal of Mobutu in Congo-Kinshasa and the return of Sassou Nguesso in Brazzaville.

Film, Darwish and Palestine: An Interview with Hadeel Assali

Kangsen Feka Wakai interviews Hadeel Assali, a Palestinian-American cultural activist and founder of the Houston Palestinian Film Festival.

KFW: You were very involved in initiating the Houston Palestine Film Festival, which offers an American/non-Palestinian audience a glimpse of the Palestinian experience from a creative point of view.  How would you assess its impact so far, and to what extent can art play a role in articulating the aspirations of the Palestinian people?

HA: Palestine has been a taboo “controversial” topic for far too long, including in the arts/culural realm. When I was a university student about 10 years ago, it was considered offensive to even utter the word “Palestine.” It was almost considered a threat; we were expected to refer instead to the “Palestinian territories” – this is what happened with Palestinian director Hany Abu-Assad’s film “Paradise Now” just a few years ago.

It was the first Palestinian film to be nominated for an Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film, but could not be submitted under “Palestine” (and was instead submitted under “Palestinian Territories”).

Clara Angelina Diaz on Color, Om and Self

Conceptualization
My approach to conceptualization can be attributed to what some call God, a higher self, Om, higher order or Divine energy. The name of the source is not that important, but the process of conscious connection with it, has been of utmost importance in my life. At the beginning of my artistic journey I found it impossible to explain why I drew what I drew or painted what I painted because during that time I was not consciously in touch with the source of self and creation. In order to mentally conceptualize my creations and verbally explain them, I have adopted two different processes which after some time reverse themselves. 

Our Fate as Writers: Thorns on our Chosen Path

By Dipita Kwa

Sirri was preparing to confront her parents in order to convince them that she wasn’t vulnerable as much as her uncle had made them believe.  Then all of a sudden, like a silly dog, her treacherous mind dug up the story Granny told them yesterday about a young author. 

This guy thought he had a few international achievements in creative writing after his short stories were published in several online magazines; a published novel, but most of all his being published among the worlds Literary Greats in an anthology of short stories.  But not even up to a handful of his countrymen knew he wrote stories even though he lived and worked there. 

Ekechi - A Short Story

Shandie Shing Avwontom

A faint, first only slightly perceptible sound sauntered through the half open door into the stillness of the room from the corridor outside. Then distinctly; feet shuffling. I can’t say for how long I had remained in a stupor but the noise brought me back to my senses instantly: “Oh my God” I prayed, “Ekechi!” I murmured under my breath and sucked my teeth. Stories of rape victims swirling in my mind, I whirled my feet one after the other in an arch to the floor and with my heart clocking overtime, dashed out of the room. There was no one in the corridor.  It was getting to dawn. I threw open Ekechi’s room door without a thought of knocking. She was already dressing up. The bewildered poor thing snatched a towel and held it to her chest, in vain. She stared at me questioningly. I asked her if everything was okay and quickly realised she was unaware of what had happened.

The Poetry of JKS Makokha

I. Kilos of Bones

How many bones will it take
to construct our very own
towering statue of liberty?

How many kilos of bones,
pure white primatish stones,
will it really honestly take?

How many for a national statue
far FAR taller than that of Kimathi
or Jomo on their thrones of stone?

How many for a statue so high
that it crests the towering rooftop
of our colonial capital city’s centre?

Poetry - Speak Camerounais

By Peter W. Vakunta

I will not parler français at home.
Je ne parlerai point French on the school grounds.
I will not speak French avec mes copains…
I will not speak French with mes camarades de classe…
I will not speak français tout court.
Hello! Ils ne sont pas bêtes, ces Anglos!
Après maintes reprises, ça commenc à pénétrer dans leurs têtes de cochon!
Dans n’importe quel esprit.
ça fait mal;
ça fait honte;
ça agace!
Et on ne speak pas French dans les carabets de matango.
Ni dans les gares routières.
Ni anywhere else non plus.
On ne sait jamais avec ces conasses de froggies!
D’ailleurs, qui me donne cette autorité de crier à tue-tête?
D’écrire ces sacrées lignes?
Peu m’importe!

The Poetry of Dzekashu MacViban

Genesis
І

The unsteady familiar rhythm of known voices
Like some haunting siren song suffocates
My thoughts. Deep within the darkness of
The cave lies a punctured genesis.
With two voices piercing each other
I watched the changing scenes
And, in pure macho fashion, the rib was silenced.

Photo Essay - Sankofa: Caravan to the Ancestors

Galveston, Texas, 2009

Mbella Sonne Dipoko - An Eulogy by Prof. Isidore Okpewho

I am very saddened by the news of Mbella's death. When I heard many years ago that he had returned from Europe to his village to stay, I continually nursed the hope that one day I would meet him again. Sadly, it was not to be.

