New Cameroon Views Blog

Books by Cameroonian writers against the four-plus decades of Dictatorship of Paul Biya of Cameroon and the Neo-colonialism of France

2026-10-05T18:33:41.257-07:00

Prominent Cameroonian writers and intellectuals have published key political essays and books that critically examine the authoritarian regime of President Paul Biya and its deep-seated ties to French neo-colonial influence (Françafrique).

Key Books and Writers

Mongo Beti (Alexandre Biyidi Awala)

Lettre ouverte aux Camerounais, ou, La deuxième mort de Ruben Um Nyobé (1986): An open letter specifically targeting Paul Biya’s early years in power, criticizing the continuation of authoritarian governance after Ahmadou Ahidjo.
La France contre l'Afrique: Retour au Cameroun (1993): A powerful critique detailing Beti's return from exile, accusing France of prioritizing its own economic and strategic interests by propping up African dictators, using Cameroon under Biya as a prime example.
Main basse sur le Cameroun: Autopsie d'une décolonisation (1971): Though originally targeting the Ahidjo regime, this foundational text laid the analytical groundwork for understanding how French-engineered neocolonialism persisted directly into the Biya era.

Fanny Pigeaud

Au Cameroun de Paul Biya (2011): A piercing investigative account analyzing the mechanisms of Biya's longevity, institutional corruption, and the decisive diplomatic and military backing provided by Paris.

Janvier Tchouteu

Paul Biya of Cameroon: Three-plus Decades of Misrule under an Anachronistic French-imposed System (2018): An analytical work examining the socio-political stagnation of Cameroon as a result of a system sustained by French geopolitical alignment.

Célestin Monga

The Anthropology of Anger: Civil Society and Democracy in Africa (1996): Explores the stifling political climate of Cameroon under Biya and the rising democratic resistance of civil society against post-colonial state hegemony.

ANWAR SADAT: The Assassination of the Symbol of Realism in the Middle East

2026-10-01T18:33:26.001-07:00

On October 6, 1981, before millions of stunned television viewers and thousands gathered in Cairo to celebrate Egypt's military triumphs, gunfire shattered the spectacle. Within seconds, President Anwar Sadat, the leader who had transformed the politics of the Middle East and dared to pursue peace where others saw only war, lay mortally wounded. His assassination ended a remarkable life, but it also symbolized a fierce and enduring clash between vision and fanaticism, courage and extremism, reconciliation and perpetual conflict.

“ANWAR SADAT: The Assassination of the Symbol of Realism in the Middle East” is a gripping and deeply researched account of one of the twentieth century's most influential leaders. Rising from humble beginnings in rural Egypt, Sadat defied expectations to become a statesman of global consequence. He challenged regional orthodoxies, sought to restore Egyptian pride after years of humiliation, and stunned the world by extending a hand of peace to Israel, forever altering the diplomatic landscape of the Middle East.

Yet the very qualities that made Sadat a transformative leader also made him a target. To admirers, he was a courageous realist willing to make difficult choices in pursuit of a better future. To his opponents, he was a dangerous heretic who had betrayed deeply held political and ideological convictions. As he pushed Egypt toward peace, economic modernization, and greater engagement with the world, powerful forces mobilized against him. Radical groups, political rivals, and religious extremists saw his vision as a direct threat to their ambitions.

With the pace of a political thriller and the depth of a historical investigation, this book takes readers behind closed doors into secret negotiations, high-stakes diplomacy, intelligence failures, and deadly conspiracies. From the battlefields of the Arab-Israeli conflict to the corridors of power in Cairo, Washington, and Jerusalem, it uncovers the forces that shaped Sadat's extraordinary rise and ultimately led to his tragic fall.

More than the story of an assassination, this is the story of a leader who refused to be imprisoned by the dogmas of his time. It is the story of a man who believed that realism was not surrender, that negotiation could succeed where wars had failed, and that true leadership often demands standing alone.

Powerful, dramatic, and profoundly relevant, “ANWAR SADAT: The Assassination of the Symbol of Realism in the Middle East” is the unforgettable story of a visionary who dared to pursue peace in one of the world's most volatile regions and paid the ultimate price for his convictions. His death sent shockwaves throughout the Middle East, reshaped regional politics, and left behind a legacy that continues to influence the quest for peace, stability, and coexistence in a deeply divided world.

ANWAR SADAT: The Assassination of the Symbol of Realism in the Middle East

THE DEMISE OF LIBYA’S FLAWED SYMBOL: The Assassination of Muammar Gaddafi, The Disarray of the Country and the Resultant Aftershocks in Africa

2026-10-01T14:58:27.003-07:00

What happens when a ruler who dominated a nation for more than four decades is violently removed, yet the system he built remains deeply embedded in the fabric of society?

THE DEMISE OF LIBYA’S FLAWED SYMBOL is a penetrating exploration of the rise, fall, and enduring legacy of Muammar Qaddafi, one of Africa's most controversial and enigmatic leaders. Far from being a straightforward account of a dictator's death, the book unravels the complex chain of events that transformed Libya from a relatively stable, oil-rich state into a fractured landscape of competing militias, political uncertainty, and foreign intervention.

Beginning with the turbulence of the Arab Spring, the narrative traces the mounting pressure against Qaddafi's regime, the international coalition that intervened in Libya's uprising, and the dramatic final moments that culminated in his assassination in October 2011. Yet the author challenges readers to look beyond the graphic images and celebratory headlines that marked his demise. Was Qaddafi merely a tyrant whose removal liberated his people, or had he become the symbol around which Libya's fragile unity was precariously held together?

Through insightful political analysis and vivid storytelling, the book examines how the collapse of central authority unleashed forces long suppressed beneath the surface. Tribal rivalries, ideological divisions, armed factions, and competing regional interests rapidly emerged, creating a vacuum that neither local leaders nor international actors were prepared to fill. The result was a nation struggling to define itself amid chaos.

The analysis extends beyond Libya's borders to reveal the far-reaching consequences felt across the African continent. The proliferation of weapons, the movement of armed groups, increased instability in the Sahel, migration crises, and shifting geopolitical alliances are presented as interconnected aftershocks of Libya's collapse. The book demonstrates how the death of one leader sent ripples through neighboring countries, influencing security dynamics, economic relations, and regional governance for years to come.

Neither a defense nor a condemnation of Qaddafi, this work presents a nuanced examination of leadership, state-building, foreign intervention, and unintended consequences. It asks difficult questions about the nature of power, the dangers of political personalization, and the costs of dismantling a regime without a viable roadmap for what follows.

Rich in historical context and strategic insight, THE DEMISE OF LIBYA’S FLAWED SYMBOL is both a gripping political chronicle and a cautionary tale. It challenges conventional narratives surrounding revolutionary change and invites readers to reconsider whether the fall of a ruler necessarily signifies the rise of a nation. In doing so, it offers a sobering reflection on Libya's ongoing struggle for stability and the profound lessons its experience holds for Africa and the wider world.

A story of power, revolution, betrayal, and consequence, this book reveals that the end of a leader's reign can become the beginning of a country's greatest uncertainty.

THE DEMISE OF LIBYA’S FLAWED SYMBOL: The Assassination of Muammar Qaddafi, The Disarray of the Country and the Resultant Aftershocks in Africa

Cameroon Party Chief Is Dead of Poisoning (Culled from the New York Times---Nov. 4, 1960)

2026-09-25T22:16:50.452-07:00

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Special to The New York Times.

Nov. 4, 1960

GENEVA, Nov. 3—Felix Moumie, leader of the opposition Union of Populations party in the Cameroon Republic, died in a hospital here tonight of thallium poisoning. The police are investigating his allegation that he had been poisoned by political enemies. Thallium is a metallic element of the aluminum family used in rodent poisons. The anti-French African political leader entered the hospital more than two weeks ago and was later placed in an iron lung because his respiratory system was affected.

Mr. Moumie, who was strongly Left-wing, opposed the French when the Cameroons was a French territory and was active in armed resistance to the government that took over when the country became independent, because of its close ties with France.

https://www.nytimes.com/1960/11/04/archives/cameroon-party-chief-is-dead-of-poisoning.html

A DEATH IN GENEVA THAT PUT A NATION IN A COMA AND TRAUMATIZED AFRICA: The Assassination of Félix-Roland Moumié and Cameroon’s Unfinished Liberation

by J

ETHNIC BORDERLANDS : Admixture I---The Ngembas and the Traditional Grassfield Realms ((kingdoms, principalities, fondoms or chefferies) of Santa Sub-division, Mezam Division, Northwest Region, Cameroon

2026-09-23T16:40:14.724-07:00

The Ngemba people are one of the major Grassfields cultural and linguistic groups of northwestern Cameroon. They are concentrated mainly in Mezam Division around Bamenda and include chiefdoms such as Mankon, Nkwen, Mendankwe, Bambili, Pinyin, Awing, Akum, Alatening, Nsongwa, Mbatu, Chomba, and Mundum. The term "Ngemba" is used both for a people and for a cluster of closely related Grassfields languages spoken in the Bamenda area.

Origins and Settlement in Mezam Division

Like many Grassfields peoples, the Ngembas preserve their history largely through oral traditions. Most traditions connect them to broader migrations into the Cameroon Grassfields, often associated with movements from the north or northeast and sometimes linked to the wider "Tikar migration" traditions common among many Grassfields chiefdoms. Historians, however, note that these traditions are complex and not always literally verifiable.

According to Ngemba oral histories, particularly those centered on Mankon, early settlements formed around the Bamenda plateau. Over time, population growth, succession disputes, migration of royal lineages, and the search for farmland led to the emergence of separate chiefdoms. For example, Ngemba traditions describe the founding of Pinyin as a breakaway movement from Mankon under a royal princess.

Some communities, such as Bambili, maintain traditions that trace earlier movements through Ndop and other Grassfields areas before settling in their current locations near Bamenda.

The Ngemba Confederation

Historical traditions speak of a Ngemba Confederation, centered on Mankon. This alliance reportedly included Mankon and neighboring chiefdoms such as Akum, Mbatu, Chomba, Nsongwa, Alatening, Mundum, and others. The confederation was based on:

Shared language and culture
Military cooperation
Trade connections
Intermarriage among chiefdoms

The Fon of Mankon was regarded as a leading figure within the alliance, although member chiefdoms retained their own rulers. Oral history states that the confederation declined following German colonial incursions in the late nineteenth century.

Historical Ties to the Bamileké

The relationship between the Ngemba and the Bamileké is very close, with a fair degree of admixture between the two due to some shared historical experiences, intermarriages, and population exchanges, though the Ngemba are usually identified as a distinct Grassfields group of the Northwest Region.

Linguistic Connections

Both Ngemba and Bamileké languages belong to the Eastern Grassfields branch of the Niger-Congo language family. Linguists classify them as closely related languages that share significant historical roots.

Interestingly, the name “Ngemba" is also used in the West Region for a Bamileké language spoken around Bansoa (Menoua or Dschang Division), West Region, showing the deep linguistic and historical connections between the Bamenda and Bamileké Grassfields.

Cultural Similarities

The Ngemba and Bamileké peoples share many cultural institutions:

Sacred kingship under a Fon
Secret societies and regulatory associations
Ancestor veneration
Similar palace architecture
Comparable systems of titles and nobility
Similar artistic traditions, including masks, carvings, and ceremonial regalia

These similarities reflect a long period of interaction within the wider Cameroon Grassfields cultural zone.

Historical Interaction

The Bamenda Grassfields and Bamileké highlands form part of a continuous cultural region. Trade, migration, warfare, diplomacy, and intermarriage linked Ngemba chiefdoms with Bamileké chiefdoms for centuries. Historians describe both regions as belonging to a larger Western Highlands or Grassfields civilization characterized by related languages and political institutions.

Were the Ngemba Originally Bamileké?

This is a debated question. Most scholars do not consider the Ngemba to be a branch of the Bamileké people in the modern ethnic sense. Rather, both groups appear to be part of a broader Grassfields cultural and linguistic family that developed from related ancestral populations. They are therefore best understood as sister peoples with deep historical connections rather than one being directly descended from the other.

Summary

The Ngemba are a major Grassfields people centered in Mezam Division around Bamenda.
Their present settlements emerged through successive migrations, population growth, and the formation of chiefdoms around the Bamenda plateau.
Many Ngemba communities were historically linked through the Ngemba Confederation.
The Ngemba and Bamileké share close linguistic, cultural, and historical ties as members of the wider Cameroon Grassfields civilization.
They are generally regarded as related but distinct peoples, originating from similar ancestral Grassfields populations rather than one being a subset of the other.

The Traditional Grassfield Realms ((kingdoms, principalities, fondoms or chefferies) of Santa Sub-division, Mezam Division, Northwest Region, Cameroon	Sub-dialects Spoken	Traditional Dialects or Language
Akum	Bagangu (Akum)	Ngemba/Bamileke overlap
Alatening	Alatening	Ngemba/Bamileke overlap
Awing	Bambaluwe	Ngemba/Bamileke overlap
Baba II	Ngamambo / Moghamo	Momo
Baforchu	Ngamambo / Moghamo	Momo
Baligham	Bali	Chamba
Bamock	Yemba/Bangwe(Bangwa)	Bamileke
Mbei		Ngemba/Bamileke overlap
Mbu	Ngamambo (Moghamo)	Momo
Meforbe	Ngamambo (Moghamo)	Momo
Njong	Njong (Banjong)	Ngemba/Bamileke overlap
Pinyin	Pinyin	Ngemba/Bamileke overlap
Santa		Ngemba

The Ngemba comprises a cluster of closely related speech varieties and distinct constituent languages made up of the Core and Wider Subgroups.

Constituent Varieties and Related Languages of the Core Ngemba:

· Mankon: Considered the largest core village and primary reference dialect.

· Mankunge

· Nsongwa (Songwa / Bangwa)

· Shomba (Chomba / Bamechom)

· Mbutu (Bambutu)

· Njong (Banjong)

· Bagangu (Akum)

· Alatening

The Broader Ngemba Subgroup

Linguistically, the wider Ngemba subgroup within the Grassfields Bantu family also tightly links to neighboring language units such as:

· Awing (Mbweʼwi)

· Bafut and Beba

· Bambili-Bambui

· Mendankwe-Nkwen and Mundum

· Pinyin

By Janvier Chouteu-Chando, author of Flash of the Sun amazon.com/Flash-Sun-Comp

Triple Agent, Double Cross

Book 2 of 2: Compradors Series

Disciples of Fortune

Flash of the Sun (Compradors Series)

Book 1 of 2: Compradors Series | by Janvier Chouteu-Chando,

CAMEROON: The Haunted Heart of Africa

by Janvier Tchouteu,

Cameroon: France’s Dysfunctional Puppet System in Africa

by Janvier Tchouteu,

WHAT THE AMBAZONIA LEADERSHIP NEEDS TO DO FOR ANGLOPHONE CAMEROONIANS TO REGAIN THE POLITICAL INITIATIVE

2026-09-17T06:09:53.987-07:00

In a nutshell, most Amba supporters, sympathizers, vanguards, and leaders (former and current) now quietly or privately acknowledge the fact that this decade-long boycott of schools, coercively enforced by Amba fighters, which became a strategy shortly after the 2016 protests by teachers and lawyers, is a disaster that began "...when irresponsible elements hijacked it", as a staunch Amba put it. But he made no mention of the victims (children and parents in particular)...Lack of accountability or a lack of sense of responsibility, pundits would say. That in itself oozes political immaturity, something the system feeds off. Yet he still prescribes the same old strategy but with the caveat "...that only (organized) school boycott can save the anglophone from drowning...", as he wrote.

The only times we (the people West of the Mungo) effectively used school boycott and achieved results were when we worked together, and not doing so coercively. Civic-nationalism was the dominant political consciousness or force at the time, and it was all-embracing.

Amba needs to stop making itself an obstacle to forces West of the Mungo coming together to forge a united front. Amba needs to stop being anti-people in its actions for the atmosphere of the early 1990s in particular(when gains were made from school boycotts) to return, a time we had the moral high ground and our regions led the quest for systemic change in Cameroon. For our "Anglophone Cameroonian" Renaissance and united front to be born, the “Free Amba Leadership” needs to abandon its self-destructive and anti-people ways, render a mea culpa, and make promises to the people not to be consciously or unconsciously anti-people again. That way, we save the "Anglophone Cameroonian Soul" and rekindle the spirit of our people; that way, we become an indispensable part of the coalition of forces that would dismantle this anachronistic French-imposed system and found “THE NEW CAMEROON” that would realize the goals of reunification and independence and make this amazing land a cherished and advanced part of the “NEW AFRICA”

September 17, 2026

Janvier Tchouteu is the author of Triple Agent, Double Cross

CAMEROON: The Haunted Heart of Africa

by Janvier Tchouteu,

Cameroon: France’s Dysfunctional Puppet System in Africa

by Janvier Tchouteu,

The Mistakes To Be Avoided in Building The New Cameroon

by Janvier Tchouteu,

Flash of the Sun (Compradors Series)

Book 1 of 2: Compradors Series |

Cameroon: France’s Dysfunctional Puppet System in Africa

by Janvier Tchouteu

The Mistakes To Be Avoided in Building The New Cameroon

by Janvier Tchouteu

Why Cameroon Needs a Fundamental Change

by Janvier Tchouteu

Who the Enemies of the People are, and How They are Fighting Against Change: and Others

by Janvier Tchouteu

Triple Agent, Double Cross

Book 2 of 2: Compradors Series | by Janvier Chouteu-Chando,

A DEATH IN GENEVA THAT PUT A NATION IN A COMA AND TRAUMATIZED AFRICA: The Assassination of Félix-Roland Moumié and Cameroon’s Unfinished Liberation

by Janvier Tchouteu and Janvier T. Chando

THE SOCIAL DEMOCRATIC FRONT (SDF) OF CAMEROON: The Role and Path of the 1990-1997 Historic Party of the Opposition in Cameroon’s Quest for Democracy before its Derailment

by Janvier Tchouteu

The Case Against School Boycotts enforced by Separatist Forces in Cameroon

2026-09-11T19:52:13.730-07:00

Throughout history, movements that adopted school boycotts as a long-term strategic instrument to disrupt state authority, enforce ideological conformity, or protest systemic injustice have often discovered, sooner or later, that the costs far outweighed the benefits.

