Yefon: The Red Necklace Read online

  YEFON: The Red Necklace

  The characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialog in this novel are either the products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2014 African Pictures International

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  ISBN-10: 1495452360

  ISBN-13: 978-1495452369

  Cover Design by Natasha Brown

  Illustrations by Ethel R Tawe

  Edited by David Gregory, The Right Edits.

  Visit the author’s website at www.sahndrafondufe.com to order additional copies. You may also visit the novel website at www.yefonthenovel.com for more information.

  All Rights Reserved. © 2014 African Pictures International. The editorial arrangement, analysis, and professional commentary are subject to this copyright notice. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express permission of the author, except reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review. United States laws and regulations are public domain and not subject to copyright. Any unauthorized copying, reproduction, translation, or distribution of any part of this material without permission by the author is prohibited and against the law.

  Sahndra Fon Dufe

  African Pictures International

  For any information regarding permission of the publisher, please email [email protected], Attention: Permissions Department.

  Trade Paperback Edition.

  The Red Necklace

  A novel by

  Sahndra Fon Dufe

  DEDICATION

  This is my first published book, so please forgive the long dedication and thank you for your patience.

  This novel is dedicated to suppressed women all over the world—to those whose rights have been infringed and to women whose dreams have been crushed because they were women: Women in Africa, Asia, the Middle East, Europe and the Americas.

  I feel your pain and I empathize with you, because in many ways, this is my story; our story- the story of every woman. This is my humble attempt to be your voice. I want you to know that no matter the situation in which you find yourself in, when you make a decision inside yourself that you want a change, it is achievable. It is achievable irrespective of the hurdles that will come your way. And most times, there will be many. It is not enough to start the journey. Any one can start anything, but follow-through, my dear sisters, is everything! If this novel inspires even one of you, I would be glad that my job was done.

  To my grandmother, mama Yefon Justina Fondufe, whose life story inspired me to write this book: Thank you mama, for teaching me that there is equal nobility in raising a large successful family. Also to Tererai Trent, Amina Lawal, the nine women from the Honor Diaries, and many others, whose beautiful struggles reminded me why this story needed to be told. I love you, and thank you for being the spark to change in your various communities.

  To my late grandfather, Pa Elias Banka Fondufe, who passed away in October 2012 when this novel was still in development. You were so excited about it and proud of me. I have you to thank for teaching me to love reading and to focus on writing all the things I wanted to say. You spent unbelievable amounts of time teaching me our culture and history and answering all my long questions over the years.

  In your library lie several of my books, which were written in pencil and pen from my childhood. In your words, it’s not that I did it late; it is that I did it at all. Thank you. This one is definitely for you, and I love and miss you dearly!

  To my foster brother, Nsame Gideon Ngo, who recently passed in July 2013. I dedicate this novel to you for believing in me with all your might and showing me that no matter how crazy we may seem, we are, indeed, capable of changing the world in some way; and for showing me that all things are possible when you believe. I wish you were here to see this happen. I miss you bro! I think of you all the time.

  To my wonderfully supportive parents, Dr. Ya Lydia Sakah Fondufe and Colonel Gilbert Banka Fondufe, my very SUPPORTIVE siblings, Serge, Glenn, and Vanessa, and to the love of my life, my darling Jonathan Nsien, thank you all for supporting me every step of the way. I love you, I thank you, and I promise to make you all proud, always.

  To the rest of my family, friends, and loved ones, thank you very much. This is for you.

  - Sahndra Fon Dufe.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1. The Good Days

  2. Shey Banka Labam

  3. Village Life

  4. Uncle Lavran

  5. Vifa vee kilong ve Baarvi

  6. Ngwah wo La

  7. Fomo woo Mbve’

  8. Yenla Dze Ntov

  9. A Spill of Death

  10. A Dark Age

  11. The City Girl

  12. A New Job

  13. The Parish

  14. Pa Taught me Sacrifice

  15. The Wind of Change

  16. The Hidden Treasure

  17. Something Like Independence

  18. Veyeh is in Town

  19. A Bracelet of Cowries

  20. The New School

  21. A Helping/ Hurtful Hand

  22. The Knock Door

  23. The Heart of the Forest

  24. Free But Not Free

  *Character Portraits by Ethel R Tawe

  * Glossary

  *Acknowledgements

  *Notes from Author

  * Questions & Topics for Discussion

  * About the Author

  TO THE APPLE OF MY EYE, MY GRAND DAUGHTER YUVEYONGE; MAY YOU ALWAYS FOLLOW THE SPARK THAT IGNITES DEEP INSIDE OF YOU.

  Through A Genesis Of Uncertainty, Life Unfolds, Sometimes Capitulating To Fear, Regret, Failure or violence. Held Together In Oneness, The Unity Of Our Feminine Being Eternally Yields The Powers Of Gentleness, Courage, Compassion, Forgiveness And Love. Quietly Or Boldly Whispering, Our Heart Speaks Aloud, “I Always Knew, I Would Be Me”.

