Searching for Dada. Where did he go—where did we?

by Henry Lyonga (Germany)

A leap into the unknown Cameroon

He had now been gone for about four weeks without a word to anyone. Without as much as a note or a phone number to be reached by in the case of an emergency. Word around town was, he had disappeared with a beautiful creek-woman, the one whose hand he had asked for some years ago. On failing to secure the hand of his one true love, Dada resigned from his duties as the eldest son of the very influential Enone family. He relinquished his rights to run the family beans estate and passed everything down to his younger sister, Enanga, who at the time was barely eighteen. His actions came as a surprise to no one within their family, for he loved his sister very dearly, but it was considered a scandal, an abomination for a woman, a girl that young to be in a position of wielding so much power and wealth. It was an insult to his older uncles who felt they were next in line and that they had been cheated out of a chance at enriching themselves. In Cameroon, you see—men are the only people who are eligible to inherit property and wealth. Anything else is considered out of place and improbable. Mothers were turned out of their houses at the death of their husbands because women are not thought of as fit to hold property. An envelope arrived from Cameroon with a boldly written "PLEASE OPEN IMMEDIATELY" on its front-end. I ripped open the letter as I had been instructed to. Its openings lines said; “they are back together, I believe—they must have gone away together, I am sure of it” Enanga’s attempt at rationalizing the disappearance of two living bodies was the cry for help I needed to hear to twist myself into paying for the next available flight to Cameroon. I decided on a whim that I wasn’t going to travel alone. I was bringing Jake with me. I hadn’t been home in seven years. So much had changed for me. I was now married and working in a fine office. I could now afford to wear tailored trousers and shirts. I was also now able to order a plate of achy-soup without worrying about not being able to pay for an extra piece of meat. You see, I had been eaten and spat out by our dad when he caught me kissing Jude behind the mango tree that carried what he later found out were our initials enclosed by a heart. “J&D”, in love forever. It scared him forever and with swiftness, I was cut out of the family. We arrived on a Saturday and the skies welcomed us with rain and sunshine. I saw a sea of faces, black like mine with almond-looking eyes. In their eyes, they carried beauty and conviction. They also carried confusion, like bowls carry soup. Their limbs stretched with questions and hunger and hope. A little boy asked his mother why a white man was holding my hand, as she pulled him closer to her side as if she was afraid he would catch a disease on the sight of two men walking hand in hand. The mother said nothing. Another person in the sea of people answered the boy’s question with one word "Ngeme." I pretended I didn’t hear the word. Its meaning was clear. It was a slur. One that came with fatal consequences. It came with death. I had seen it before. A nail had been pressed deep into a man’s head after he had been accused by a group of wild-eyed men for being gay. The impact of the word hadn’t changed. It meant the same thing. Even more daunting to me now that I was pulling a white man through a crowded airport. We weren't quick enough. The already crowded space began filling up with chatter and smacking lips. Our eyes were wide open with fear of the unknown. Just before we could exit the airport, a mob had surrounded us, building fortresses of bodies inquiring and gazing upon a white-faced stranger and his black husband and what they looked upon to be a sin punishable by death.