The strict, multi-year school boycotts imposed across Cameroon's Northwest and Southwest regions by various armed separatist factions, collectively known as the Amba Boys or Ambazonian forces, have become a central pillar of their broader campaign for the secession of the country's two Anglophone regions from the eight predominantly Francophone regions. Far from being a temporary protest measure, the boycott has evolved into a defining feature of the movement's resistance strategy.

The rationale offered by its proponents is straightforward: they view the state education system as an instrument of a Francophone-dominated government and, therefore, as a vehicle for cultural assimilation and political control. In their view, denying the state access to classrooms is a way of rejecting the legitimacy of Cameroonian authority in the Anglophone regions.

Yet the critical question remains unanswered: how does the systematic denial of education to one's own population advance the creation of an independent state? This is where many analysts, observers, and even sympathizers struggle to follow the logic. The declaration of schools as "no-go zones" has often been enforced through coercive means, including attacks on educational facilities, the abduction of teachers and school administrators, and threats or violence directed at parents and children who attempt to attend classes. Rather than building the human capital necessary for statehood, such actions appear to undermine it.

For many pundits, the contradiction is difficult to reconcile. Historically, movements seeking self-determination have typically invested heavily in educating their populations, recognizing that any future nation will require teachers, engineers, doctors, administrators, entrepreneurs, and skilled workers. The Ambazonian strategy, by contrast, has often seemed to place the educational development of an entire generation at risk in pursuit of political objectives whose realization would ultimately depend on that very generation's capabilities.

Consequently, critics argue that the school boycott has become one of the most controversial and perplexing aspects of the Ambazonian struggle. While it may have been conceived as a symbol of resistance to perceived marginalization, its long-term consequences threaten to outlast the conflict itself, leaving deep social and developmental scars that could endure for decades, regardless of the eventual political outcome.

I suspect Ambazonian leaders drew inspiration from the idea of school boycotts from South Africa's ANC without fully examining the history and consequences of that experiment. What is often overlooked is that ANC organizers and campaigners formally decided to abandon their school boycott campaign barely three months after its adoption, having concluded that it was counterproductive. Yet even that brief flirtation with educational disruption left scars that would haunt South Africa's black population for decades. In the case of the Ambazonian groups, they are still failing to grasp the illogic of their strategy of school boycotts a decade later.

The effects of school boycotts in South Africa became particularly visible in the 1980s. By the time apartheid was dismantled in the early 1990s, large segments of the black population found themselves insufficiently equipped educationally to take full advantage of the opportunities created by political liberation. The long shadow of the boycott contributed to a skills deficit whose consequences have persisted. Some observers even argue that it forms part of the broader explanation for South Africa's recurring xenophobic tensions toward other Africans and for the country's underwhelming economic performance since the democratic transition.

Indeed, once he grasped the devastating long-term consequences of the slogan "Liberation now, education later," Nelson Mandela began actively campaigning against the culture of school boycotts immediately after his release from prison, four years before becoming South Africa's first post-apartheid president in 1994.

School boycotts can be effective as operational instruments when deployed for a day or, at most, a few days. As a tactical tool lasting a week or several weeks, they already begin to stretch the limits of their usefulness and risk becoming counterproductive. But elevating them into a strategy is a different matter altogether. At that point, they cease to be a tool and become an act of revolutionary self-sabotage. In the lexicon of classical revolutions, those responsible for such a blunder might well have been denounced as "Enemies of the People," liable to face the judgment of a doctrinaire revolutionary vanguard.

Even the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE), commonly known as the Tamil Tigers of Sri Lanka, made frequent use of school boycotts and student strikes during their insurgency. Yet they never elevated educational disruption into the kind of prolonged, society-wide strategy that the Ambazonian movement has pursued. For the LTTE, school closures were employed as periodic instruments of political pressure and mobilization rather than as a sustained doctrine whose primary victims would inevitably be the very community in whose name the struggle was being waged.

A similar pattern can be observed during the Nepalese Civil War (1996-2006). Maoist rebels routinely organized nationwide and regional school boycotts, shutdowns, and strikes to exert political pressure on the state. However, these actions remained tactical tools deployed in support of broader strategic objectives; they were not transformed into a permanent feature of the conflict. Even then, the negative consequences on children's education became severe enough to provoke concern from international organizations such as UNICEF and Save the Children Norway, as well as numerous local civil society groups. Their response was the promotion of Schools as Zones of Peace (SZOP) initiatives, designed to shield educational institutions from political and military interference and to protect children from being turned into instruments of conflict.

The lesson from both Sri Lanka and Nepal is instructive. Even movements that were uncompromising in their revolutionary objectives generally recognized that prolonged disruption of education carried immense social costs and diminishing political returns. In neither case was school boycott allowed to evolve into a long-term strategic pillar of the struggle. The reason is obvious: every year a child spends outside the classroom weakens the human capital upon which any future society, liberated or otherwise, must depend.

This is what makes the Ambazonian experience so troubling. What other movements treated as a temporary tactic has, in effect, been transformed into a strategy or tool of limitless duration. In doing so, the movement risks inflicting greater long-term damage on its own population than on the state it seeks to challenge. History repeatedly shows that societies can recover from political defeat more easily than they can recover from the loss of an entire generation's education. Before the protests evolved into what Ambazonians describe as an armed resistance in 2017, I remember warning one of the movement's leaders about the dangers of turning school boycotts into a strategy. Even then, only weeks into the school boycott campaign, it had begun losing whatever tactical effectiveness it initially possessed. I argued that sustaining it would inevitably require coercion; and once coercion entered the equation, resentment from the local population would follow. Any movement forced to punish parents and children for pursuing education would cease to be a people's movement and risk becoming anti-people in practice.

His response was telling:

"I told them, but they are not listening to me..."

A decade later, if Ambazonian thinkers still fail to grasp this fundamental reality, if they continue to turn a blind eye to the fact that their long-lived strategy of school boycotts is counterproductive, then I weep for my people west of the Mungo. I weep for Cameroon. That is because, in that line of strategy, they mirror Boko Haram of Nigeria, and in certain aspects, even The taliban of Afghanistan.

School boycott is not a path to liberation. It is a cancer on our society, consuming the very human capital upon which any future freedom, prosperity, and self-determination must ultimately depend. School boycott as a strategy is revolutionary suicide.

Janvier Tchouteu September 11, 2026

Key Settlements and Stations Founded by the Baptists, before German Colonization of “Kamerun”, where Pidgin English thrived or was the lingua franca

2026-09-08T08:51:33.020-07:00

Fernando Po (Bioko Island) — 1843/1842: Early British Baptist work began under John Clarke and G. K. Prince, joined by Saker in 1843, supporting liberated African slaves at Clarence (later Santa Isabel/Malabo). Protestant worship was later banned by Spanish authorities here in 1858, prompting the relocation to the mainland.
Bimbia (Jubilee Mission) — 1844: Founded initially on the mainland by Jamaican Baptist missionary Joseph Merrick. Saker worked closely alongside this foundational mainland effort upon his arrival in the region.
Bethel Station (Cameroons/Douala) — 1845: Saker established this primary mission station on the mainland bank of the Cameroons (Wouri) River among the Duala people, forming a local church here in 1849.
Victoria (Amboises Bay) — 1858: Saker purchased coastal land from local Bimbia chiefs and founded the free settlement of Victoria (renamed Limbe in 1982) as a refuge for expelled Baptists and freed slaves from Fernando Po.

Good Fortune Calls

Book 1 of 3: Disciples of Fortune | by Janvier Chouteu-Chando, Tisi Books, et al.

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Some Top Cameroonians who have been very critical in their writings against French neo-colonialism and the abysmal autocratic regime of Paul Biya of Cameroon

2026-09-07T21:05:46.888-07:00

The following list highlights some of the most prominent Cameroonian authors who have been especially critical of French neocolonialism and the Paul Biya regime:

1. Mongo Beti (1932-2001)

The pioneering figure of anti-colonial and anti-neocolonial writing in Cameroon.

Fiercely criticized French influence in post-independence Cameroon.
Condemned authoritarianism, corruption, and the subservience of African elites to foreign interests.
His famous work Main basse sur le Cameroun remains a classic critique of French policy in Cameroon.

2. Achille Mbembe

Internationally respected philosopher and political theorist.

Known for his analyses of postcolonial power structures.
Has written extensively on authoritarian governance, sovereignty, and the enduring impact of colonial and neocolonial systems in Africa.

3. Patrice Nganang

Novelist, essayist, and professor.

One of the strongest contemporary critics of Paul Biya.
Has written extensively on democracy, state violence, and the Anglophone crisis.
His criticism of the government led to his arrest and detention in 2017.

4. Pius Njawé

Legendary journalist and founder of Le Messager.

Repeatedly imprisoned for challenging the Biya government.
Played a leading role in defending press freedom and democratic accountability in Cameroon.

5. Haman Mana

Journalist and author.

Known for writings that criticize governance failures, corruption, and political stagnation under Biya.
Has produced works sharply critical of the ruling establishment.

6. Jean-Marc Ela

Priest, sociologist, and public intellectual.

Critiqued both African authoritarianism and external domination.
Advocated for participatory democracy, social justice, and African self-determination.

7. Célestin Monga

Economist and intellectual.

Has often examined the failures of governance and structural dependency in African states.
Challenges orthodox political and economic arrangements that perpetuate underdevelopment.

8. Jacob Tatsitsa

Historian.

Co-author of The Cameroon War: A History of French Neocolonialism in Africa.
His work documents the French suppression of Cameroon's independence movement and traces the origins of the Françafrique system.

9. Janvier Tchouteu (Janvier Tchouteu-Chando)

A contemporary Cameroonian writer and commentator known for his strong criticism of both French influence and the Biya regime.

Argues that Cameroon remains trapped in a French-backed political and economic system.
Has authored books such as Cameroon: France's Dysfunctional Puppet System in Africa, Cameroon: The Haunted Heart of Africa, and Paul Biya of Cameroon: Three-plus Decades of Misrule under an Anachronistic French-imposed System.
Advocates what he describes as a fundamental political transformation of Cameroon and frequently critiques the longevity and structure of Biya's rule.

A Frequently Cited Top Group

Among Cameroonians most associated with sustained intellectual criticism of French neocolonialism and authoritarian rule, the names most often cited are:

Mongo Beti
Achille Mbembe
Patrice Nganang
Pius Njawé
Jean-Marc Ela
Haman Mana
Jacob Tatsitsa
Célestin Monga
Janvier Tchouteu-Chando

Together, these figures span journalism, literature, history, philosophy, and political analysis, and have significantly contributed to debates about democracy, sovereignty, Françafrique, and governance in Cameroon.

List of 20–30 Cameroonian authors/intellectuals who wrote against French-neocolonialism, Françafrique, and the compradorship of Paul Biya

2026-09-07T20:51:58.131-07:00

1. Anti-French & Anti-Françafrique Intellectuals

Mongo Beti (Alexandre Biyidi Awala)
- Focus: Fierce critic of neo-colonial arrangements and French political maneuvering in post-independence Africa.
- Book: Main basse sur le Cameroun : Autopsie d'une décolonisation (banned in France upon release).
- Quote: "France does not have colonies anymore; it has a private estate called French-speaking Africa."
Charles Onana
- Focus: Investigative journalist and political analyst exposing French military networks and extraction politics in Central Africa.
- Book: La France au Cameroun : Par amour ou par intérêt?
- Quote: "The history of France's relationship with Cameroon is written in invisible ink—the ink of secret military pacts and resource extraction."
Martien Towa
- Focus: Anti-colonial philosopher championing the complete mental break from Western intellectual hegemony.
- Book: Essai sur la problématique philosophique dans l'Afrique actuelle.
- Quote: "We must break the mirror that the West holds up to us, so we can finally see our own faces."
Jean-Marc Ela
- Focus: Liberation theologian analyzing the social and mental traps of Western economic and theological dependencies.
- Book: Innovations sociales et rachat du pouvoir en Afrique noire.
- Quote: "To liberate Africa, we must first liberate our minds from the intellectual structures imported from Paris."
Ambroise Kom
- Focus: Literary critic mapping out how colonial educational systems sustain mental submission.
- Book: La république de la gérontocratie.
- Quote: "Colonial education breeds mental submission rather than the critical mind required for true sovereignty."
Célestin Monga
- Focus: Prominent macroeconomist tracking the institutional traps of Western economic models.
- Book: Anthropologie de la colère: Société civile et démocratie en Afrique.
- Quote: "The currency we use [the CFA Franc] is an economic umbilical cord that ties our destiny to a continent that no longer views us as human equals." [1]

2. Anti-Biya Intellectuals & Dissidents

Janvier Tchouteu (also writes as Janvier Chouteu-Chando)
- Focus: Diaspora political essayist and novelist dissecting the systematic breakdown of state structures and social engineering under the ruling elite.
- Book: Available on Audible, The Fourth Phase of the Cameroonian Struggle for Freedom, Democracy and Liberty.
- Quote: "For a people that lost more than half a million lives in a liberation struggle... this country known as 'Africa in Miniature' is an Orwellian reality."
Patrice Nganang
- Focus: Exiled activist, professor, and novelist known for direct digital and written confrontations with the regime.
- Book: Contre Biya.
- Quote: "Biya's regime is an optical illusion maintained by fear, old age, and the collective paralysis of a traumatized nation."
Maurice Kamto
- Focus: Elite legal scholar, author, and chief political opposition voice analyzing institutional and constitutional decay.
- Book: L'Urgence de la pensée.
- Quote: "A law that does not protect the weak against the abuses of the strong is not justice; it is merely tyranny wearing a robe."
Fabien Eboussi Boulaga
- Focus: Philosopher mapping out the deep psychological toll of totalitarian governance on civil society.
- Book: Lignes de résistance.
- Quote: "The dictator does not rule because he is strong; he rules because he has successfully convinced the citizens that they are weak."
Pius Njawé
- Focus: Legendary champion of press freedom and independent journalism, imprisoned multiple times for reporting state secrets.
- Book: Bloc-notes d'un bagnard.
- Quote: "They can lock up my body, but they cannot imprison the truth or silence the ink of liberty."
Alice Nkom
- Focus: Human rights attorney and legal intellectual challenging archaic statutes penalizing personal freedoms.
- Essay: Defending the Outcasts.
- Quote: "We cannot call ourselves a modern democracy when our penal code is used as a weapon to persecute our own citizens."
Cardinal Christian Tumi
- Focus: High-ranking religious dissident who frequently brokered critiques against systemic corruption and governance failures.
- Book: Ma foi: un Cameroun à réinventer.
- Quote: "Power must serve truth, not the preservation of privileges at the expense of human lives."

3. Anglophone Resistance & Southern Cameroons Intellectuals

Bernard Fonlon
- Focus: The "Anglophone Socrates," educational theorist, and earliest defender of the region's cultural institutions.
- Essay: The Genuine Intellectual.
- Quote: "The ultimate purpose of education is not to create technocrats who serve power, but to forge consciences that challenge injustice."
Bate Besong
- Focus: Radical, avant-garde poet and playwright fiercely attacking the cultural erasure of Anglophone citizens.
- Play: Beasts of No Nation.
- Quote: "We are rewriting our history with the ink of defiance because the official narrative is a lie told to keep us on our knees." [1]
Bole Butake
- Focus: Playwright using allegorical theatre to give voice to marginalized minority groups and rural communities.
- Play: Lake God and Other Plays.
- Quote: "When the rulers turn a deaf ear to the whispers of the people, the playwright must make the stage scream."
Carlson Anyangwe
- Focus: Professor of international law articulating the legal case for Southern Cameroons self-determination.
- Book: The Secrets of an Aborted Decolonisation: The De Jure Statehood of Ambazonia.
- Quote: "The union between Southern Cameroons and La République du Cameroun was a flawed marriage that lacked a legal certificate."
John Nkemngong Nkengasong
- Focus: Academic, critic, and novelist capturing the sociopolitical trauma of the Anglophone population.
- Book: Across the Mongolo.
- Quote: "Cultural domination is the subtlest weapon of tyranny; it seeks to empty a person of who they are." [1]

4. UPC & Revolutionary Intellectuals

Ruben Um Nyobè
- Focus: Historic anticolonial leader ("Mpodol") who built the case for Cameroonian reunification and unconditional independence.
- Book: Le problème national camerounais (Posthumous anthology).
- Quote: "What we want is not to replace French masters with Cameroonian masters, but to completely abolish the system of mastery." [1, 2]
Félix-Roland Moumié
- Focus: Physician and radical Pan-African revolutionary leader who led the external wing of the UPC.
- Book: Tradition et Révolution.
- Quote: "Cameroon's independence is a sham as long as French troops dictate our security and French advisors run our economy." [1, 2]
Ernest Ouandié
- Focus: The final internal commander of the historic UPC maquis, publicly executed by the state in 1971.
- Pamphlet: Directives de la Révolution.
- Quote: "You can kill the man, but you cannot kill the ideal for which he gives his life." [1, 2]
Achille Mbembe
- Focus: Renowned political philosopher whose early foundational research preserved the archives of the UPC maquis.
- Book: La naissance du maquis dans le Sud-Cameroun (1920–1960).
- Quote: "The UPC did not just want independence; it wanted to invent a new form of human dignity that colonial violence had crushed." [1]
Abel Eyinga
- Focus: Nationalist scholar who spent decades documenting the violent state suppression of revolutionary history.
- Book: Introduction à la politique camerounaise.
- Quote: "True history is the enemy of the puppet state; that is why they try so hard to bury the memory of our martyrs."
Woungly-Massaga (Commandant Kissamba)
- Focus: Marxist theoretical strategist and military commander of the ALNK (the armed wing of the UPC).
- Book: La Révolution au Cameroun: Pourquoi nous combattons.
- Quote: "Our armed struggle was not born out of a love for violence, but out of the violent refusal of imperialism to allow peaceful democratic expression."