  -Dec 27 2013, 3.57 Pm, PST.

  Yefon Labam

  -PROLOGUE-

  To my grand daughter, Yuveyonge:

  You have a great path ahead of you, my pa once told me. Even though I heard him, I didn’t plan on changing the world. I only wanted to make a difference in my life, not everyone else’s. Before I knew it, my world blossomed into a beautiful rose, with me being a bee drawing pollen from its honeyed petals.

  I used to imagine that I was a powerful queen ruling over an entire dynasty in North Africa. That was only my imagination. In reality, I wasn’t so fortunate.

  I was only an illiterate village maiden destined by my gender to wind up a housewife with no hopes of ever becoming a Vikiy lim. Vikiy lim, or ‘career women’ simply didn’t exist in these parts, and it was an unmentionable taboo for a woman to even think of such things. You would be considered a disrespectful deviant and such behavior was terribly punished. I heard of people who had been severely beaten up, lynched, sent to prison, exiled, and even killed. That is a bizarre ending for the honest mistake of ambition, don’t you think?

  I am a member of the Labam family. We come from a special berth in the county of Nso, near Kitiwum village, called Mtaar Nso, some eight kilometers away from Kimbo. We were the original peoples of the Nso tribe in Kumbo, Cameroon. This meant that the wanle nsum or young men from among the thirteen families that comprised this lineage were the only men in the tribe that were not obligated by birth to be a member of either the Ngiri or Mwerong cults.

  It also meant that the wanle ngon or maidens from my family were the only women in the tribe that would ever be eligible to bear the heir to the throne of the Paramount Fon of Nso. The Paramount Fon was the chief of the tribe and the most powerful man in the entire village!

  We were a dynasty with a strong history and culture, which could be traced all the way to the ancient sands of Egypt. Our gods were strong and our women fertile.

  My family was not only among the thirteen bloodlines. We were also greatly favored by the palace, thanks to several of my father’s good works, so it was natural that one of his daughters would be considered for a natural upgrade to royalty.

  Betrothal to the crown was a very common conversation in my household when we were growing up. Everyone put ideas into my half sister Sola’s head that she would one day be queen of the Nso people. Her beauty could be compared to no other, and her mother, the troublesome Ya Buri, perpetually reminded my mother that her children were ineligible.

  My older sister, Yenla, was an albino who was cursed with a chronic stammer. And I was a disrespectful tomboy with frog-eyes that made me look extremely ugly when I was a child. Sometimes, I suspected that this was partially the reason why Ma didn’t like me, and so I disliked her too.

  Little did I know that history would be altered and the palace would turn down flawlessness for a tomboy who had absolutely no interest in royalty.

  -1-

  THE GOOD DAYS

  The Second World War was almost at its peak when I was barely six months old, and at that time, North America was still surviving the Great Depression. British and French colonials confiscated German plantations and substantial firms on the coast of Cameroon; especially firms in the cities of Douala and Victoria. Among them, was the Woermann Corporation, which employed many people from the northwest and southwest of the country.

  As a result, many labor
ers returned to their villages inflating the population of hamlets like mine. This was one of the many electrifying topics conversed about during the unending storytelling by the fireside that occurred every nightfall. When you had a big family and no technology to keep you distracted, you told stories or talked around the fire every night. The confiscations went on for many years and each day, I grew older and smarter and so I listened better.

  My unmarried female cousins bubbled with excitement over the eligible bachelors relocating from the big cities, while the boys shuddered at the unconquerable competition coming their way. City boys could make the fittest village boy pass for a sheep.

  Some girls insisted that they preferred a titled man from the village to those jobless city boys, and then, an argument broke out over which was more en vogue and why.

  I felt out of place as I listened, my eyes darting around impassively from one shiny face to another. What could it be about these boys that made their cheeks glow with more shine than could be attributed to the cool crescent moon that was overhead? We cracked groundnuts by the fireside that Yenla had carefully made and continued talking.

  My dirty hands supported my head, and I finally felt intrigued when one of my cousins with a lazy eye began to laugh, her laughter blending in with the crackling of the fire. I warmed my hands over the flame.

  ”City boys do it better,” she explained, her other eye opening wide as she spoke. I leaned in trying to understand why both her eyes turned in and out as she talked. It gave me the strangest chill, and so, I looked away to the groups of boys roasting grasshoppers and drinking palm wine around another fire in our compound. I couldn’t hear them well but their own gathering seemed more entertaining. Their laughter was deep and unpretentious, and the way the light shone on their cheekbones gave them a look of strength. I wondered how our group looked from the outside.

  When I brought my attention back to my group, the girls were still talking about “it”. They giggled shyly as they explained how much “it” made a man, and how many ways city boys could use “it”, and I wondered whether I had missed the definition of “it” at any point.

  “What is ‘it’?” I asked, nonchalantly, playing with the wooden bottom of my slingshot or “rubber gun” as we called it. The older girls shared a confused look.

