Written piece
My Alma Mater
Vera Berinyuy
Cameroon
About this piece
"My Alma Mater" is a poem reflecting the devastating consequences of the decade old Anglophone crisis that has seriously affected the writer's alma mater. The school is no longer operational and it's campus is no a hideout for separatist fighters in this part of the country.
My Alma Mater
I went to my alma mater,
Where my eyes saw my ears—
A pitiful sight indeed, it was.
Benches meant for tomorrow's leaders,
Done and dusted by termites.
Healthy-looking termites they were!
When I thought I had seen it all,
I was saluted by the brain remnants,
Of those who dared the "Kontri" Sunday.
The solutions to our problems,
Perhaps, curers of strange diseases,
Wasted by misguided fellows.
With an irresistible urge,
I took one more step to behold that spot
Where I had sat listening,
To the eloquent Mr. EBONGONG drilling me,
On how to play with words.
At a single touch,
The unused door quaked,
And transformed into a heap of nonsense
before my very eyes.
I stood shivering, my hands dusty—
An angry termite bit me,
Yes, a deserving one, for I was the intruder; they were now the overlords here.
I searched and searched
For the signpost bearing the motto of Yarayiika,
All in vain.
What might have become of it?
Could it be that No Pity
Had shown no pity to it too?
If humans had erred,
What was this poor wood’s crime?
“No success Without Discipline”, it read.
Was it also a crime, to point _
People to discipline and success?
I wept from within,
Wondering what vehicle took me there.
How many controls had I settled?
How many bullets had I escaped?
Would I have survived a hit by one?
Or had my eyes plucked out;
Like the young beautiful Helen?
Waking up from slumber,
My pillow I baptised with tears.
Like one cheated on by their lover.
It’s been nine years into the mess,
Yes, nine wasted years,
Yet Buea remains just a myth.
Life booms across the river of prawns
But the remains of our wasted civilization—
Is all we can boast of.
That which made us proud of who we are,
Burnt! Burnt! Completely burnt!
The smoke inhaled by lunatics.
Sincere, sure, steady solutions we seek.
But who do we run to now?
When Tumi and all with brains, are gone!
And all that’s left of us are wishful dreams!
Oh that we may be alert, Wón Ngonso!
Resist this illusionary journey to Buea.
Godot’s not coming now nor tomorrow.
The land is ours! Lets salvage it!
I tell it now, I will tell it tomorrow,
To you stumbling brothers,
Abroad and in thick bushes,
Orchestrating this senseless course.
Receive sense or be consumed by the smoke,
From the very substance you smoke yourselves.
Bathing in your kinsmen’s Blood can never be justified.
By Vera B. Lola