Thoughts in the Wings on the Cameroon Quagmire

2026-09-05T16:49:53.563-07:00

I think it is difficult for us to reconcile our ranks (Anglophone Cameroonian), find a common ground, and move forward collectively unless we accept the errors of our ways that fostered disunity, distrust, and incomprehension. It is a decade now since our territory and the rest of Cameroon became trapped in a conflict with no revolutionary momentum, a conflict that began at a time when the Biya regime and the French-imposed system had been cornered and never imagined themselves surviving beyond 2018, a conflict that became a safety valve for Biya, his retinue and backers; yet the Amba leaders still do not want to be accountable, still do not want to rethink things, to render a mea culpa, revise their methods, make themselves a part of the bigger, progressive, and genuine fold for change. History tends to be unkind when we fail to follow its patterns and force it to judge or condemn us after it fails to make us reason.

Disciples of Fortune

by Janvier Chouteu-Chando ,

Triple Agent, Double Cross

Book 2 of 2: Compradors Series

Flash of the Sun (Compradors Series Book 1)

Book 1 of 2: Compradors Series

CAMEROON: The Haunted Heart of Africa

by Janvier Tchouteu,

Cameroon: France’s Dysfunctional Puppet System in Africa

by Janvier Tchouteu,

Insight into the books written by Janvier Chouteu-Chando

2026-09-03T21:55:44.489-07:00

The Complete Literary Vision of Janvier Chouteu-Chando

Janvier Chouteu-Chando's body of work reads like a vast panorama of the human condition, stretching from Siberian railways to African kingdoms, from intelligence agencies to revolutionary movements, from family hearths to global geopolitical struggles. Across his novels and nonfiction, one theme remains constant: individuals and nations are forever shaped by the choices they make when confronted with power, loyalty, ambition, and conscience.

His fiction explores lives caught between tradition and change. In works such as The Union Moujik, Disciples of Fortune, Splendid Comets, The Dowry, His Majesty's Trial, The Usurper, and Triple Agent, Double Cross, characters grapple with family expectations, social transformation, betrayal, political intrigue, and personal redemption. Soviet engineers, African kings, gifted heirs, spies, dreamers, and outcasts all navigate worlds where yesterday's certainties are crumbling and tomorrow remains uncertain. These stories blend cultural insight with emotional drama, revealing how history and society shape individual destinies.

The Me Before Them collection and related novels, including The Hunger Fire, The Grandmothers, The Doctors, and Me Before Them, delve into the intimate terrain of love, memory, sacrifice, identity, and family. These works ask whether fulfillment can be found through self-interest alone or whether true meaning emerges through devotion to others. The result is a series of deeply personal narratives examining the bonds that connect generations.

His historical and political nonfiction turns to the forces that have shaped nations. Books such as Uprightness Betrayed, The Death That Strangled the Heart of Africa, Fallen Heroes, Cameroon: France's Dysfunctional Puppet System in Africa, and Why Cameroon Needs a Fundamental Change examine political assassinations, foreign intervention, governance, and the struggle for African self-determination. Through detailed investigations of figures such as Thomas Sankara and Patrice Lumumba, Chouteu-Chando argues that the destinies of entire peoples can be altered by the actions of a few powerful actors.

His geopolitical works broaden the lens further. In titles such as Ukraine: The Tug-of-War Between Russia and the West and Hegemon in the Making, he traces the rise and competition of political elites, empires, and civilizations. These books examine how ideological, economic, and military struggles reverberate across continents and generations.

More recently, his religious and historical writings, including The Commandments: Moses and His Journey with the Biblical Laws, revisit foundational stories and moral traditions, presenting them to modern audiences through accessible narrative and historical inquiry.

A Gripping One-Paragraph Summary

Taken together, Janvier Chouteu-Chando's books form an epic saga of humanity's search for purpose and justice. His characters battle betrayal, love, greed, duty, and destiny; his histories recount revolutions, assassinations, and the rise and fall of nations; and his political works challenge readers to reconsider accepted narratives about power and influence. Whether recounting the life of a forgotten hero, the collapse of an empire, a family's legacy, or a young person's struggle for meaning, Chouteu-Chando continually returns to a profound question: Can integrity survive in a world where power so often triumphs over principle?

https://www.amazon.com/stores/Janvier-Chouteu-Chando/author/B01MZ11JXN?ref=ap_rdr&shoppingPortalEnabled=true&ccs_id=af9a4daf-88bb-4927-b1ab-389cb6f51038

Un aperçu de Douala, la porte d'entrée du « Cœur de l'Afrique » (Extrait de « L'Éclaire du Soleil »)

2026-09-01T10:29:04.120-07:00

Maintenant que vous avez posé le pied sur le sol africain après votre long voyage à travers océans et continents pour atteindre le cœur de l'Afrique, prenez un instant et demandez-vous : où êtes-vous arrivé exactement ?

Tu te tiens au seuil de Douala.

Douala est plus qu'une ville. C'est une entrée, un portail, la grande porte par laquelle d'innombrables voyageurs, commerçants, rêveurs, aventuriers, conquérants et migrants sont entrés au Cameroun depuis des siècles. Arriver ici n'est pas seulement atteindre une destination. C'est commencer un passage vers le cœur d'une nation et, à bien des égards, vers l'âme même de l'Afrique centrale.

Avant que la ville ne se révèle pleinement, la nature annonce sa présence avec grandeur. S'élevant majestueusement au loin se dresse le mont Cameroun, l'un des géants volcaniques les plus imposants d'Afrique. Émergeant de façon spectaculaire entre terre et mer, ses immenses pentes s'élèvent à travers des mondes successifs de végétation et de climat : forêts tropicales luxuriantes à ses pieds, prairies ondulantes plus haut, et terrain volcanique accidenté près de son sommet. Selon l'heure et le temps, la montagne apparaît soit comme un gardien endormi enveloppé de brume, soit comme un ancien monarque observant les plaines côtières en contrebas.

L'eau est partout autour de Douala.

Les rivières serpentent à travers le paysage. Les ruisseaux serpentent silencieusement à travers les forêts de mangroves. Les ruisseaux serpentent sous des ponts et des quartiers avant de finalement se rendre à l'océan Atlantique. La puissante rivière Wouri s'étend comme une artère liquide dans la région, reliant les communautés de l'intérieur des terres à des rivages lointains. Vues des airs, ces cours d'eau semblent envelopper la ville dans un réseau complexe de rubans argentés, reflétant la lumière du soleil le jour et la lumière de la lune la nuit.

Ensemble, la montagne, les rivières et l'océan créent un décor d'une beauté extraordinaire. Les pilotes descendant vers l'aéroport admirent la ville d'en haut. Les marins approchant de l'Atlantique admirent ses rivages émeraude. Les voyageurs arrivant par la route découvrent des paysages riches en luxuriance tropicale. La nature a offert à Douala un décor lumineux, presque théâtral, qui laisse une impression durable à quiconque a la chance de le contempler.

Pourtant, la véritable fascination de Douala ne réside pas seulement dans ses paysages, mais dans son histoire.

Et c'est une histoire fascinante en effet.

Entrer à Douala, c'est entrer dans des couches d'histoire empilées les unes sur les autres comme les pages d'une épopée inachevée.

La ville fut autrefois le cœur battant du Kamerun allemand. À la fin du XIXe et au début du XXe siècle, les administrateurs coloniaux allemands imaginaient créer une vitrine africaine de l'ambition impériale. Leur rêve était audacieux : construire un équivalent tropical à Berlin, Leipzig et Hanovre au bord du golfe de Guinée.

Bien que leur règne n'ait duré que trois décennies, ils ont laissé derrière eux un héritage architectural qui attire encore aujourd'hui l'attention. Des bâtiments administratifs élégants, de larges avenues, des maisons de commerce, des entrepôts et des résidences émergèrent des marais et des forêts, transformant Douala en l'un des centres coloniaux les plus importants d'Afrique tropicale. La ville devint un carrefour où commerçants, ouvriers, missionnaires, soldats et administrateurs issus de nombreux horizons ethniques et culturels convergeaient, en faisant le creuset vibrant du Kamerun allemand.

Puis vint la Grande Guerre, aussi appelée la Première Guerre mondiale.

En 1916, au milieu des turbulences de cette guerre transformatrice, la domination allemande s'effondra et les forces françaises prirent possession de la ville. Les nouvelles autorités coloniales héritèrent à la fois des infrastructures et des ambitions de leurs prédécesseurs, mais elles envisageaient un avenir différent. Si les Allemands recherchaient un Berlin africain, les Français rêvaient de créer un Paris subsaharien.

De larges boulevards furent tracés. Les institutions administratives s'étendirent. La langue, la culture et l'urbanisme français commencèrent à remodeler le caractère de la ville. Douala devint un centre stratégique pour les opérations équatoriales françaises et ouest-africaines. Durant les années sombres de la Seconde Guerre mondiale, la ville joua un rôle crucial dans l'essor du mouvement de la France libre en Afrique. C'est là que Jacques-Philippe Leclerc, plus tard maréchal Leclerc, entama la remarquable carrière militaire qui ferait de lui l'un des commandants les plus célèbres de France et une figure clé de la libération de l'Europe.

Pourtant, Douala ne devint jamais entièrement allemande, française ou quoi que ce soit d'autre que les puissances étrangères avaient prévu qu'elle soit.

La ville absorbait toutes les influences et transformait chacune en quelque chose de distinctement à elle.

Il restait, avant tout, africain.

Aujourd'hui, le résultat est une ville pleine de contradictions et d'énergie. Les traditions anciennes coexistent avec les ambitions modernes. L'architecture coloniale se dresse à côté de tours de bureaux vitrées. Les pêcheurs lancent des canoës en bois dans les eaux bordées de mangroves tandis que les entrepreneurs négocient des affaires internationales à quelques rues seulement.

Pour comprendre Douala, cependant, il faut dépasser les livres d'histoire et parcourir ses quartiers.

Parmi eux, peu sont plus célèbres qu'Akwa.

Depuis plus d'un siècle, Akwa occupe une place particulière dans l'imaginaire des habitants de Douala. C'est le quartier le plus cosmopolite de la ville, celui où le Cameroun rencontre le monde extérieur.

Ses rues vibrent d'activité de l'aube jusqu'à bien après minuit. Les restaurants servent tout, du poisson frais grillé aux délicatesses traditionnelles camerounaises à la cuisine française raffinée. Les boulangeries emplissent l'air du matin du parfum du pain chaud et des pâtisseries. Les cafés débordent de conversations. Les hôtels accueillent des visiteurs venus des quatre coins du globe. Les bars et boîtes de nuit s'animent après le coucher du soleil, leur musique se répandant dans la nuit tropicale.

Depuis de nombreux points de vue à Akwa, la mer reste visible au loin. Des ruisseaux et des cours d'eau glissent entre les quartiers, rappelant aux visiteurs que la ville et l'eau restent des compagnons inséparables. L'atmosphère est à la fois africaine, européenne et indubitablement douala.

Diplomates étrangers, cadres d'affaires internationales, travailleurs humanitaires, touristes, artistes et jeunes Camerounais ambitieux traversent tous les rues d'Akwa. Les nouvelles modes apparaissent ici en premier. Les nouvelles idées arrivent ici en premier. De nouvelles opportunités y sont souvent découvertes en premier.

Il n'est pas surprenant que de nombreux habitants appellent Akwa le miroir de la ville face au monde.

Pourtant, juste au-delà de ses avenues animées, dans les parties nord-ouest près du quartier de Bali, un modeste bâtiment d'un étage se dresse tranquillement. À première vue, il paraît ordinaire, presque facile à ignorer au milieu du paysage urbain. Mais comme beaucoup d'endroits à Douala, les apparences cachent des histoires plus profondes. Car dans cette ville, chaque coin de rue, chaque vieux bâtiment, chaque promenade en bord de mer porte des échos des personnes qui sont passées avant et qui ont contribué à façonner la métropole remarquable qui existe aujourd'hui.

C'est la magie durable de Douala.

Ce n'est pas simplement une ville que vous visitez.

C'est une ville que l'on entre, couche par couche.

Une ville d'eau et de commerce, de mémoire et d'ambition, d'histoire et de réinvention.

Une ville où l'Afrique, l'Europe et le monde atlantique se rencontrent depuis des siècles, laissant derrière eux des traces d'eux-mêmes dans la pierre, la langue, l'architecture et l'expérience humaine.

Et pour chaque voyageur prêt à s'aventurer au-delà de la surface, Douala n'ouvre pas simplement les portes du Cameroun. Elle ouvre une porte vers l'une des histoires les plus fascinantes et les moins racontées d'Afrique.

Revenons maintenant au bâtiment d'un étage qui borde le quartier d'Akwa. Nous sommes en avril 1958, et Joseph Nkabyo Njike est le propriétaire de la modeste structure dans cette partie du Cameroun français. Il réside au rez-de-chaussée avec sa famille composée d'une épouse et de cinq enfants, tandis que deux jeunes familles occupent les appartements au-dessus. Il a essayé d'apporter un certain sentiment de sécurité au bâtiment en érigeant une clôture de cinq pieds de haut en blocs de béton avec des bouteilles cassées, toutes pointant vers le haut. Il a également construit une porte menant à la cour avec des tôles ondulées qui grincent à chaque ouverture, ce qui s'avère en soi une source d'alarme. On dit que le propriétaire de l'immeuble a érigé la clôture et la porte pour empêcher les éléments indésirables d'entrer.

Mais venant d'un homme avec deux fils adolescents et une fille de seize ans d'une beauté saisissante, la clôture et la porte pouvaient aussi être interprétées comme une mesure pour éloigner sa famille de la vie nocturne animée de Douala, considérée par beaucoup comme la plus vibrante d'Afrique noire.

Cependant, un autre élément vient d'apparaître — le sentiment d'insécurité qui règne dans la ville après que le gouvernement mandataire français a interdit l'UPC (Union des populations du Cameroun), le parti politique le plus populaire du Cameroun français, qui, avec ses partis frères du Cameroun britannique, milite pour la réunification et l'indépendance du Cameroun français et du Cameroun britannique.

Pourtant, il y avait de la danse dans les rues, un fait qui n'échappait pas aux enfants de la famille Njike et de la maisonnée, qui avaient été interdits de sortir cette nuit-là par leur imposant père. Ainsi, même en ronflant et en grognant ce soir-là, Joseph Njike savait que ses enfants étaient en sécurité et dormaient dans leurs chambres. Sa femme partagea aussi cette pensée en fixant la nuit, se demandant pourquoi elle avait du mal à s'endormir comme son mari.

La mère Njike était à moitié endormie quand elle crut entendre un son qui ressemblait à quelque chose dans son rêve. Elle ouvrit à moitié les yeux et écouta. C'était bien un léger grincement, et elle n'en rêvait pas.

Maria Meunjeu Njike, née Njomo, sortit discrètement du lit et se précipita vers la fenêtre, juste à temps pour voir son plus jeune enfant...

Par Janvier Chouteu-Chando, auteur de « L'Éclat du Soleil » https://www.amazon.com/s?k=B0CCDDL9ZQ+janvier+chouteu-chando&i=stripbooks&crid=D3MBIHRCJ633&sprefix=b0ccddl9zq+janvier+chouteu-chando%2Cstripbooks%2C157&ref=nb_sb_noss_1

L’ÉCLAIR DU SOLEIL (Compradors t. 1) (French Edition)

French Edition | Book 1 of 1: Compradors | by Janvier Chouteu-Chando and Janvier Tchouteu

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Insight into the gripping satire entitled "THE COMMANDMENTS: Moses and his Journey with the Biblical Laws"

2026-08-31T15:47:39.253-07:00

THE COMMANDMENTS by Janvier Chouteu-Chando is a short but surprisingly thought-provoking satirical work that reimagines the biblical story of Moses and the delivery of the Ten Commandments. Rather than presenting the account as a straightforward religious narrative, Chouteu-Chando approaches it as a humorous and imaginative "tall tale," using wit, irony, and exaggeration to explore the difficulties of persuading human beings to accept moral rules and social responsibility.

At the center of the story is Moses, not simply as a revered prophet, but as a frustrated messenger struggling to convince a skeptical and resistant humanity that ethical laws matter. Through a series of comic encounters and misunderstandings, the novel highlights a timeless reality: people often resist rules, even when those rules are designed for their own benefit. Moses' challenges become symbolic of the broader human tendency to reject discipline, question authority, and prioritize personal desires over collective well-being.

What makes the book distinctive is its blend of humor and social commentary. Chouteu-Chando does not merely retell a famous religious story. Instead, he uses the framework of the Ten Commandments to examine enduring aspects of human nature, including stubbornness, hypocrisy, greed, and the reluctance to accept uncomfortable truths. The humor is often provocative and irreverent, but beneath the comedy lies a serious exploration of morality and civilization.

The author's portrayal of humanity suggests that the challenge of establishing ethical standards is not confined to ancient biblical times. The struggles faced by Moses mirror modern debates about law, authority, social order, and personal freedom. In this sense, the book functions as both entertainment and reflection, encouraging readers to consider why societies need moral frameworks and why individuals so often resist them.

A compelling insight that emerges from The Commandments is that morality is not merely a set of rules imposed from above. It is a continuous negotiation between ideals and human behavior. Chouteu-Chando suggests that the true challenge is not receiving commandments but living by them. The resistance Moses encounters serves as a metaphor for humanity's ongoing struggle to balance freedom with responsibility.

In conclusion, The Commandments is a brief yet insightful satirical tale that transforms a familiar biblical episode into a broader commentary on human behavior. Through humor, creativity, and social observation, Janvier Chouteu-Chando invites readers to look beyond the religious narrative and reflect on the enduring challenges of morality, authority, and the human condition.

THE COMMANDMENTS: Moses and his Journey with the Biblical Laws

UKRAINE: THE TUG-OF-WAR BETWEEN RUSSIA AND THE WEST: —An Unheeded Account that could have stopped the Conflict in Ukraine

2026-08-20T00:40:11.058-07:00

Dubbed by some pundits as “the most stupid war in the world,” the Ukraine conflict is a war few could have imagined when the new decade began in 2010—and one whose consequences now reach far beyond Ukraine’s borders. What began amid political upheaval, competing visions of Ukraine’s future, and a deepening struggle between East and West has evolved into one of the most consequential conflicts of the modern era.

At the heart of the crisis lies a country caught between competing spheres of influence—and a population divided over its political direction, identity, and future. On one side stands a Western alliance determined to draw Ukraine closer to Europe and the Euro-Atlantic world. On the other stands Russia, which views Ukraine as strategically vital to its security, history, and regional influence. Between them stands Ukraine itself, increasingly torn apart by forces it has struggled to control.

