HOW CAMEROON IS ROTTING IN THE MORTUARY


We came away quickly, hastily
So promptly we couldn’t close the door of the mortuary
We couldn’t stand the stench of decaying corpses
All of them – and so many of them – fully bathed
Cleaned up, spruced up
And dressed in their Sunday best
They were lying vainly on the mortuary slabs, poor lost souls !

Leaders of the main political parties were among them
All lay face up, draped as they were ; hands straight by their sides
In the colours of their different political parties.

Next to them was a larger slab
On it was the rest of Cameroon
All its people
The old and the young, the first and the last
Women and children, boys and girls
There were no mammals with them ; no aves, no pisces
Just them, all by themselves ; entire families, I mean
Them, apart from the few of us fleeing the stinking and macabre mortuary.

As we hurried away
Away from this obnoxious world
Into an empty and unknown kingdom
I cried out loud
« For God’s sake ! Why ?
Why this weridness in a country that is
So used to announcing deaths
Embelishing and storing corpses in the mortuary
And holding foolishly lavish cry dies ? »
So could anything ever be above the capacity of our country ?
I thought someone once said
« Impossible n’est pas camerounais ? »

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