My personal knowledge of Mbella goes back to 1966. After graduating from Ibadan, I had spent one year (1965-66) in London training as a publisher with my employers, Longman. At the end of the period, Longman gave me a one-month European holiday which took me through France, Italy, and Greece and back to Italy for my return trip to Nigeria. For my stay in Paris I was introduced to Mbella, whose novel A FEW NIGHTS AND DAYS had just been published by Longman. I spent my three or four days in Paris with Mbella in his digs, whose location I cannot now recall.

The Dipoko I Knew

By Francis Wache

In 1990, the maiden edition of Cameroon Life carried an interview with Anglophone Cameroon’s foremost novelist, Mbella Sonne Dipoko.

It was a scintillating interview. I asked the interviewer, late Denis Ngala, if he could fix an appointment for me with the iconic Dipoko. Ngala accepted.

And, so, one day I found myself in Tiko. Ngala ushered me into Dipoko’s residence. Dipoko, swathed in a flowing white shirt and sanja (loin cloth) rose and stretched out his hand. Reverentially, I squeezed the proffered hand. Then, we sat down. And the conversation flowed. We talked about everything and nothing. Since I was awed with meeting the Big Man, I spoke sparingly. Ngala, on the other hand, was garrulous and jocular. They bantered freely.

A Tribute To Mbella Sonne Dipoko, the Bard of the Creeks

By Lyombe Eko

A literary Bombax tree has fallen in the dark, rainforest of Cameroon! Writers never really die. They just put down their pens. Mbella Sonne Dipoko lives in the lives and memories of his family, his friends, and his many fans. He contributed to the reading pleasure of millions of people all over the world. Mbella Sonne Dipoko lives in the minds of all those who read his work and became better people for having done so. I never met Mbella Sonne Dipoko in peron but when I was a struggling man, a youngster in the impoverished doldrums of life in the rainforest of Cameroon,I met him through his work.  The eccentric writer made me dream; dream of transcending poverty and want and injustice.  If Mbella Sonne Dipoko could rise from the constricting creeks and grinding poverty of Tiko and Mungo to become a global literary figure, I too could build something on my empty lot in life.

Mbella Sonne Dipoko - Tributes in Verse

1. Sleep Well Mbella Sonne Dipoko By Dante Besong
 
As the sun rises from the east, shining bright on all,
So does it set in the west, bringing dusk to the land
Mount Fako is shaken; the night's come too soon
Epasa Moto's in tears, where is Chief Dipoko?
 
You took us aback as you suddenly went to sleep
You made your mark, the literary world can attest
Truly, inspiring people don't have to live too long
Like the morning dew, they disappear by mid-day
Leaving the surroundings fresh and cool
 
You've gone beyond to join your comrades
Together you'd relate in the sphere of poetry
But who are we to understand the mystery of the Divine one?
He gives and He takes, He puts together and asunder
But we are a reflection of His creativity.
 
To create is to live, though absent, you live through your writings.
It is your time to rest, Sleep well Mbella Sonne Dipoko.

Not That It Really Matters…But It Does! (For Chief Mbella Sone Dipoko)

By JK Bannavti

JK Bannavti with Mbella Sonne Dipoko at a book launch in Yaounde - Oct. 31, 1990

It really does not matter that you became Chief;
You were Chief born in ink to cleanse society of filth.
It really does not matter that you swam in flowing wrappers;
That was your sackcloth for the death of shrimps and crabs.
It really does not matter that you spotted a white shirt over the wrappers;
You could not help a smile though the prawns were turning belly –up.

Mbella Sonne Dipoko : Une vie bien remplie

 Ecrit par Maurice Simo Djom (Le Jour)

L'écrivain, peintre, homme politique, chef traditionnel et fondateur de religion est décédé à Tiko samedi à l'âge de 73 ans.

Il ne croyait pas à Copenhague. Une foire bien futile, disait-il en évoquant ce rendez-vous "folklorique". Il savait, du moins il avait la ferme conviction, au-delà du tapage bon teint sur l'engagement écologique,  que ce sommet accoucherait d'une souris et que les pays riches s'en retourneraient décidés plus que jamais à  détruire la planète par leurs industries "de travers". Cet engagement,  Mbella Sonne Dipoko l'a noté en noir et blanc sur un papier trois jours avant de mourir. C'était sous la forme d'un poème publié par nos confrères du trihebdomadaire d'expression anglaise The Post.

Copenhagen - Mbella Sonne Dipoko's Last Poem

Mbella Sonne Dipoko wrote this poem three days before his death and it was published in the same issue of The Post Newspaper that announced his passing six days later.

It was foretold long ago
That after Noah's deluge
The next destruction of the world
Would be by fire
And can't you feel the heat building up already,
The global warming up?
 
And so to fulfill the prophecy
Copenhagen is going to be
Just some more hot air
Presaging the sparks that would turn
Into the flames in which the world will be consumed
And then out of the ashes of ecocide capitalism
It won't be Christ on His second coming presiding
On Judgment Day
But Karl Marx returning like a revolutionary phoenix
Out of the ashes of the busting bubbles
Of the lopsided economies
Of our over-heated world