The dominant Western narrative places responsibility for the conflict squarely on Moscow, pointing to Russia’s seizure of Crimea and its role in the fighting in the Donbas. Yet another narrative, advanced by Russia and echoed by some critics in the West, traces the crisis to the political upheaval of 2013–2014: the Maidan protests, the collapse of President Viktor Yanukovych’s government, the failure of a Western-brokered political settlement, and the subsequent breakdown of relations between Kyiv and large segments of the population in the south and east.

Russia argues that Western governments openly sided with the Maidan opposition during months of demonstrations sparked in part by Yanukovych’s decision to suspend preparations for an association agreement with the European Union. Moscow maintains that the West helped broker an agreement intended to produce a peaceful political transition, including a unity government and early elections, only to abandon that framework when Yanukovych was driven from power.

From Moscow’s perspective, what followed was no less consequential. Russia contends that Western governments accepted the change of power in Kyiv, while the new authorities failed to establish a meaningful dialogue with those who opposed Yanukovych’s removal—particularly in Crimea and the Donbas. When protests spread and Kyiv deployed security forces and the military, what had begun as political resistance increasingly became an armed conflict.

But where does the truth lie amid these competing narratives?

Was the war the inevitable result of Russian aggression? Did Western policy help create the conditions for confrontation? Did Ukraine’s own political divisions make the country vulnerable to outside manipulation? Or is the reality more complicated than any single national narrative allows?

The answers matter because this is not merely a story about territory or geopolitics. It is a story about power, propaganda, nationalism, sovereignty, security, and the extraordinary human cost of great powers testing the limits of one another’s ambitions.

Much of the Western political establishment and mainstream media have portrayed Russian President Vladimir Putin as the central villain of the story—variously casting him as a would-be restorer of the Soviet Union, an authoritarian, a tyrant, or even another Hitler. Yet Putin has also maintained substantial domestic support, while his image abroad has proved more complicated than the caricature often presented to Western audiences.

So what are we missing?

What assumptions have we been encouraged to accept without question? Which pieces of the story have been amplified, minimized, or left out altogether? And, most importantly, is there a path beyond the cycle of confrontation that could allow Ukraine to emerge not as a prize to be won by competing powers, but as a secure, sovereign, and prosperous nation?

This book ventures into those uncomfortable questions.

It examines the competing narratives surrounding the Ukraine crisis, the decisions that brought the major players to the brink, and the assumptions that have sustained the conflict. It challenges readers to look beyond slogans and political orthodoxies—to distinguish between what is known, what is disputed, and what has been deliberately or inadvertently obscured.

The objective is not simply to identify who is to blame.

It is to understand how a crisis that many believed could have been avoided became a war that reshaped Europe, destabilized global security, and brought the world dangerously close to a wider confrontation.

And from that understanding, perhaps, to discover what it would take to build a different future—not only for Ukraine, but for a world increasingly divided between competing visions of power, security, and peace.

The answers may be uncomfortable. The conclusions may be unexpected. But understanding the road to war may be the first step toward finding a road out.

UKRAINE: THE TUG-OF-WAR BETWEEN RUSSIA AND THE WEST: —An Unheeded Account that could have stopped the Conflict in Ukraine

Synopsis of "Uprightness Betrayed (The account of the assassinated Bukinabe Legend Thomas Sankara)

2026-08-16T20:22:02.262-07:00

In the heart of West Africa, a young captain named Thomas Sankara seizes power and renames his nation Burkina Faso—“the land of upright people.” In just four electrifying years, he transforms one of the world’s poorest countries into a beacon of self-reliance: women are liberated, literacy soars, foreign debt is rejected, the World Bank and France are told to keep their “aid”, and the people taste genuine independence for the first time. He rode a bicycle, wore the same simple uniform every day, and declared that Africa’s only true wealth was its dignity.

But uprightness is a threat. On October 15, 1987, the dream was machine-gunned in the courtyard of the presidential palace. Sankara’s closest comrade, Blaise Compaoré, ordered the hit. The upright man fell; the upright nation was sold back into the old order of debt, corruption, and quiet French supervision. For thirty-five years Africa watched the hope Sankara embodied be systematically strangled—one coup, one structural-adjustment program, one silenced voice at a time. The assassination is no mere coup—it is the deliberate smothering of a continental hope.

But then, in September 2022, another young captain stepped out of the shadows. Ibrahim Traoré, thirty-four years old, wearing a red beret and speaking Sankara’s language of sovereignty and self-reliance, toppled the latest compromised regime. Overnight the ghost of the upright people rose again. Crowds flooded the streets of Ouagadougou chanting the old slogans. French troops were ordered out. The continent held its breath.

“UPRIGHTNESS BETRAYED: The Assassination of Thomas Sankara of Burkina Faso and the Suffocation of Hope in Africa” races through the meteoric rise, the radical experiment, and the brutal betrayal that silenced Africa’s most visionary leader. This searing, high-velocity account reads like a political thriller, capturing the life, death, and enduring legacy of Thomas Sankara. It exposes a revolution cut short—and forces an urgent, unresolved reckoning: Can the upright rise a second time before the forces that killed Sankara extinguish hope once more?

UPRIGHTNESS BETRAYED: The Assassination of Thomas Sankara of Burkina Faso and the Suffocation of Hope in Africa

TRUMP, RUSSIA, UKRAINE, AND THE MILLENNIAL WAR ON RUS : And The Path to a New Ukraine Introduction (Insightful book on the war in Ukraine)

2026-08-14T07:28:41.597-07:00

Introduction

A war in Europe has reopened a question that many believed history had settled: how did peoples who once shared a common civilization become bitter adversaries on a battlefield that now threatens the peace of an entire continent? This gripping and deeply researched work is a journey through more than a millennium of East Slavic history to uncover the roots of the modern Russo-Ukrainian conflict. The story begins in Kievan Rus, the powerful medieval realm from which Russians, Belarusians, Rusyns, and Ukrainians trace much of their historical and cultural heritage. It then follows the dramatic events that fragmented that common world: the Mongol invasions, the centuries-long Mongol-Tatar yoke, the expansion of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, and the rule of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. Through these upheavals, populations that once inhabited a shared political and cultural space gradually developed distinct identities, loyalties, and historical memories. Yet history did not proceed in a straight line. This book explores the long process through which many of the former lands of Kievan Rus were reunited under Moscow's leadership. From the Treaty of Pereyaslav in 1654, which linked the Zaporozhian Cossacks of what is present-day Eastern Ukraine with the Russian Tsardom, to the territorial transformations brought about by the Russian Empire and later the Soviet Union, East Slavic peoples repeatedly found themselves joined within larger political unions despite enduring regional and cultural differences. The collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 marked another historic turning point. What many hoped would be the beginning of a new era of cooperation among Russia, Belarus, and Ukraine instead became the opening chapter of a geopolitical struggle over identity, security, influence, and national destiny. Situated between Russia and the West, Ukraine emerged as the pivotal state in this contest, its internal divisions and strategic importance making it the focal point of competing visions for the future of Eastern Europe. Many unbiased critical analysts maintain that internal schisms alone could not have produced the current Ukrainian conflict. That conflict became an armed struggle between a new Kyiv regime—composed largely of native Ukrainian-speakers who came to power through a coup—and the people of the Donbas, who rejected the pro-Western government that had overthrown their democratically elected (if flawed) native son. These analysts argue that Western support for anti-Russian forces, motivated by a strategic design to draw resource-rich and geographically pivotal Ukraine into the Western orbit, precipitated the Donbas War (also known as the Ukrainian Civil War) in 2014. The civil war continued for eight years until it was absorbed into the broader Russo-Ukrainian War when Russia openly intervened by invading Ukraine on 24 February 2022, occupied roughly a quarter of the country, and within days called for peace talks, claiming its forces had been sent to end the Ukrainian Civil War. The peace agreement that might have terminated the fighting in early 2022 was never signed; Ukraine’s Western patrons persuaded the Ukrainian leadership to abandon the deal and instead accept promises of weapons and other assistance that would enable Ukraine to defeat Russia. Nearly three years later the war continues, with casualties approaching one million and Ukraine steadily losing ground. Donald Trump, the 45th President of the United States, campaigned successfully to become the 47th President on a pledge to end the Ukraine conflict. How is that possible? On what grounds would any such initiative rest? Would his calculations be driven primarily by American interests, by the collective interests of Ukraine, by the interests of the East Slavs, by the interests of humanity at large, or by some combination of most or all of these? Rather than presenting a simplistic or one-sided account, this book investigates the competing narratives surrounding these events, exploring how history, nationalism, geopolitics, security concerns, economic interests, and foreign involvement have combined to produce one of the most consequential conflicts of the twenty-first century. The human cost of the war looms over every chapter. Entire cities have been devastated, millions of lives disrupted, and relations among closely related peoples profoundly altered. Meanwhile, diplomatic initiatives have repeatedly collided with military realities, raising difficult questions about whether a lasting peace remains possible and what sacrifices such a peace might require. This deep book also examines the role of global powers whose interests extend far beyond the battlefield itself. As the conflict evolved into a broader confrontation between Russia and the Western alliance, its implications grew increasingly global, affecting international security, energy markets, economic stability, and the future balance of power. In this context, proposals by world leaders to end the war are analyzed not merely as political initiatives but as reflections of competing national interests, strategic calculations, and visions of the future international order. Rich in historical detail, geopolitical analysis, and critical inquiry, this work challenges readers to look beyond headlines and slogans. It asks whether the current conflict is the product of ancient divisions, modern political choices, great-power rivalry, or some combination of all three. More importantly, it explores whether a region bound together by centuries of common history can find a path away from war and toward a more stable future. Part historical investigation, part geopolitical drama, and part exploration of competing national narratives, this book offers a compelling journey into the origins, evolution, and potential resolution of a conflict whose consequences may shape Europe and the world for generations to come. It is a story of shared roots and diverging destinies, of ambition and tragedy, of broken promises and enduring hopes, and of a crisis whose outcome could help define the twenty-first century.

TRUMP, RUSSIA, UKRAINE, AND THE MILLENNIAL WAR ON RUS: And The Path to a New Ukraine

Un aperçu du néocolonialisme français (Extrait du thriller historico-politique « L’Éclair du Soleil »)

2026-08-13T17:18:28.194-07:00

Chapitre Deux

René Roccard passa la nuit, après avoir reçu l'autorisation du consulat français à New York, dans un état d'attente agitée. Sa demande de voyage en France avait finalement été acceptée, mais la nouvelle ne lui apportait guère de paix. Le sommeil lui échappait. Chaque fois qu'il s'en approchait, les pensées du Cameroun français le ramenaient à l'éveil.

Trop de choses s'étaient passées pendant ses années d'absence.

Trop de questions exigeaient des réponses.

Le territoire qu'il avait autrefois si intimement connu changeait rapidement, poussé par des aspirations nationalistes, des rivalités politiques et la transition précaire de la domination coloniale vers un avenir incertain. Il y avait des développements à comprendre, des personnalités influentes à évaluer, des alliances à évaluer et des stratégies à formuler. Les enjeux étaient élevés, et René le savait.

À l'aube, il n'avait réussi qu'à dormir par moments de quelques heures.

Pourtant, l'excitation le portait en avant.

Il arriva à Paris dans les dernières semaines du printemps sans informer amis, parents ou anciens collègues de son retour. Il préférait la discrétion. Moins de gens savaient sa présence en France, mieux c'était. Il s'est enregistré dans un hôtel modeste, a passé la soirée à relire ses notes sur les récents développements en Afrique française, puis a fait son rapport le lendemain matin au ministère des Territoires d'outre-mer.

Un rendez-vous avait été pris avec le ministre nouvellement nommé.

La réunion était prévue pour jeudi.

René était d'une humeur exceptionnellement bonne lorsqu'il arriva à l'ancien Hôtel Majestic, un grand établissement parisien qui avait autrefois accueilli diplomates, aristocrates et riches voyageurs venus de tous les coins d'Europe. Le temps et la politique avaient transformé ce magnifique bâtiment en un centre administratif dédié aux affaires de l'empire et de la diplomatie.

Alors qu'il approchait de sa façade imposante, des souvenirs s'éveillèrent en lui.

Comme la France semblait différente maintenant du pays qu'il avait quitté.

Les cicatrices de la guerre s'effaçaient, pourtant la nation semblait toujours alourdie par ses responsabilités à l'étranger. À travers l'Afrique et l'Asie, les revendications d'autodétermination devenaient de plus en plus fortes. Les administrateurs coloniaux qui avaient autrefois gouverné avec confiance furent de plus en plus contraints de faire face à des réalités politiques difficiles.

René se demanda si les hommes à l'intérieur comprenaient vraiment ce qui se déroulait.

Une secrétaire l'accueillit poliment et l'escorta à travers une série de couloirs avant de le conduire au bureau du ministre.

La réunion commença de façon assez cordiale.

Cela ne resta pas ainsi.

En quelques minutes, René sentit que le ministre André Colin ne possédait qu'une compréhension superficielle de la situation au Cameroun français. Les questions du ministre lui semblèrent mal informées. Certaines de ses observations révélaient un inquiétant manque de familiarité avec les personnalités et les évolutions qui remodelaient le territoire.

René peinait à garder son calme.

Plusieurs fois, il se surprit à serrer la mâchoire.

Des années de service lui avaient appris la discipline, mais la discipline était sévèrement mise à l'épreuve.

Au moment où la conversation approcha de sa fin, il était convaincu que la réunion n'avait presque rien accompli. Il quitta sa chaise, profondément déçu et intérieurement furieux.

Paris avait-elle vraiment confié les affaires africaines à des hommes qui en savaient si peu ?

Cette pensée le consterna.

Pendant un bref instant, il envisagea même de signaler ses inquiétudes aux autorités supérieures.

L'irritation se lisait sur son visage alors qu'il se levait pour partir.

Pourtant, quelque chose d'inattendu s'est produit.

André Colin se leva aussi.

Au lieu de mettre fin officiellement à la réunion, le ministre contourna son bureau et tendit la main.

René hésita avant de lui rendre son geste. Debout à côté du ministre, il se rappela qu'il dominait physiquement l'homme. Pourtant, les mots suivants du ministre changèrent immédiatement l'ambiance, lui arrachant un sourire pour la première fois cet après-midi-là.

« Je ne crois pas que quelqu'un vous ait informé, » dit André Colin en l'accompagnant vers la porte, « mais Monsieur Pierre Messmer a demandé à vous rencontrer. »

René s'arrêta.

Un instant, il se demanda s'il avait bien entendu.

« Messmer ? » demanda-t-il, plissant les yeux de surprise.

« Oui, René », répondit le ministre. « Pierre Messmer lui-même. En fait, il m'a personnellement demandé d'organiser une rencontre. »

La déception de René disparut instantanément. Pierre Messmer était une tout autre histoire.

« Quand ? » demanda René.

« Mardi », répondit André Colin. « Trois heures. Juste ici, dans ce bureau. »

René hocha lentement la tête.

« Je serai certainement là. »

Les jours qui suivirent semblèrent inhabituellement longs.

Bien que René s'occupait à relire des rapports et à recueillir des informations, il se surprenait à revenir sans cesse à la réunion à venir.

Contrairement à André Colin, Pierre Messmer était un homme que René respectait énormément.

Leurs chemins s'étaient croisés des années plus tôt au Cameroun français, durant la première année du mandat de Messmer en tant que Haut-Commissaire. René avait rapidement reconnu en lui une rare combinaison d'intelligence, de courage et de compétence administrative. Messmer comprenait l'Afrique — non pas comme une abstraction discutée dans les ministères, mais comme une réalité vivante façonnée par les peuples, les traditions, les ambitions et les griefs.

Il n'était donc pas surprenant que le gouvernement français l'ait promu cinq mois plus tôt au poste stratégiquement important de Haut-Commissaire de l'Afrique équatoriale française.

Si quelqu'un à Paris avait une compréhension réaliste de l'avenir de l'Afrique française, c'était bien Pierre Messmer.

Et si René espérait influencer les événements au Cameroun français, il n'y avait pas de meilleure personne à qui parler.

Ce mardi-là, René arriva trente minutes en avance.

Le grand bâtiment semblait plus calme que lors de sa première visite.

Il passa plusieurs minutes à observer l'agitation des fonctionnaires et secrétaires qui traversaient les couloirs avant qu'une jeune secrétaire ne s'approche enfin de lui.

« Monsieur Roccard, » dit-elle avec un sourire poli, « Monsieur Messmer va vous recevoir maintenant. »

Son pouls s'accéléra légèrement.

La secrétaire le conduisit à travers des couloirs familiers et ouvrit la porte du bureau exactement une minute avant l'heure prévue.

René entra.

Il remarqua immédiatement la différence.

André Colin était introuvable.

À la place, près de la grande fenêtre donnant à Paris, les mains jointes dans le dos, se tenait Pierre Messmer.

L'ancien commandant contemplait pensivement la ville en contrebas.

Pendant un bref instant, aucun des deux hommes ne parla. Puis Messmer se retourna et sourit.

Les années semblèrent s'évanouir d'un coup.

« René, René le formidable ! » Pierre Messmer hurla, sa voix portant la résonance tonitruante et autoritaire d'un homme habitué à commander des salles et à façonner le destin des peuples.

Il ouvrit grand les bras, contraste frappant avec le protocole diplomatique étouffant de Paris, et s'avança pour envelopper René Roccard dans une chaleureuse étreinte d'ours réconfortante.

« Mon Commandant », murmura René, un sourire sincère illuminant son visage marqué par le temps alors qu'il se laissait aller à l'étreinte, sentant la silhouette solide et rassurante de son ancien supérieur.

« Regarde-toi. À part quelques cheveux gris gagnés dans les tranchées diplomatiques, tu n'as pas changé d'un poil, » rit Messmer, reculant juste assez pour l'évaluer de ses yeux perçants et évaluateurs.

Pendant quelques battements de cœur suspendus, les deux hommes se turent. Ils n'avaient pas besoin de mots ; L'histoire lourde et commune des vétérans ayant saigné pour le Tricolor comblait le fossé entre eux.

