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A freshwater stream emerges from between the trees that shade the beach and traverses its way across the dark volcanic sand to meet the Atlantic. Like me, it has travelled far to get here. Like me, it has come home. It was birthed in an underground spring, high on the blackened slopes of Mount Cameroon, one of Africa’s most active volcanoes. I see the great mass now before me, pushing its way out of the dense tropical rainforest and rising until it peaks beyond the clouds. Where the stream meets the ocean the freshwater and salt water don’t mix, producing a freezing current that holds its own and snakes around in the pleasant ocean surf. We spend some time walking back and forth along the lapping shore of Seme Beach in Limbe, delighting at the changing temperatures like children. I look up into the sympathetic eyes of my companion. We know each other by heart but we have only just met for the first time. She turns her face towards me: ‘My mother!’ she exclaims in Cameroonian Pidgin. ‘You know you are my mother, right?’ She is my mother’s sister and I am her mother’s namesake. Like that soft little stream, I have returned home. The home of my ancestors. Nestled at the intersection between western and central Africa, Cameroon is often referred to as ‘Africa in Miniature’ in testament to the fact it exhibits all the major climates and geography of the continent. A place where leafy rainforest nuzzles the sleepy ocean, and the winds carry the scent of the coffee in the plantations to the beaches with coffee coloured sand. We talk for hours. My Auntie tells me how my grandmother sold land to pay for my mother’s plane ticket to the United Kingdom: the first person from their poor little village to leave for Europe. ‘Ebane’, my Bakossi name sounds familiar in her mouth, ‘I am so glad you have come home. I will show you all your Cameroon has to offer’. The road leaving Limbe slices through the rainforest until the view of the coastline in between the tree trunks begins to fade. It is a lonely and steady road, with only a few other cars for company. After some time, we approach the plantations: rows and rows of uniform banana trees with blue plastic bags wrapped around the bunches for protection. Slowly, the roads begin to buzz before erupting into complete ruckus! We have arrived in the economic capital of the country: Douala. The road into the city is lined with makeshift wooden shacks with brightly coloured scraps of material used for awning. Smoke billows from underneath as street food vendors busy themselves frying corn and fish. The air is thick with noise. As the car pulls to a stop in the traffic, hawkers waiting in the middle of the road clamour around, pushing bottles of cold water, plastic wrapped loaves of white bread and dusty bags of ground nut through the windows. ‘A wan chop’: my Auntie is hungry and signals to the driver to pull up next to one of her favourite street food stalls. A delicacy in West Africa, ‘soya’ is beef marinated with spices and grilled. Cayenne and smoked paprika fill the air: it smells delicious. Then, I spot a wooden table at the back of the stall with raw beef cuts laid out under the sun. Perhaps my European sensitivities aren’t cut out for this. My Auntie reassuringly puts her hand on top of mine. The skin of her palms is thick. I later learn she can handle pans straight out of the oven with her bare hands. An adaptive trait, I think to myself… Moments later we are sitting in the car again, the doors flung open in the hazy afternoon sun, passing round a paper bag filled with chunks of juicy soya. Like my Auntie’s hands, so my stomach is fortified. My ancestors ate soya prepared this way and perhaps they also cooled their feet in that freshwater stream as it made its way across the sand to meet the ocean.