The Untold Stories of Youths about the Anglophone Crisis

I should be an accomplished entrepreneur by now. As I struggle to make meaning out of my life again, memories of how I lost everything are still very fresh.

August 2017, I am a thriving agricultural businessman and teacher; proud of myself for the positive impact I contribute to my home community of Njinikom, I will never forget this faithful Thursday. It is early morning, I am in my shop recording stock, getting ready to begin a new business day. Little do I know that men with guns and weapons of destruction have made other plans for me. Little do I know it is the day I will lose everything. In no time, I am running for my life; skipping between flying bullets and hiding in thick bushes. The bullets seem to have a sentimental attraction towards me. The sky is covered with thick black smoke from burning homes and shops set ablaze by men on a mission to destroy. Men who know nothing about the sweat and struggles of those whose source of livelihood they have put down in the blink of an eye.

I am already far from home as I come across a large crowd; old and young people, nursing mothers and babies, all fleeing for their lives. We don’t know where we are but we know we are going to trek to Bamenda. I remember vividly, this young mother begging me “Please brother, can you help carry my daughter for some time?  She is already weak, I can’t carry her since I’m already breastfeeding this one.” She says in a faint voice. Evening comes and morning follows it is day number 2 as I trek with them through unknown paths, getting lost and finding ourselves, with no food or water; to Bamenda where we do know not whom we are going to meet.

Months later, I am cohabiting with 5 other friends in a 3-meter squared room. I have lost everything, my little savings were used up trying to survive and sustain others in town. No school to teach, no farm to cultivate, no job to do. As if this is not enough there is news of an impending one-month complete lockdown, within which one is not supposed to step out even to beg. How will I survive this period?

Again, I have to relocate to Douala. Not that I know anyone there. Let me just be alive, even if it means begging on the streets to survive. But hot climate, strange people, sleeping under the bridge where now and then, you are arrested alongside a group of drug dealers; this isn’t what I set out for! I can’t wait to return to the tiny room with my 5 friends in Bamenda. Wait a moment! Who says there’s a room again? On arrival, the landlord has chased everyone out for unpaid rent.

Fast-forward to the present, I find myself back in a classroom. This time, not as a teacher but as a student. It turns out it is only best to start afresh. At least, I am alive and hopeful. I dare to start afresh.

What about others who suffered the same affliction? In frustration, some took up arms and have been killed, some still in the bushes. But how can I blame them if they only did so because it was their last option after all they’ve worked for is destroyed in seconds? Are they to blame for taking up arms to protect themselves and their land? What about home? The thriving and promising economy we already had? It is all just a painful memory today.

We have experienced peace, we have experienced war. War destroyed our economy, separated us from our loved ones, and left us with painful memories that will forever scare us.

• Peace and not war or conflict is a prerequisite for economic growth and livelihood.
• Instead of destroying our economy and killing the active working population that could provide valuable human capital to boost the economy simply because we have the weaponry to do so, let us invest those resources in building a peaceful and enabling environment for economic prosperity
• Violence, military power, destruction, and abuse of human rights and dignity will not resolve the Anglophone crisis.

My name is Edwin Ajimsimbom: I advocate for peace