« Je me sens profondément honoré que tu aies réservé un temps précieux pour moi aujourd'hui », dit René, d'un ton mesuré et respectueux. « Surtout compte tenu des crises incessantes que tu dois gérer au quotidien. »

Messmer fit un geste de la main pour balayer la main, se dirigeant vers un buffet en acajou élégant. « De quoi tu parles, René ? Si je ne peux pas libérer mon emploi du temps pour quelqu'un comme toi — un homme qui partage les fardeaux de l'État et les profondes inquiétudes qui m'empêchent de dormir sur l'avenir de la France — alors qui d'autre y a-t-il ? »

« Je suppose qu'il y a beaucoup de choses avec lesquelles nous devons nous débattre. »

« Je suis entièrement à votre disposition. Nous avons tout le temps du monde ce soir. Monsieur Colin fut assez attentionné pour organiser un millésime convenable ; Cela devrait nous garder le moral élevé pendant que nous luttons contre les forces obscures qui hantent actuellement notre République. »

« Magnifique ! Du cognac ? »

« Bien sûr que oui ! Maintenant, si ma mémoire ne me trompe pas, tu as toujours eu un palais exquis pour le brandy. Même à l'époque, tes papilles gustatives étaient remarquablement vives. Tu ne l'as peut-être pas réalisé à l'époque, mais tu m'as constamment étonné par ta capacité à distinguer les notes subtiles et les qualités d'un bon cognac sans perdre un battement. »

« Ah, quel verre magnifique », soupira René avec reconnaissance.

« Excellent ! Mon Dieu ! Comment on vivait avec ça à l'époque. Le brandy était de l'or liquide — si douloureusement rare pendant ces mois brutaux en Indochine », se remémora Messmer en versant le liquide ambré dans deux verres en cristal.

À la mention de l'Indochine, le sourire de René s'élargit, vacillant d'un réseau complexe de nostalgie et de souvenirs amers. Comme Messmer, il avait été propulsé dans les jungles fumantes et traîtresses d'Asie du Sud-Est juste après le cataclysme de la Seconde Guerre mondiale. Leur mission officielle : restaurer la souveraineté française absolue sur les territoires coloniaux après le vide soudain laissé par la capitulation des occupants japonais, et écraser de manière décisive la montée idéologique des forces marxistes du Vietminh sous Ho Chi Minh.

C'était la première affectation de René dans l'Est mystérieux et instable. L'environnement offrait peu de distractions face à la chaleur implacable, à l'humidité oppressante et à la menace constante d'embuscade — jusqu'à ce qu'il développe une affection inébranlable pour les brandys locaux et l'attrait exotique et captivant des femmes orientales. C'est au cœur de l'intérieur torride de l'Indochine qu'il découvrit pour la première fois son attirance profonde pour les femmes, d'un degré riche et élevé de pigmentation, une préférence qui l'avait depuis suivi à travers les continents.

« Le brandy reste mon vice persistant », avoua René, les yeux pétillants d'amusement.

René Roccard écoutait Pierre Messmer pendant qu'il discutait de banalité. Il ne quitta jamais son ancien patron des yeux en attrapant deux verres dans le placard ouvert et en leur versant un verre à tous les deux. Puis Pierre Messmer lui tendit un verre et porta un toast.

« Vive la France », répéta doucement René.

Ils tintaient leurs verres, l'anneau cristallin tranchant perçant le silence du bureau, avant que les deux hommes ne portent le liquide ambré à leurs lèvres.

« Eh bien ! »

« Merci ! » René répondit après avoir avalé une longue et profonde appréciation. « C'est merveilleux ! »

« Certainement ! C'est infiniment meilleur que la saleté rude qu'on nous a enfoncée là-bas. Vous ne le croirez probablement pas, mais j'ai ressenti une envie presque atroce de brandy pendant les deux mois où j'ai été irrité en captivité du Vietminh. »

« Je comprends parfaitement », dit René, sa voix baissant d'une octave alors qu'il croisait le regard de Messmer, un pacte tacite de survie mutuelle traversant leur chemin.

« Je sais que tu comprends, René. Parce que tu as enduré exactement la même épreuve dégradante. »

« Cinq mois », murmura René, fermant les yeux un instant alors que le souvenir fantôme des cages en bambou, des murs humides de prison et des interrogatoires incessants défilait derrière ses paupières.

L'expression de Messmer s'assombrit, la chaleur des retrouvailles cédant à l'acier dur et inflexible des rancunes anciennes. « Je suppose que tu sais ce que tout cela signifie — pour toi, pour moi, et pour nos frères d'armes qui ont marché en gloire à travers Paris. Vous vous souvenez des Parisiens alignés sur les grands boulevards, nous acclamant jusqu'à en avoir la gorge à vif pour avoir restauré l'honneur national que les bottes d'Hitler avaient piétiné pendant quatre années misérables d'occupation allemande ? Nous ne nous sommes pas arrêtés à la capitale. Nous avons balayé les provinces, remportant victoire après victoire, portés par l'esprit inarrêtable de la libération. La pure justification d'avoir poursuivi les nazis en fuite jusqu'à l'autre bout du Rhin, en Allemagne... »

« Merveilleux ! » René souffla, le souvenir de la libération de la France et de l'Europe encore capable de lui faire battre le pouls.

« Et pourtant, regardez ce qui s'est passé quelques années seulement après ce glorieux voyage vers la victoire. »

« Eh bien— »

« Je parle de l'humiliation pure et pure de nous retrouver piégés dans des cages primitives en bambou, gardées par des insurgés sombres et illettrés dont le concept de la guerre appartenait à l'époque sombre. Et puis—pour couronner le tout—nous avons fini par perdre l'Indochine au profit de ces sauvages entièrement parce que nos politiciens sans colonne vertébrale à Paris manquaient de volonté collective de se battre. Totalement humiliant ! » grogna Messmer, serrant son poing autour de son verre.

« Je comprends ton amertume. »

« Je le savais. Nous avons combattu côte à côte sur les champs de bataille sanglants de France, d'Allemagne et d'Indochine. Nous sommes rentrés chez nous en espérant une nation renouvelée, pour découvrir la France se déchirer dans le chaos politique. Oui, René ! J'ai accepté ce poste diplomatique comme une échappatoire délibérée à ma chère France parce que je ne pouvais plus supporter les querelles sans fin des politiciens, en particulier de ces éléments dangereux de gauche. »

« J'ai fait à peu près la même chose », intervint René en faisant tourner le cognac restant dans son verre.

« Ah, oui. Vous avez cherché refuge et paix d'esprit en Amérique. Mais il a toujours été évident pour ceux qui vous connaissaient que vous n'avez jamais vraiment cessé de vous inquiéter pour notre chère France. Vous n'avez jamais cessé de lutter avec les défis existentiels profonds auxquels notre nation est confrontée. »

René hocha lentement la tête, son expression solennelle. « Certainement ! » murmura-t-il, les yeux à moitié fermés.

Messmer se redressa soudain, s'éclaircit la gorge et reprit son travail à lui. « Maintenant, René, le formidable ! Allons droit au but central de cette réunion. »

« Bien sûr ! »

« Lorsque les rapports de renseignement ont traversé mon bureau et que j'ai appris vos demandes formelles persistantes d'être réaffecté au Cameroun, je me suis dit — Voici exactement l'homme dont nous avons besoin pour cette poudrière. »

« Honnêtement, je ne tiens pas à compter le nombre de fois où j'ai soumis cette demande avant que quiconque à Paris ne daigne écouter. »

La voix de Messmer s'adoucit, perdant son ton bureaucratique. « René, René, René ! Considérez le coût humain. Ton petit frère, Marc, servait activement là-bas au Cameroun. Combien de sang et de sacrifices la France pourrait-elle exiger d'une seule famille ? »

René baissa les yeux vers le liquide ambré sombre dans son verre, secouant la tête en silence.

« Je suis profondément désolé pour Marc. »

René leva les yeux, la mâchoire serrée, les yeux brillants d'une détermination froide et résolue. « Il est mort, et nous avons une guerre à gagner. Ces bandits soutenus par les communistes dans les jungles et les prairies là-bas ne doivent pas être autorisés à réussir. »

« Je suis heureux que tu sois engagé envers la terre pour laquelle ton frère a sacrifié sa vie. La Nouvelle France ne se laissera pas pousser à fuir le Cameroun français ou l'Algérie alors que la France dirigée par la gauche abandonnait l'Indochine aux bandits rouges de Ho Chi Minh. Le général Charles De Gaulle est de retour, et notre gloire. »

« J'aime ton langage », dit René en sirotant son brandy et en se léchant les lèvres.

« Vous ne le croirez pas si je vous dis que le premier natif que nous avons mis là-bas en tant que Premier ministre voulait que j'autorise l'armée à utiliser du napalm contre le peuple d'Um Nyobé. Il voulait que nous 'anéantissions les gens de Bassa', comme il le disait. »

« André-Marie Mbida, tu veux dire ? »

Messmer hocha la tête. « André-Marie Mbida lui-même. »

« C'est un idiot. »

Messmer hocha de nouveau la tête. « Ses propos contre Um Nyobé et ses partisans de l'UPC font passer notre campagne pour une mauvaise image. »

« Bien, tu comprends le risque que nous avons créé. C'est certainement un mauvais fils de pute, mais c'est notre fils de pute pour autant que j'en sache. Les Américains ont une meilleure façon de le formuler, n'est-ce pas ? »

René hocha la tête. « Mes expériences au Cameroun m'ont appris que le groupe ethnique de Mbida n'apprécie pas le peuple Bassa. Donc, vous comprenez pourquoi je pense que se débarrasser de ce Mbida était la bonne chose à faire. Quoi qu'il en soit, nous ne devons pas ostraciser les autres groupes Beti ni le peuple collectif Beti dans le processus. Ils sont un atout stratégique dans notre contrôle de ces terres. »

« Tu as raison à propos du facteur Beti. Andre-Marie Mbida est parti, et maintenant nous avons notre nouvel homme comme Premier ministre là-bas. Il serait bien plus utile pour servir nos plans. Si vous voulez mon avis, se débarrasser d'André-Marie Mbida a été la seule bonne chose que Jean Ramadier a faite en me remplaçant comme Haut-Commissaire du Cameroun. »

« Ce ! J'ai entendu dire qu'il prévoyait de lever l'interdiction de l'UPC et de la rendre à nouveau légale. »

« Si Jean Ramadier avait réussi, tout notre projet en Afrique centrale aurait été bouleversé », déclara Pierre Messmer d'un ton sombre. « En à peine trois semaines, il a réussi à nous faire remonter de plusieurs années. Légaliser l'UPC aurait ouvert la porte à nos ennemis pour s'emparer de notre Cameroun. »

Messmer s'arrêta, son expression s'assombrissant.

« Ce qui est encore plus alarmant, c'est que nous avons appris ses intentions presque dès son arrivée. L'homme avait entretenu des relations exceptionnellement étroites avec Sékou Touré durant son mandat de Haut-Commissaire en Guinée. Touré était déjà un symbole de défi anticolonial dans toute l'Afrique française à l'époque. Une fois que nous avons mis les pièces du puzzle, c'est devenu évident. Ramadier a dû être évincé du Cameroun, et rapidement. »

« Je n'ai jamais fait confiance à la gauche », répondit René. « Cette méfiance remonte aux années de la Résistance. Des hommes comme Ramadier placent toujours l'idéologie au-dessus de l'intérêt national. »

« Un trait qu'il a hérité de son père », dit Messmer.

« Tel père, tel fils. »

« En effet. »

Un instant, Messmer fixa son verre.

« Bien que, » dit-il pensivement, « le fils est allé encore plus loin que le père. Paul Ramadier reste une énigme pour moi. En 1947, en tant que Premier ministre, il rompit avec les communistes et expulsa leurs ministres du gouvernement. Pourtant, son fils semble incapable de faire de telles distinctions. Il embrasse les communistes africains. »

« Vous avez raison, Mon Commandant. »

Messmer hocha la tête.

« Pourtant, malgré tous ses défauts, Jean Ramadier a accompli une chose utile. Il a tiré le tapis sous les yeux d'André-Marie Mbida. Au-delà de cela, cependant, le véritable travail reste devant nous. Nos plans à long terme pour le Cameroun et le reste de l'Afrique francophone sont loin d'être complets. »

« Comment progresse Ahmadou Ahidjo ? »

Un léger sourire traversa le visage de Messmer.

« Bien. Mieux que prévu, en fait. Je vois que vous suivez les développements dans notre Cameroun. Jusqu'à présent, il remplit admirablement sa mission. »

« Excellent. »

La pièce tomba un instant dans le silence.

Puis Messmer se pencha en avant.

« René, nous entrons dans une nouvelle ère. À travers l'Afrique, les colonies et territoires exigent un plus grand pouvoir dans leurs propres affaires. Ils savent où ils veulent aller, ou du moins ils le pensent. La question est de savoir s'ils arriveront là-bas sous notre influence ou sous celle de quelqu'un d'autre. »

« Cela ne doit pas finir comme en Indochine », dit René sèchement. « Aujourd'hui, les communistes se promènent librement à travers le Vietnam. »

« Je ne pourrais pas être plus d'accord. Le général Charles de Gaulle partage ce point de vue. La France se prépare à relâcher son emprise, mais à ne pas abandonner ses responsabilités. Il y a une différence. »

La voix de Messmer se durcit.

« Les Britanniques semblent contents de partir. Ils accordent leur indépendance puis tournent le dos comme si rien de plus ne les concernait. Pendant ce temps, l'influence soviétique se répand en Asie et en Afrique. Nasser défie l'Occident en Égypte. Le Ghana parle le langage du non-alignement tout en tenant compte des intérêts du bloc de l'Est. La Birmanie dérive incertaine entre les mondes. Partout, Moscou cherche des opportunités. »

René expira lourdement.

« Nos dirigeants ont montré la même faiblesse lorsqu'ils ont laissé l'Indochine s'échapper. »

« Oui », répondit Messmer. « Et si nous perdons encore notre sang-froid, l'Afrique pourrait suivre. Ce qui semble être une onde aujourd'hui pourrait devenir un raz-de-marée demain. »

Les mots restèrent suspendus dans l'air.

« Regarde autour de nous. Les mouvements nationalistes se multiplient. Les vents de la décolonisation prennent de l'ampleur de Dakar à Brazzaville, de Tunis à Douala. Si notre Cameroun et notre Algérie sont perdus, les conséquences iront bien au-delà de ces territoires. »

Il tapota la table du doigt.

« La France a des intérêts stratégiques en Afrique, René. Intérêts économiques. Intérêts militaires. Des intérêts politiques. Une fois rendues, elles ne peuvent pas simplement être récupérées. Si la France souhaite conserver son influence après que nous ayons lâché notre empire, alors les rebelles algériens et les nationalistes Kameruniens doivent être vaincus. »

« Tu as raison, » dit René en hochant lentement la tête. « Pendant mes années en Amérique, j'ai appris une leçon importante. Le cœur du pouvoir ne réside pas dans les idéaux mais dans les intérêts. La richesse, l'influence, le prestige, la sécurité, tout découle de la capacité à identifier et défendre ce qui compte pour vous. Les nations ne font pas exception. Ceux qui ne peuvent pas protéger leurs intérêts finissent par être soumis aux intérêts des autres. »

Il se pencha en arrière.

« La France a d'immenses intérêts en Afrique. Que nous les préservions ou les abandonnons est entièrement notre choix. Cette décision ne peut pas être fondée uniquement sur le sentiment. Que cela nous plaise ou non, nos destins se sont entremêlés à ceux des territoires francophones. Nous avons façonné leurs institutions, leurs économies, leur administration. Nous sommes liés par l'histoire. »

Les lèvres de Messmer s'étirèrent en un léger sourire approbateur.

« Je n'aurais pas pu mieux le dire. »

René continua, sa voix devenant plus réfléchie.

« Peut-être que l'histoire attribue des responsabilités aux nations tout comme elle le fait aux hommes. La France a été entraînée dans le destin de ces peuples il y a longtemps. À travers l'éducation, les infrastructures, le droit, la langue et l'administration, nous avons contribué à remodeler leurs sociétés. Que l'on regarde cet héritage avec fierté ou critique, il ne peut simplement pas être effacé. »

Il regarda directement Messmer.

« Partir maintenant, en faisant semblant qu'aucun lien n'existe, ne nous libérerait pas de toute responsabilité. Cela ne ferait que retarder les conséquences. »

Messmer rit doucement et ouvrit les mains.

« René, mon ami, tu as parfaitement exprimé la situation. Il y a à la fois philosophie et stratégie dans ce que vous avez dit. »

Ses yeux brillaient de satisfaction.

« Oui, j'aime beaucoup ta philosophie. »

René hocha la tête avec un sourire. « Merci, Mon Commandant ! »

« Je veux que tu sois à mes côtés au Cameroun français », commença Pierre Messmer, se craqua les jointures, puis poursuivit : « J'ai besoin de quelqu'un qui puisse diriger le vent pendant mon absence, alors que mes fonctions s'étendent à l'Afrique occidentale française. Je vois beaucoup de développements politiques se produire en Afrique subsaharienne francophone d'ici la fin de l'année. Général Charles De Gaulle, vous, moi-même et une foule d'autres patriotes partageant les mêmes idées pensons que nous devrions avoir le bon ordre et les bons Africains en place avant de permettre aux colonies et territoires là-bas de devenir membres de l'Organisation des Nations Unies. »

« Tu as raison. »

« Notre but devrait être pour la nouvelle France », intona Pierre Messmer en posant sa main sur l'épaule de René.

René hocha la tête. « Je suis d'accord avec toi. »

« C'est pour ça que je pense que tu as une épaule forte sur laquelle t'appuyer », dit Pierre Messmer, abaissant sa main et caressant son menton. Puis il hocha la tête et ajouta : « Je vois que votre attention est portée sur le Cameroun français. Je ne compte plus le nombre de fois où j'ai dit aux bouffons qui étaient au pouvoir à Paris que la guerre dans notre Cameroun était gagnable. Très peu de feux de gauche des gouvernements précédents m'ont cru. Oh ! Ils m'ont découragé. Je suis content qu'ils soient partis. »

« Je comprends ta position. Crois-moi, je t'en crois. »

« J'ai élaboré une stratégie », dit Pierre Messmer, un léger rire guttural s'échappant de sa gorge. « En vérité, j'ai hâte de travailler avec vous et d'autres patriotes loyaux pour affiner et mettre en œuvre cela. Le Cameroun nous offre une occasion rare, René, de mettre en pratique les leçons et théories de la guerre de contre-insurrection forgées en Indochine. Ce que nous avons appris au Vietnam ne doit pas être perdu. »

« Comment ? » René demanda, les yeux plissés de curiosité.