  “Shut up your smelly mouth!” Benadere snapped at me, her eyes never leaving the others. Ironically, her covert nickname was “Rim shoo Benadere” because her mouth smelled like the rotten eggs that we once found in Ma’s firewood kitchen. Benadere was our way of saying the white man’s name Bernadette.

  Rim Shoo’s friend said one of the city boys had put “it” in her mouth, and it tasted like an over-salted meal. The girls giggled loudly, clapping their hands at some points and shaking it with others at other times, while Yenla squirmed uncomfortably. Yenla eventually lied and said she was going to refill the clay pot of water.

  I watched her reddish wool hair shine under the moonlight until she escaped behind Ma’s taav or hut. I wondered when we had drifted apart, and I longed for more favorable company, but Kadoh was not here.

  “I almost vomited,” Rim Shoo’s friend said, and I exhaled deeply, becoming more bored by the second. I was startled at the way Rim Shoo’s friend’s mouth opened and closed so wide, showing different generations of cavities, and I wondered if her breath stunk like Rim Shoo’s. Wouldn’t surprise me. Birds of the same feathers flocked together. Isn’t that what Pa always said? My instinct prompted me to throw something in there, so she could stop speaking so much, but I knew better.

  As stimulating as these types of conversations seemed to everyone else, I learnt early enough that this was not my cup of tea.

  I usually couldn’t wait to creep out of my mother’s taav into the tall kola nut trees that surrounded our compound when everyone else was in bed. I would then shoot youthful lovers entangled passionately with little rocks from my slingshot, which I had personally made with Pa’s guidance. I liked how smooth it felt in the small space where the Y-shape was formed, and I remembered how I had carefully attached two rubber strips to it. Holding its base gave me a sense of security as if Pa was there with me.

  The heavy diesel smell of my rubber gun when combined with the chill from the gentle night breeze gave me a rush as I carefully picked a small rock from the pouch hanging on my waist.

  Aiming left, right, and finally in the middle, I would slowly draw back the rubber to my squinted eye and release my right index finger from the leather pouch. Off the stone would, go travelling until it hit the girl’s bare buttocks. I usually started laughing quietly, watching to see what happened.

  First the lover-girl would be startled, but the boy would persist so that she soon forgot about getting hit. Then I would take aim again and carefully shoot. This time, the girl would run away like a frightened child who had seen a masked spirit.

  They would go on telling people during the next market day about spirits who lived in the tree on the road back from the stream. They usually left out what they were doing when the “spirits” attacked them. I subdued the urge to laugh as I struggled to eavesdrop from my mother’s shed in the noisy village market square while cracking groundnut shells with my sisters. The sharp crackling sound of dried groundnut shells had a way of distracting me so that I couldn’t hear all the details, and I would shift my bamboo stool an inch closer for a cleaner shot. Still, it was hard to hear everything. Yenla would shoot me nasty looks from under her brown blanket, but I pretended not to notice. What was her problem?

  That type of thing riled up my blood like a monkey in heat, and I couldn’t wait to share the details with Kadoh when she came back from her mother’s village. Kadoh knew how to laugh at a good joke. How I missed her!

  In the absence of any possible victim to scare at night, I would hunt for small game in the bushes, catching bush rabbits and wild birds and roasting them to sell at the village square on Waylun. Not that Ma approved of a woman hunting. She said it was the most savage thing to do, but I enjoyed it, and the extra money I made from those sales gave me a surge of independence.

  Yenla sometimes pulled me to the side to warn me that she knew I was the one frightening people. Her piercing eyes were the color of stained cement. I tried to focus on the mesmerizing whites and dark blue rays hidden somewhere in there, but with her eyes abnormally jumping around, it was hard to tell if she was looking at my eyes or my nose.

  “Lea…leave…leave the…” she attempted to say. As soon as I caught the drift of where her choppy stuttering was going, that she was trying to ask me to leave people alone, I usually immediately covered my ears with my palms and began loudly bellowing an off-tune melody until Ma shouted from the back that I better shut up my ugly voice or pay the price. At which point I would cover Yenla with the brown blanket she always wrapped around herself and start running before she caught me and beat me up.

  The blanket was her gift from Pa, I think. He told her to always protect herself from the sun. Maybe it’s because her sensitive skin couldn’t handle the hard tropical sunrays like mine could but whatever his reasons, Pa was always right, and so I made sure Yenla protected her skin.

  Sometimes, we forget how simple life used to be! Though I was born in 1940, I still cannot fathom how we survived without the Internet! You weren’t woken by the gentle mouse-squeak alarm of your smartphone. Instead, your neighbor’s old rooster crackled as if boiling hot water was being forcefully poured down its thin throat. What a rude manner in which to wake a person from a mosquito-infested sleep! THAT was how we woke up each morning!

  Of course, we had absolutely no way of knowing whether the time was quarter to five or half past six, because there were no clocks. Even when we spotted those wooden fixtures at the Shisong parish house up the hill, we couldn’t read them. My half sister, Kadoh, said those were special boxes where the white people kept their spare hearts, which is why that irritating strange ticking would never stop.