Messmer se pencha en avant sur sa chaise.

« Voici comment nous allons procéder. À travers le Cameroun français, nous établirons ce que j'appelle des zones de pacification. Une fois ces zones en place, nous couperons le lien entre la population civile et les rebelles cachés dans les forêts et les collines. Les villageois dispersés dans des hameaux isolés seront relogés dans des villages organisés en bord de route dans ces zones sécurisées. Là-bas, ils vivront sous la protection de nos troupes et des Camerounais français loyaux qui acceptent l'autorité de la France. »

Il fit une pause avant de continuer.

« Sans nourriture, renseignements, recrues ou abri loin de la population locale, les guérilleros se retrouveront isolés. Leur force vient du peuple. Retirez ce support, et leur résistance s'essoufflera progressivement. Les zones elles-mêmes n'ont pas besoin d'occuper plus de deux pour cent du territoire. Pourtant, dans cette petite portion de terre, nous concentrerons et contrôlerons la population qui soutient la rébellion. »

René fixa son verre.

« Nous ne devons plus jamais perdre », dit-il doucement.

L'expression de Messmer se durcit.

« Nous ne le ferons pas. La défaite n'est pas une option. » Il fixa René d'un regard inébranlable. « Il y a de nombreuses raisons pour lesquelles je t'ai choisie, mais avant tout, c'est à cause de ta détermination. Vous possédez la détermination nécessaire pour assurer la victoire de la France au Cameroun. »

Il se leva et traversa lentement la pièce.

« Notre mission en Afrique n'est pas seulement politique, René. Ce n'est pas non plus simplement une question de tradition ou d'intérêt national. Les hommes peuvent l'expliquer différemment, mais je crois que cela appartient à quelque chose de plus grand que nous-mêmes. Elle repose sur la conviction, sur la foi en la France et en son destin civilisateur. Une telle croyance laisse peu de place au doute. »

« Je suis d'accord avec vous, Mon Commandant », répondit René.

Il attrapa la bouteille de brandy et remplit à nouveau leurs verres. Le liquide ambré brillait sous la lumière de la lampe.

« Vive la France ! » déclara-t-il, ses mots portant la force d'un cri de champ de bataille.

« Vive la France ! » répéta Messmer.

Il vida son verre d'un trait. Un moment de silence s'installa entre les deux Français. Puis, presque instinctivement, il commença à fredonner la mélodie de LE CHANT DES PARTISANS ―Chant de la Libération de la chanteuse et guitariste française d'origine russe Anna Marly, qui devint l'hymne de la Résistance française et des Forces françaises libres durant les années sombres de la Seconde Guerre mondiale. La chanson avait voyagé de la France occupée aux champs de bataille à travers l'Europe, devenant un symbole de défi, de sacrifice et de rédemption nationale.

René reconnut immédiatement la mélodie. Sa voix rejoignit celle de Messmer, et ensemble ils chantèrent les paroles que des générations de patriotes français avaient emportées dans la lutte :

Ami, entends-tu

Le vol noir des corbeaux

Sur nos plaines?

Ami, entends-tu

Les cris sourds du pays

Qu'on enchaîne?

Ohé! partisans,

Ouvriers et paysans,

C'est l'alarme!

Ce soir l'ennemi

Connaîtra le prix du sang

Et des larmes!

Montez de la mine,

Descendez des collines,

Camarades!

Sortez de la paille

Les fusils, la mitraille,

Les grenades...

Ohé! les tueurs,

A la balle et au couteau,

Tuez vite!

Ohé! saboteur,

Attention à ton fardeau:

Dynamite!

C'est nous qui brisons

Les barreaux des prisons

Pour nos frères,

La haine à nos trousses,

Et la faim qui nous pousse,

La misère...

Il y a des pays

Ou les gens au creux de lits

Font des rêves;

Ici, nous, vois-tu,

Nous on marche et nous on tue,

Nous on crève.

Ici chacun sait

Ce qu'il veut, ce qu’il fait

Quand il passe...

Ami, si tu tombes

Un ami sort de l'ombre

A ta place.

Demain du sang noir

Séchera au grand soleil

Sur les routes.

Sifflez, compagnons,

Dans la nuit la Liberté

Nous écoute...

« Merveilleux », murmura René aux dernières notes hantées de la chanson, la tête secouée à un rythme lent et hypnotique. « Comme cela nous émouvait. C'est ce même feu qui nous a poussés à reprendre notre honneur aux Allemands. »

Pierre Messmer acquiesça, ses jointures blanchissantes alors que sa prise sur son verre se resserrait jusqu'à ce que les muscles de son avant-bras se tendent. « Et maintenant ils osent emprunter nos fantômes. Ils se font appeler Maquis — comme si se déguiser au nom de nos bandes de guérilla rurales de l'Occupation allait d'une manière ou d'une autre blanchir leur trahison en respectabilité. »

« Comme s'il y avait une seule goutte de sang commun entre eux et nous », grogna René, le souvenir d'un vrai sacrifice lui assombrissant la langue.

« Les vermines », grogna Messmer.

«. »

Un silence s'étira entre les deux hommes, lourd et étouffant, jusqu'à ce que Messmer claque son verre sur le bord, le liquide ambré éclaboussant le bord.

« Merde à l’UPC! Merde Um Nyobè! Merde Moumie! Merde Kingué! Merde Ouandie! Merde Osendé Afana! » explosa-t-il, les noms déchirant sa gorge comme des éclats.

Quelques heures plus tard, René sortit dans la nuit fraîche de Paris, dans l'ombre du bâtiment du ministère impérial, un sourire tranchant et triomphant traversant son visage.

Pendant des semaines — depuis son débarquement des États-Unis — une incertitude lancinante le rongeait. Il passait chaque heure de veille à se demander si les ministères de l'Outre-mer et de la Défense allaient l'enterrer dans la bureaucratie ou, pire, le passer complètement à côté de la nomination au Cameroun français. Il en avait besoin. Il devait être la main qui écraserait une bonne fois pour toutes l'insurrection camerounaise.

Et alors que le désespoir menaçait de s'enraciner, Pierre Messmer était apparu des couloirs enfumés du pouvoir, lui lançant une commande mortelle et très médiatisée directement dans les bras. Territoire de confiance ou pas, le Cameroun français allait devenir un champ de bataille — et René allait mener la charge.

L’ÉCLAIR DU SOLEIL

Book 1 of 1: Compradors |

Insight into French Neocolonialism (Excerpt from the historical/political thriller "Flash of the Sun")

2026-08-13T10:08:51.366-07:00

Chapter Two

René Roccard spent the night after receiving authorization from the French Consulate in New York in a state of restless anticipation. His request to travel to France had finally been approved, yet the news brought him little peace. Sleep eluded him. Whenever he drifted toward it, thoughts of French Cameroun pulled him back to wakefulness.

Too much had happened during his years away.

Too many questions demanded answers.

The territory he had once known so intimately was changing rapidly, driven by nationalist aspirations, political rivalries, and the uneasy transition from colonial rule to an uncertain future. There were developments to understand, influential personalities to assess, alliances to evaluate, and strategies to formulate. The stakes were high, and René knew it.

By dawn, he had managed only a few hours of broken sleep.

Still, excitement carried him forward.

He arrived in Paris in the closing weeks of spring without informing friends, relatives, or former colleagues of his return. He preferred discretion. The fewer people who knew of his presence in France, the better. He checked into a modest hotel, spent the evening reviewing his notes on recent developments in French Africa, and reported the following morning to the Ministry of Overseas Territories.

An appointment had been arranged with the newly appointed minister.

The meeting was scheduled for Thursday.

René was in unusually good spirits when he arrived at the former Hôtel Majestic, a grand Parisian establishment that had once welcomed diplomats, aristocrats, and wealthy travelers from every corner of Europe. Time and politics had transformed the magnificent building into an administrative center devoted to matters of empire and diplomacy.

As he approached its imposing façade, memories stirred within him.

How different France seemed now from the country he had left behind.

The scars of war were fading, yet the nation still appeared burdened by its responsibilities overseas. Across Africa and Asia, demands for self-determination were growing stronger. Colonial administrators who had once governed with confidence were increasingly forced to confront difficult political realities.

René wondered whether the men inside truly understood what was unfolding.

A secretary greeted him politely and escorted him through a series of corridors before bringing him to the minister's office.

The meeting began cordially enough.

It did not remain so.

Within minutes, René sensed that Minister André Colin possessed only a superficial understanding of the situation in French Cameroun. The minister's questions struck him as poorly informed. Some of his observations revealed an alarming lack of familiarity with the personalities and developments that were reshaping the territory.

René struggled to maintain his composure.

Several times, he caught himself tightening his jaw.

Years of service had taught him discipline, but discipline was being severely tested.

By the time the conversation drew toward its conclusion, he had become convinced that the meeting had accomplished almost nothing. He left his chair deeply disappointed and inwardly furious.

Had Paris truly entrusted African affairs to men who knew so little about them?

The thought appalled him.

For a fleeting moment, he even considered reporting his concerns to higher authorities.

The irritation showed on his face as he rose to leave.

Yet something unexpected happened.

André Colin stood up as well.

Instead of ending the meeting formally, the minister walked around his desk and extended a hand.

René hesitated before returning the gesture. Standing beside the minister, he was reminded that he towered over the man physically. Yet the minister's next words immediately changed the mood, brining a smile to his face for the first time that afternoon.

"I don't believe anyone has informed you," André Colin said, accompanying him toward the door, "but Monsieur Pierre Messmer has asked to meet with you."

René stopped.

For a moment, he wondered if he had heard correctly.

"Messmer?" he asked, narrowing his eyes with surprise.

"Oui, René," the minister replied. "Pierre Messmer himself. In fact, he personally requested that I arrange a meeting."

René's disappointment vanished entirely in an instant. Pierre Messmer was a different matter altogether.

"When?" René asked.

"Tuesday," André Colin answered. "Three o'clock. Right here in this office."

René nodded slowly.

"I will certainly be here."

The days that followed seemed unusually long.

Although René occupied himself reviewing reports and gathering information, he found his thoughts repeatedly returning to the upcoming meeting.

Unlike André Colin, Pierre Messmer was a man René respected immensely.

Their paths had crossed years earlier in French Cameroun, during the first year of Messmer's tenure as High Commissioner. René had quickly recognized in him a rare combination of intelligence, courage, and administrative competence. Messmer understood Africa—not as an abstraction discussed in ministerial offices, but as a living reality shaped by peoples, traditions, ambitions, and grievances.

It therefore came as no surprise when the French government elevated him five months earlier to the strategically important position of High Commissioner of French Equatorial Africa.

If anyone in Paris possessed a realistic understanding of French Africa's future, it was Pierre Messmer.

And if René hoped to influence events in French Cameroun, there was no better person to speak with.

On that Tuesday, René arrived thirty minutes early.

The great building appeared quieter than during his first visit.

He spent several minutes studying the bustle of officials and secretaries moving through the halls before a young secretary finally approached him.

"Monsieur Roccard," she said with a polite smile, "Monsieur Messmer will see you now."

His pulse quickened slightly.

The secretary led him through familiar corridors and opened the office door exactly one minute before the appointed hour.

René stepped inside.

Immediately, he noticed the difference.

André Colin was nowhere to be seen.

Instead, standing near the large window overlooking Paris, hands clasped behind his back, was Pierre Messmer.

The former commander was gazing thoughtfully at the city below.

For a brief moment, neither man spoke. Then Messmer turned around and smiled.

The years seemed to vanish at once.

“René, René le formidable!” Pierre Messmer bellowed, his voice carrying the booming, authoritative resonance of a man accustomed to commanding rooms and shaping the destiny of peoples.

He threw his arms wide, a stark contrast to the stifling diplomatic protocol of Paris, and strode forward to envelop René Roccard in a warm, anchoring bear hug.

“Mon Commandant,” René muttered, a genuine smile breaking across his weathered face as he yielded to the embrace, feeling the solid, reassuring frame of his former superior.

“Look at you. Aside from a few more gray hairs earned in the diplomatic trenches, you haven’t changed a bit,” Messmer chuckled, stepping back just enough to appraise him with sharp, assessing eyes.

For a few suspended heartbeats, the two men fell silent. They didn’t need words; the heavy, shared history of veterans who had bled for the tricolor bridged the gap between them.

“I feel deeply honored that you carved out precious time for me today,” René said, his tone measured and respectful. “Especially given the relentless crises you have to manage on a daily basis.”

Messmer waved a dismissive hand, walking toward a sleek mahogany sideboard. “What are you talking about, René? If I can’t clear my schedule for someone like you—a man who shares the burdens of state and the deep worries keeping me awake about the future of France—then who else is there?”

“I suppose there is a great deal we need to wrestle with.”

“I am entirely at your disposal. We have all the time in the world this evening. Monsieur Colin was thoughtful enough to make arrangements for a proper vintage; it should keep our spirits high while we grapple with the dark forces currently haunting our republic.”

“Magnifique! Cognac?”

“Bien sûr que oui! Now, if my memory isn’t failing me, you have always had an exquisite palate for brandy. Even back in the day, your taste buds were remarkably sharp. You might not have realized it then, but you constantly amazed me with your ability to distinguish the subtle notes and qualities of a fine cognac without missing a beat.”

“Ah, what a magnificent drink,” René sighed appreciatively.

“Excellent! Mon Dieu! How we lived on that stuff back in the day. Brandy was liquid gold—so painfully scarce during those brutal months in Indochina,” Messmer reminisced, pouring the amber liquid into two crystal tumblers.

At the mention of Indochina, René’s grin widened, flickering with a complex web of nostalgia and bitter memories. Like Messmer, he had been thrust into the steaming, treacherous jungles of Southeast Asia right after the cataclysm of the Second World War. Their official mission: to restore absolute French sovereignty to the colonial territories following the sudden vacuum left by the capitulation of Japanese occupiers, and to decisively crush the rising, ideological tide of Ho Chi Minh’s Marxist Vietminh forces.

It had been René’s maiden posting to the mysterious, volatile East. The environment offered few distractions from the relentless heat, the oppressive humidity, and the constant threat of ambush—that is, until he developed an unshakeable fondness for the local brandies and the exotic, captivating allure of oriental women. It was deep within the steamy Indochinese interior that he first discovered his profound attraction for women of a rich, high degree of pigmentation, a preference that had since followed him across continents.

“Brandy is still my enduring vice,” René confessed, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

René Roccard listened to Pierre Messmer as he small-talked. He never took his eyes off his former boss as he picked up two glasses from the open cabinet and poured them both a drink. Then Pierre Messmer handed him a glass and toasted.

“Vive la France,” René echoed softly.

They clinked glasses, the sharp crystal ring cutting through the quiet office, before both men brought the amber liquid to their lips.

“Well!”

“Merci!” René responded after taking a long, deeply appreciative gulp. “C’est merveilleux!”

“Certainement! It tastes infinitely better than the harsh swill we choked down our throats over there. You probably won't believe this, but I experienced an almost agonizing craving for brandy during the two months I chafed in Vietminh captivity.”

“I understand completely,” René said, his voice dropping an octave as he locked eyes with Messmer, an unspoken pact of mutual survival flashing between them.

“I know you understand, René. Because you endured the exact same degrading ordeal.”

“Five months,” René muttered, closing his eyes for a second as the phantom memory of bamboo cages, humid prison walls, and relentless interrogation flashed behind his eyelids.

Messmer’s expression darkened, the warmth of the reunion yielding to the hard, unyielding steel of old grievances. “I take it you know what all of this means—for you, for me, and for our brothers-in-arms who marched in glory through Paris. Remember the Parisians lining the grand boulevards, cheering us until their throats were raw for restoring the national honor that Hitler’s jackboots had trampled upon during four wretched years of German occupation? We didn't stop at the capital. We swept through the provinces, achieving victory after victory, buoyed by the unstoppable spirit of the liberation. The sheer vindication of chasing the fleeing Nazis all the way back across the Rhine into Germany...”

“Merveilleux!” René breathed, the memory of France’s and Europe’s liberation still capable of quickening his pulse.

“And yet, look at what happened mere years after that glorious ride to victory.”

“Well—”

“I am talking about the sheer, unadulterated humiliation of finding ourselves trapped in primitive bamboo cages, guarded by swarthy, illiterate insurgents whose concept of warfare belonged to the Dark Ages. And then—to cap it all off—we ended up losing Indochina to those savages entirely because our spineless politicians in Paris lacked the collective will to fight. Utterly humiliating!” Messmer growled, his fist tightening around his glass.

“I understand your bitterness.”

“I knew you would. We fought side by side across the blood-soaked battlefields of France, Germany, and Indochina. We returned home expecting a renewed nation, only to find France tearing itself apart in political chaos. Yes, René! I took this diplomatic post as a deliberate escape from my beloved France because I could no longer stomach the endless squabbling of politicians, especially those dangerous elements on the left.”

“I did much the same thing,” René interjected, swirling the remaining cognac in his glass.

“Ah, yes. You sought sanctuary and peace of mind in America. But it was always obvious to those who knew you that you never truly stopped worrying about our cherished France. You never stopped wrestling with the profound existential challenges confronting our nation.”

René nodded slowly, his expression solemn. “Certainement!” he murmured, his eyes half-closed.

Messmer suddenly straightened, clearing his throat as he shifted back to business. “Now, René, le formidable! Let us cut to the core purpose of this meeting.”

“Bien sûr!”

“When the intelligence reports crossed my desk and I learned of your persistent, formal requests to be reassigned to Cameroun, I said to myself—Here is the exact man we need for this powder keg.”

“I honestly care not to count the number of times I submitted that request before anyone in Paris deigned to listen.”

Messmer’s voice softened, losing its bureaucratic edge. “René, René, René! Consider the human cost. Your kid brother, Marc, was actively serving right there in Cameroun. How much blood and sacrifice could France possibly demand from a single family?”

René dropped his gaze to the dark amber liquid in his glass, shaking his head in silence.

“I am deeply sorry about Marc.”

René looked up, his jaw set, his eyes flashing with a cold, resolute determination. “He is dead, and we have a war to win. Those communist-backed bandits in the jungles and grasslands there must not be allowed to succeed.”

“I am glad you are committed to the land your brother sacrificed his life for. The New France won’t be led to flee French Cameroun or Algeria as left-led France abandoned Indochina to Ho Chi Minh’s red bandits. Général Charles De Gaulle is back, and so too is our glory.”

“I like your language,” René said, sipping his brandy and licking his lips.

“You won’t believe it if I tell you that the first native we put there as prime minister wanted me to authorize the army to use Napalm on Um Nyobé’s people. He wanted us to ‘wipe the Bassa people out’, as he put it.”

“André-Marie Mbida, you mean?”

Messmer nodded. “André-Marie Mbida himself.”

“He is a moron.”

Messmer nodded again. “His utterances against Um Nyobé and his UPC partisans is making our campaign look bad.”

“Good, you understand the liability we created. He certainly is a bad son of a bitch, but he is our son of a bitch for all I know. The Americans have a better way of phrasing it, don’t they?”

René nodded. “My experiences in Cameroun taught me that Mbida’s ethnic group is not fond of the Bassa people. So, you understand why I think getting rid of this Mbida guy was the right thing to do. All the same, we must not ostracize the other Beti groups or the collective Beti people in the process. They are a strategic asset in our control of that land.”

“You are right about the Beti factor. Andre-Marie Mbida is gone, and now we have our new man as the prime minister there. He would be a lot more useful in serving our designs. If you ask me, getting rid of André-Marie Mbida was the only good thing Jean Ramadier did when he replaced me as the High Commissioner of Cameroun.”

“The bastard! I heard he was planning to lift the ban on the UPC and make it legal again.”

“Had Jean Ramadier succeeded, our entire project in Central Africa would have been put in disarray,” Pierre Messmer said grimly. “In barely three weeks, he managed to set us back years. Legalizing the UPC would have opened the door for our enemies to seize our Cameroun.”

Messmer paused, his expression darkening.

“What's more alarming is that we learned of his intentions almost as soon as he arrived there. The man had maintained exceptionally close relations with Sékou Touré during his tenure as High Commissioner in Guinea. Touré was already a symbol of anti-colonial defiance throughout French Africa at the time. Once we put the pieces together, it became obvious. Ramadier had to be removed from Cameroun, and quickly.”

“I never trusted the left,” René replied. “That distrust goes back to the Resistance years. Men like Ramadier always place ideology above national interest.”

“A trait he inherited from his father,” Messmer said.

“Like father, like son.”

“Indeed.”

For a moment, Messmer stared into his glass.

“Although,” he said thoughtfully, “the son has gone even further than the father. Paul Ramadier remains a puzzle to me. In 1947, as Prime Minister, he broke with the Communists and expelled their ministers from government. Yet his son seems incapable of drawing such distinctions. He embraces African communists.”

“You have a point there, Mon Commandant.”

Messmer nodded.

“Still, despite all his faults, Jean Ramadier did accomplish one useful thing. He pulled the rug out from under André-Marie Mbida. Beyond that, however, the real work remains before us. Our long-term plans for Cameroun and the rest of French-speaking Africa are far from complete.”

“How is Ahmadou Ahidjo progressing?”

A faint smile crossed Messmer's face.

“Good. Better than expected, in fact. I see you've been keeping up with developments in our Cameroun. So far, he has been serving his purpose admirably.”

“Excellent.”

The room fell silent for a moment.

Then Messmer leaned forward.

“René, we are entering a new age. Across Africa, the colonies and territories are demanding a greater say in their own affairs. They know where they want to go, or at least they think they do. The question is whether they will arrive there under our influence or under someone else's.”

“It must not end as it did in Indochina,” René said sharply. “Today, the communists roam freely across Vietnam.”

“I couldn't agree more. Général Charles de Gaulle shares that view. France is preparing to loosen its grip, but not to abandon its responsibilities. There is a difference.”

Messmer's voice hardened.

“The British seem content to walk away. They grant independence and then turn their backs as if nothing more concerns them. Meanwhile, Soviet influence spreads through Asia and Africa. Nasser challenges the West in Egypt. Ghana speaks the language of non-alignment while entertaining Eastern bloc interests. Burma drifts uncertainly between worlds. Everywhere, Moscow searches for opportunities.”

René exhaled heavily.

“Our leaders showed the same weakness when they allowed Indochina to slip away.”

“Yes,” Messmer replied. “And if we lose our nerve again, Africa may follow. What seems like a ripple today could become a tidal wave tomorrow.”

The words hung in the air.

“Look around us. Nationalist movements are multiplying. The winds of decolonization are gathering strength from Dakar to Brazzaville, from Tunis to Douala. If our Cameroun and Algeria are lost, the consequences will reach far beyond those territories.”

He tapped a finger against the table.

“France has strategic interests in Africa, René. Economic interests. Military interests. Political interests. Once relinquished, they cannot simply be reclaimed. If France wishes to retain influence after we let go of our empire, then the Algerian rebels and the Kamerunian nationalists must be defeated.”

“You're right,” René said, nodding slowly. “During my years in America, I learned an important lesson. The heart of power lies not in ideals but in interests. Wealth, influence, prestige, security, all flow from the ability to identify and defend what matters to you. Nations are no different. Those that cannot protect their interests eventually become subject to the interests of others.”

He leaned back.

“France has immense interests in Africa. Whether we preserve them or surrender them is entirely our choice. That decision cannot be based on sentiment alone. Like it or not, our destinies have become intertwined with those of the francophone territories. We shaped their institutions, their economies, their administration. We are bound together by history.”

Messmer's lips curled into a faint, approving smile.

“I couldn't have said it better.”

René continued, his voice growing more reflective.

“Perhaps history assigns responsibilities to nations just as it does to men. France was drawn into the destiny of these peoples long ago. Through education, infrastructure, law, language, and administration, we helped reshape their societies. Whether one views that legacy with pride or criticism, it cannot simply be erased.”

He looked directly at Messmer.

“To walk away now, pretending no bond exists, would not free us from responsibility. It would merely postpone the consequences.”

Messmer laughed softly and spread his hands.

“René, my friend, you've expressed the matter beautifully. There is both philosophy and strategy in what you've said.”

His eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

“Yes, I like your philosophy very much.”

René nodded with a smile. “Merci, Mon Commandant!”

“I want you by my side in French Cameroun,” Pierre Messmer began, cracked his knuckles, and then continued, “I need someone who can direct the wind while I am away as my duties expand to French West Africa. I see a lot of political developments taking place in Francophone Sub-Saharan Africa by the end of the year. Général Charles De Gaulle, you, I, and a host of other like-minded patriots think we should have the right order and the right Africans in place before we allow the colonies and territories there to become members of the United Nations Organization.”

“You are right.”

“Our purpose should be for the new France,” Pierre Messmer intoned and rested his hand on René’s shoulder.

René nodded. “I agree with you.”

“That’s why I think you have a strong shoulder to lean on,” Pierre Messmer said, dropped his hand and caressed his chin. Then he nodded and added, “I see your focus is on French Cameroun. I cannot count the number of times I told the buffoons who were in power in Paris that the war in our Cameroun is winnable. Very few of the leftist sissies in the past governments believed me. Oh! They disheartened me. I am glad they are gone.”

“I understand your position. Believe me, I do.”

“I have devised a strategy,” Pierre Messmer said, a faint guttural chuckle escaping his throat. “In truth, I look forward to working with you and other loyal patriots to refine and carry it out. Cameroun presents us with a rare opportunity, René, to put into practice the lessons and theories of counterinsurgency warfare forged in Indochina. What we learned in Vietnam need not be lost.”

“How?” René asked, his eyes narrowing with curiosity.

Messmer leaned forward in his chair.

“This is how we shall proceed. Across French Cameroun, we will establish what I call pacification zones. Once those zones are in place, we will sever the link between the civilian population and the rebels hiding in the forests and hills. Villagers scattered across remote hamlets will be relocated to organized roadside settlements within these secured areas. There, they will live under the protection of our troops and of loyal French Cameroonians who accept the authority of France.”

He paused before continuing.

“Without food, intelligence, recruits, or shelter from the local population, the guerrillas will find themselves isolated. Their strength comes from the people. Remove that support, and their resistance will gradually wither. The zones themselves need occupy no more than two percent of the territory. Yet within that small portion of land, we shall concentrate and control the population that sustains the rebellion.”

René stared into his glass.

“We must not lose again,” he said quietly.

Messmer's expression hardened.

“We will not. Defeat is not an option.” He fixed René with an unwavering gaze. “There are many reasons I have chosen you, but above all it is because of your resolve. You possess the determination required to secure victory for France in Cameroun.”

He rose and slowly crossed the room.

“Our mission in Africa is not merely political, René. Nor is it simply a matter of tradition or national interest. Men may explain it in different ways, but I believe it belongs to something larger than ourselves. It rests upon conviction, upon faith in France and her civilizing destiny. Such a belief leaves little room for doubt.”

“I agree with you, Mon Commandant,” René replied.

He reached for the brandy bottle and refilled their glasses. The amber liquid glowed beneath the lamplight.

“Vive la France!” he declared, his words carrying the force of a battlefield cry.

“Vive la France!” Messmer echoed.

He drained his glass in a single swallow. For a moment silence settled between the two Frenchmen. Then, almost instinctively, he began humming the melody of LE CHANT DES PARTISANS―Chant de la Libération (THE SONG OF THE PARTISANS ― Song of the Liberation) by the Russian-born French singer-songwriter and guitarist Anna Marly, which became the anthem of the French Resistance and the Free French Forces during the dark years of the Second World War. The song had traveled from occupied France to battlefields across Europe, becoming a symbol of defiance, sacrifice, and national redemption.

René recognized the tune at once. His voice joined Messmer's, and together they sang the words that generations of French patriots had carried into struggle:

Ami, entends-tu Mate, do you hear

Le vol noir des corbeaux The dark flight of the crows

Sur nos plaines? Over our plains?

Ami, entends-tu Mate, do you hear

Les cris sourds du pays The muffled clamor

Qu'on enchaîne? Of enchained countries?

Ohé! partisans, Hey, partisans,

Ouvriers et paysans, Workers and peasants

C'est l'alarme! This is the signal

Ce soir l'ennemi Tonight the enemy

Connaîtra le prix du sang Will know the price of blood,

Et des larmes! And tars!

Montez de la mine, Join the sabotage,

Descendez des collines, Get off the hills,

Camarades! Comrades!

Sortez de la paille Get out of the straw

Les fusils, la mitraille, The rifles, the grape-shot,

Les grenades... The Grenades…

Ohé! les tueurs, Hey, killers,

A la balle et au couteau, With a bullet or by knife,

Tuez vite! Kill swiftly!

Ohé! saboteur, Hey, saboteur,

Attention à ton fardeau: Pay attention to your burden:

Dynamite! Dynamite!

C'est nous qui brisons It's us who are smashing

Les barreaux des prisons The prison bars

Pour nos frères, For our brothers,

La haine à nos trousses, The hatred at our heels,

Et la faim qui nous pousse, And the hunger that drives us,

La misère... The misery…

Il y a des pays There are countries

Ou les gens au creux de lits Where people deep in their beds,

Font des rêves; Weave dreams;

Ici, nous, vois-tu, Here, we, you see,

Nous on marche et nous on tue, We march, We kill,

Nous on crève. We die.

Ici chacun sait Here everyone knows

Ce qu'il veut, ce qui'il fait What he wants, what he does

Quand il passe... When it takes place…

Ami, si tu tombes Mate, if you go down,

Un ami sort de l'ombre A mate out of the shadows,

A ta place. Takes your place.

Demain du sang noir Tomorrow black blood

Séchera au grand soleil Will be drying under the sun,

Sur les routes. On the roads,

Sifflez, compagnons, Whistle, companions,

Dans la nuit la Liberté At night, freedom

Nous écoute... Is listening to us…

"Merveilleux," René whispered at the final, haunting notes of the song, his head shaking in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. "How it moves us. It was that very fire that drove us to claw back our honor from the Germans."

Pierre Messmer nodded, his knuckles whitening as his grip tightened around his glass until the muscles in his forearm strained. "And now they dare to borrow our ghosts. They call themselves Maquis—as if cloaking themselves in the name of our rural guerrilla bands from the Occupation will somehow launder their treachery into respectability."

"As if there is a single drop of common blood between them and us," René growled, the memory of real sacrifice souring his tongue.

"The vermin," Messmer snarled.

"Merde."

Silence stretched between the two men, heavy and suffocating, until Messmer slammed his glass down, the amber liquid sloshing over the rim.

"Damn the UPC! Damn Um Nyobè! Damn Moumie! Damn Kingué! Damn Ouandie! Damn Osendé Afana!" he exploded, the names tearing from his throat like shrapnel.

Hours later, René stepped out into the crisp Parisian night and into the shadow of the imperial ministry building, a sharp, triumphant smile cutting across his face.

For weeks—ever since his disembarkation from the United States—a gnawing uncertainty had eaten at him. He had spent every waking hour wondering if the Overseas and Defense Ministries would bury him in bureaucracy or, worse, pass him over entirely for the French Cameroun posting. He had needed this. He needed to be the hand that crushed the Cameroonian insurgency once and for all.

And just as despair had threatened to take root, Pierre Messmer had materialized from the smoke-filled halls of power, dropping a high-profile, lethal commission straight into his lap. Trust territory or not, French Cameroun was about to become a battleground—and René was going to lead the charge.

Flash of the Sun

Book 1 of 2: Compradors Series

Some Top Cameroonians who have been very critical in their writings against French neo-colonialism and the abysmal autocratic regime of Paul Biya of Cameroon

2026-08-12T16:02:49.037-07:00

Prominent Cameroonian and international authors, intellectuals, and critics who have famously used their writing to condemn French neocolonialism and the comprador authoritarian regime of Paul Biya, facing exile, imprisonment, and censorship for exposing state oppression and systemic corruption include:

Key Writers and Critics

Janvier Tchouteu (also writing as Janvier Chouteu-Chando): A prominent Cameroonian author and researcher known for critiquing the long-standing administration of President Paul Biya and examining the structural ties between France and Cameroon's political establishment. His non-fiction works argue that post-independence governance in Cameroon operates as a French-backed system. Author of political non-fiction such as Cameroon: France's Dysfunctional Puppet System in Africa, Cameroon: The Haunted Heart of Africa, and Africa's Shackled Heart, focusing on autocratic longevity and foreign design.
Patrice Nganang: A US-based Cameroonian novelist, poet, and literature professor at Stony Brook University who has repeatedly faced arrest and detention for his sharp essays and social media commentary lambasting Paul Biya's autocratic governance and crackdowns.
Haman Mana: A journalist and author—noted for his critical publications like In new book: Haman Mana tears Biya regime into pieces—who dissects institutional failures, security crises, and the marginalization of regions under Biya.
Achille Mbembe: A world-renowned Cameroonian philosopher and political theorist whose extensive writings on postcolonialism, African sovereignty, and governance heavily critique authoritarian models and ongoing Western/French dominance in Francophone Africa.
Mongo Beti: Though passing away in 2001, this legendary Cameroonian novelist and essayist set the foundational tone for decades of anti-imperialist and anti-dictatorial writing, famously targeting both the Ahidjo and early Biya regimes alongside French neo-colonialism in works like Main basse sur le Cameroun.

Disciples of Fortune

by Janvier Chouteu-Chando ,

Triple Agent, Double Cross

Book 2 of 2: Compradors Series

Flash of the Sun (Compradors Series Book 1)

Book 1 of 2: Compradors Series

CAMEROON: The Haunted Heart of Africa

by Janvier Tchouteu,

Cameroon: France’s Dysfunctional Puppet System in Africa

by Janvier Tchouteu,

Quelques éminentes personnalités camerounaises qui ont écrit pour dénoncer le néocolonialisme français et le régime autocratique désastreux de Paul Biya au Cameroun.

2026-08-12T15:41:09.932-07:00

Des auteurs, intellectuels et critiques camerounais et internationaux éminents, qui ont utilisé leurs écrits pour condamner le néocolonialisme français et le régime autoritaire comprador de Paul Biya, faisant face à l'exil, à l'emprisonnement et à la censure pour avoir exposé l'oppression étatique et la corruption systémique incluent :

Auteurs et critiques clés

Janvier Tchouteu (également sous le nom de Janvier Chouteu-Chando) : Auteur et chercheur camerounais de renom, connu pour avoir critiqué l'administration de longue date du président Paul Biya et examiné les liens structurels entre la France et l'establishment politique camerounais. Ses ouvrages non fictionnels soutiennent que la gouvernance post-indépendance au Cameroun fonctionne comme un système soutenu par la France. Auteur de non-fictions politiques telles que Cameroun : France's Dysfunctional Puppet System in Africa, Cameroon : The Haunted Heart of Africa, et Africa's Shackled Heart, axé sur la longévité autocratique et le design étranger.
Patrice Nganang : Romancier, poète et professeur de littérature camerounais basé aux États-Unis à l'université de Stony Brook, qui a à plusieurs reprises été arrêté et détenu pour ses essais incisifs et ses commentaires sur les réseaux sociaux critiquant la gouvernance autocratique et la répression de Paul Biya.
Haman Mana : Journaliste et auteur — connu pour ses publications critiques comme In new book : Haman Mana tears Biya regime in pieces — qui dissèque les échecs institutionnels, les crises sécuritaires et la marginalisation des régions sous Biya.
Achille Mbembe : Philosophe et théoricien politique camerounais de renommée mondiale dont les nombreux écrits sur le postcolonialisme, la souveraineté africaine et la gouvernance critiquent fortement les modèles autoritaires ainsi que la domination continue de l'Occident et de la France en Afrique francophone.
Mongo Beti : Bien qu'il soit décédé en 2001, ce légendaire romancier et essayiste camerounais a donné le ton fondamental à des décennies d'écriture anti-impérialiste et anti-dictatoriale, visant célèbrement à la fois les régimes Ahidjo et des premiers régimes Biya ainsi que le néocolonialisme français dans des œuvres comme Main basse sur le Cameroun.

uteu-Chando

L’ÉCLAIR DU SOLEIL (Série Compradors) (French Edition)

French Edition | Book 1 of 1: Série Compradors | by Janvier Chouteu-Chando, Janvier T. Chando, et al.

Le Cameroun: Le Cœur Hanté de l’Afrique (French Edition)

French Edition | by Janvier Tchouteu and Janvier T. Chando

UN DÉCÈS À GENÈVE QUI A MENÉ UNE NATION DANS UN COMA ET QUI A TRAUMATISÉ L’AFRIQUE: L'assassinat de Félix-Roland Moumié et la libération inachevée du Cameroun (French Edition)

French Edition | by Janvier Tchouteu

L'Unité du Cameroun: et Le «Cameroun Nouveau» (French Edition)

Edizione Francese | di Janvier Tchouteu

LE CAMEROUN: Le Système de Marionnettes Dysfonctionnel de la France en Afrique (French Edition)

Edizione Francese | di Janvier Tchouteu

Pourquoi le Cameroun a Besoin d'un Changement Fondamental: et d'Autres (French Edition)

Edizione Francese | di Janvier Tchouteu

CAMEROON: A Case of Social Engineering by the Neo-Colonialist Faction in France's Political Establishment (English Edition)

Edizione Inglese | di Janvier Tchouteu

TWO PATHS OF DEMOCRATIZATION ― CAMEROON AND GHANA: How France’s Political Mafia and the Regime of Cameroon’s Paul Biya Created the World’s Most Notorious Election Rigging Machinery (English Edition)

Edizione Inglese | di Janvier Tchouteu

CAMEROON: The Haunted Heart of Africa

Avoiding World War 3 (Drawing from an analysis of the book "THE SHOTS THAT IGNITED A BLOODBATH: The Assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria-Hungary)

2026-08-09T18:44:41.610-07:00

Janvier T. Chando’s THE SHOTS THAT IGNITED A BLOODBATH: The Assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria-Hungary (independently published, 2020; roughly 112-114 pages) is a concise popular history that frames the June 28, 1914, killings in Sarajevo as both a personal tragedy and the spark for the twentieth century’s defining catastrophe.

The author, a multicultural writer (raised across the United States, the Netherlands, Russia, and Cameroon) known for novels and nonfiction on political assassinations, geopolitics, and African history, presents the event through the lens of rising ethnic nationalism, imperial fragility, and missed opportunities for reform. The book positions itself as an “honest, insightful, and unique account” of the atmosphere preceding World War I, with explicit claims that its perspectives remain relevant to contemporary turbulence.

Core Narrative and ThemesThe work situates early-twentieth-century Europe as a continent of empires under strain from ethnic nationalism. Leaders respond by tightening alliances, yet the multi-ethnic Austro-Hungarian Empire—straddling major language groups and nationalities—appears most vulnerable. The author notes the surprising loyalty many subjects still felt toward the aging Emperor Franz Josef, which held the mosaic together for a time. At the center stands Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the heir whose open-mindedness, progressive administrative instincts, and tenacious character, in the author’s telling, promised to modernize the empire and turn it into a “beacon of hope.” His marriage to Sophie (Countess Chotek), depicted as one of the world’s great love affairs, is treated as a symbol of unity for an empire desperate for cohesion. The assassination by a group of young men trained, armed, and funded by Serbian fanatics (linked to networks associated with Young Bosnia and the Black Hand) extinguishes that potential and ignites “the greatest war of its time,” whose consequences still reverberate. The book’s emphasis falls less on exhaustive military or diplomatic minutiae than on atmosphere, human drama, and contingency: the personal stakes of the archduke and duchess, the explosive force of nationalism, and the way a single act of violence cascaded through a brittle system of alliances. The author underscores the transformative power of political murder—consistent with themes in his broader body of work on assassinations that redirected nations and regions—and invites readers to extract lessons for today’s world of ethnic tensions, great-power rivalries, and fragile multi-ethnic states.StrengthsThe volume’s chief virtues are accessibility and focus. At under 120 pages, it offers a readable entry point rather than a dense scholarly monograph. By humanizing Franz Ferdinand and Sophie—stressing the progressive possibilities of his prospective rule and the inspirational quality of their union—the author gives emotional weight to an event often reduced to a dry “trigger.” The framing of Austro-Hungary’s internal diversity and the external pressures of nationalism feels particularly pointed for modern audiences confronting similar fractures. The explicit linkage to contemporary relevance (“powerful perspectives that can change our turbulent world for the better”) gives the narrative a didactic clarity that many purely academic treatments avoid.Limitations and ContextThe book necessarily prioritizes synthesis and interpretation over original archival research or exhaustive engagement with scholarly debates. Historical specialists continue to argue over the precise degree of Franz Ferdinand’s reformism, the exact nature and extent of official Serbian involvement, the relative weight of structural factors (alliance systems, militarism, imperial decline) versus contingency, and whether the archduke’s survival would have meaningfully altered the trajectory toward war. The author’s portrayal leans toward the “lost progressive opportunity” view; readers seeking the fullest range of interpretations will still need complementary works such as those by Christopher Clark, Sean McMeekin, or specialized studies of the July Crisis. The brevity that makes the book approachable also limits depth on the complex diplomatic aftermath, the internal dynamics of the Black Hand and Young Bosnia, or the wider European context beyond the immediate Austro-Serbian flashpoint. Few independent critical reviews appear readily available, consistent with the book’s niche, self-published status and multiple-language editions.

Overall Assessment
Janvier T. Chando’s THE SHOTS THAT IGNITED A BLOODBATH: The Assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria-Hungary succeeds as a compact, emotionally engaged introduction that refuses to treat the Sarajevo assassination as mere historical inevitability. It restores the human dimension—the love story, the reformist hopes, the fanaticism of the young assassins—and insists on the lasting resonance of how nationalism, alliance politics, and a few shots can unravel an order. For general readers seeking a clear, perspective-driven account rather than a definitive scholarly treatment, it delivers a polished and purposeful narrative. Those already steeped in the literature will find it useful primarily as a concise reminder of the personal and atmospheric dimensions that pure structural analyses sometimes underplay. In an era still marked by ethnic tensions and great-power friction, the author’s insistence that the past offers usable perspectives remains the book’s most distinctive claim.

THE SHOTS THAT IGNITED A BLOODBATH: The Assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria-Hungary

Misunderstanding Russia, Russians, The Soviet Union, The Russian Empire, and Eurasia (Excerpt from the 1990s novel "The Union Muzhik)

2026-08-09T15:02:57.738-07:00

“That’s not all about it. You will find some kibbutzim and moshavim where people dance gopak, trepak and the different compositions of the lands they emigrated from around campfires at night. Even little children sing ballads from Morocco, Iraq, and Yemen. I didn’t mention the fact that they danced polka and mazurka in my kibbutz. I don’t have to belittle the obvious by saying that those compositions are from the west of our dead Soviet Union.”

“Don’t say that, Comrade Andrei Yeremenko. Even though the Soviet Union is dead, our union—the Soyuz Republic of Muzhiks—is still alive and waxing strong. We are reliving the Soviet Union in another form,” the slightly agitated Mikhail Pugo reproached in a monotone.

Yeremenko smiled in self-reproof. “You are right, my dear comrade. I see a successful experiment here, something our misled people can look up to and conclude that they made a mistake by allowing the Soviet Union to collapse. Our success can awaken their nostalgia for the good old and peaceful days. Perhaps our people may decide to come together again.”

Boris shielded his face with the back of his hand and brooded. His recollection of the Soviet Union’s demise was so depressing that he did not know what to say or do. He was still grappling with his unsettling emotions when the clatter of chairs and footsteps around him registered faintly in his subconscious mind, prompting him to raise his head slightly. That could mean only one thing. More people were gathering around to share in the daily tavern discourse. Boris sighed and opened his eyes again, willing himself to be a part of the whole amicable mood around.

“Old Comrade Boris!” Taidje Khanilov called and tapped Boris on the back, stirring him out of his silent melancholy.

“Ah, Comrade Taidje, my friend from the tundra,” Boris replied and shook Taidje’s hand, “Take a seat and join your Union-Muzhik friends. I’m glad you made it here as promised,” he added good-naturedly.

As Taidje busied himself with the search for a seat, the reverberating sound of footsteps could be heard all around the tavern ground, signaling the arrival of more men and women. Most of the new arrivals appeared to have a common thought that resonated in different forms as they gathered around to share in the informative and serene discourses that were the hallmark of the tavern. They wanted to know the identity of the stranger Boris Petrenkov brought with him.

Boris carried on in an oblivious manner like someone indifferent to the developments around him, “Ah, our union!” he exclaimed and sighed as if that would make a difference, “My only consolation now is that we have a new union here in a miniature form. It is a microcosm of our betrayed Soviet Union’s people, in a more successful form, I must add. It is something we must cherish until our last days.”

“I agree with Comrade Boris. Our Soyuz Republic is a noble dream come true, something we should never forsake for all the allure of the outside world,” Taidje said forcefully.

“Phew! What a time we are living through, Comrade Boris. There is tension every day and everywhere in the lands that are close to our hearts. Today, people who were born in lands they adopted and called home are afraid to mention their ancestral origins in public. Even union-nationalists like us, who before were thought to have steel nerves, have become embarrassingly nervous regarding the future of our people in the former Soviet Republics,” Kerbalay muttered, sighed, and then sat back in his seat.

“It is sad,” Eno Gallinin, an ethnic Estonian, bellowed, and then distinguished himself in the crowd by getting up from his seat.

“Explain that!” several voices in the crowd queried him.

“Comrades, I was born in Narva, a town in Eastern Estonia. Minorities, especially people of Russian nationality, make an estimated forty percent of Estonia’s population.”

“What is your point?” Mikhail Pugo bellowed.

“Comrade Pugo, you were born in the fairly Latvian border town of Ludza, so you know what I’m talking about,” Eno Gallinin stuttered.

“Nyet, nyet, nyet, nyet!” Mikhail Pugo growled, “How am I supposed to know what you mean when you have been blabbering about nothing in particular, for all I know?”

“Forget about your comrade friend and tell us the worries that have been plaguing your mind. Don’t worry. I’m getting the trend of your thoughts. Besides, you know very well that he becomes normal only after his fourth shot of vodka,” Taidje said light-heartedly.

“Thanks, Comrade Taidje! My point is that Narva is a border town with Russia. And the majority of its inhabitants are our Russian brothers. Wouldn’t you question the strangeness of the actions of our feeble-minded leaders in Tallinn who have built a border post in Narva, with the sole intention of breaking the age-old flow of human and material traffic to and from Russia that passes through Narva?” Eno Gallinin said with a look of disdain on his face.

“Hmm, a deliberate attempt to create hatred where it does not exist,” Yeremenko said.

“What is that supposed to mean, I ask you?” Eno Gallinin bellowed and then looked around him at the faces of the tavern occupants.

“What is that supposed to mean?” another voice asked.

“The authorities in Tallinn are implying that Russians by ethnicity or by nationality or even by adoption who call Estonia home would have to use passports for the short-distance drive across the border to see their relatives and friends in the Russian Federation or even to do business over there. That is even beside the point. The Estonian government is practicing ethnic cleansing, though in a subtle way.”

“What are you talking about? Ethnic cleansing is a hard combination of words to use, my friend, especially when we associate it with gun-toting thugs in the former Yugoslavia, Iraq, Morocco, and Sudan.”

“There is a reason behind my extreme denunciation, my dear comrades. Even minorities who were born in Estonia are being refused citizenship rights unless they prove their proficiency in the Estonian language. Such a surprising prerequisite defies a major law of nature. The bandits in Tallinn left no room for adaptation to come into play in this case. Do they consider the feelings of those who fought for Estonia’s freedom and of those who labored hard for its reconstruction and prosperity? Did they think of how those fellows would fare before depriving them of their rights in the Estonia they call home? Do they feel the hurt of these people who now find themselves relegated to the status of second-class citizens?”

“Preposterous!” somebody protested from the crowd.

“Preposterous! Preposterous! Preposterous! I’m glad you think it is preposterous. I fully accept your point of view vis-à-vis the situation over there. Dear comrades, please rally behind me and declare to the whole world that the actions of the fundamental nationalists in Estonia constitute abuses of humanity or violations of human rights.”

“Don’t you think you are being too judgmental in a very hard way?” Boris interjected.

“Not at all, Comrade Boris. Their policies constitute abuses, especially if you look at it from the perspective of a patriot who fought so bravely for the liberation of Estonia from Nazi Germany during the Great Patriotic War, or from the point of view of the other who worked hard for its reconstruction and development. Those two categories of patriots have every reason to feel betrayed in their genuine feelings for Estonia. They could even be more committed to the wellbeing of Estonia than the feeble-minded demagogues in Tallinn. Tell me, my dear comrades. Is such an irrational form of discrimination an embodiment of civilization or the twisted price to pay for independence?” Eno Gallinin asked.

“No, no, no…neither, neither, neither...no, no, no…neither, neither, neither…” the tavern occupants shouted in unanimity.

“No, no, no! Of course, the answer is no, my dear comrades. Tell the gangsters in Tallinn whose forebears sided with the Nazis that you, I, and all the rational-minded people out there in the world think they are pimps. We think they are pimps who forgot that they, too, have testicles that can be chopped off,” Eno Gallinin declared and sighed in exasperation.

“I will repeat your views verbatim and make sure they appear next Thursday as a front-page story in our national newspaper,” Mikhail Pugo said.

“And the sad thing is that the hypocritical Western World, known for claiming to be more advanced in civilized values, is quiet about this,” Eno proceeded as if he had not heard Mikhail Pugo.

“Why do you bring up the West again as if you have forgotten that they put their interests above everything else, even above the values they profess to uphold,” Boris said.

“I wouldn’t be surprised at all if we learn tomorrow that they are giving their tacit support to the new leaders in the Baltic republics. Some people in the West still think that their tacit support for the xenophobes is another way of sticking two fingers up at people like us who still think Marx and Lenin found the true key to humanity’s harmony,” Eno said on a sad note.

“Tell us, my dear comrades! Please tell us, Comrade Boris, and Comrade Kerbalay! What is going on? What is wrong with the leaders of the countries that emerged from the demise of the Soviet Union?” Petro Polanski, a Pole by ethnicity, asked.

Boris did not offer an answer. Only a sigh escaped his lips as he closed his eyes and brooded.

Kerbalay thought of keeping his feelings to himself, but the expectant looks on the faces of the men and women around rekindled his spirits and stirred his blood into a state of robust effusiveness. “Comrade Eno!” he called, his agitation rising.

“What have I done now?” Eno Gallinin responded in a teasing manner.

“I was about to say that you revived my rancor by reminding us of the scandalous developments in the lands of the former Soviet Union. Never forget this: We still hold those lands that constituted the Soviet Union dearly because they are the embodiment of our hearts, even though the discriminatory nature of present-day politics excludes us for no apparent reason. We should never forget the fact that the current leaders of those republics deem it so.”

“Madness!” Mikhail Pugo growled.

“I agree with you, my dear comrade. There is no better word to describe the situation in the republics that came out of the Soviet Union. It is madness in its absolute form, my dear brothers and sisters. Please tell me! What has taken over the minds of our people?” Kerbalay asked gruffly, and then sighed.

“You will find the answer after emptying a bottle of vodka down your throat?” Eno Gallinin roared.

“Huh!” Kerbalay grunted and rested his right hand on the bar stool in a majestic manner, “My dear comrades, I’m a Tatar by birth. A Crimean Tatar, I must remind you. My grandfather caused the deportation of his family from Crimea because of his role in the Tatar collaboration with the Nazis during the Great Patriotic War. As Soviets, we lost more than ten percent of our population in that war—more than twenty million Soviet citizens died fighting the Nazis and their allies in the Great Patriotic War, thus safeguarding all that Comrade Lenin spent his entire life building. The point is that Stalin ordered the removal of Crimean Tatars from their homeland and sent them to different parts of the Soviet Union. The authorities settled our family with many other Crimean Tatars in the Bashkir Autonomous Republic, among other places. My dear comrades, I admit my grandfather was a blind nationalist. He was as blind as the new leaders in the republics today.”

“Then, why didn’t the authorities hang him or send him to the gulags, or why didn’t they shoot him and leave him to groan in pain and bleed to death in the streets like that mother of all traitors,” Yury Turchuk, a Zaporozhian Cossack from Dnepropetrovsk, bellowed in a hoarse voice.

“Stepan Bandera, you mean?” an anonymous voice in the tavern asked. It sounded so timid, indicating that the speaker did not want to be in the spotlight.

“Of course, it is Stepan Bandera I’m talking about. Who else do you think could have sold himself so cheaply to our enemies, the Nazis?” Yury Turchuk said.

“I agree with you, my Zaporozhian comrade. Stepan Bandera is a traitor to Ukrainians, to all the nationalities that lost sons during the Great Patriotic War and to all the countries that stood up against Hitler and the evil of Nazism. If you want me to be clear about my point, then this is what I must say: His case is extremely painful because he is the scorn of the past, present and future generations of our people. His collaboration caused the deaths of hundreds of thousands of Soviet citizens. Those losses could have been avoided. Now, back to my lineage,” Kerbalay said in a spirited voice.

“Back to your story! Excuse me for causing the digression by mentioning the name of that schmuck,” Yury Turchuk offered.

“Apology accepted! Now, I was talking about my grandfather. Guess what? His son, who is my father, turned out to be a staunch Soviet patriot who did the incredible thing of defying his almost two-meter-tall father by marrying a Mari woman. This woman’s mother stated on her marriage certificate that her mother was a Byelorussian, even though she did not know her maternal grandfather. That is my lineage, my comrades. Now, you can understand why I try to be rational whenever I talk about people, their origins, and the degree of their entitlement to the places they want to call home.”

“You are a humanist?” Boris said.

“I try to be one, Dear Comrade Boris. I try to be different from the group I’m often associated with. Please do not hold unnatural feelings against people like me because some of our dumb-witted Volga Tatars are pressing for the Tatar Autonomous Republic to secede from the Russian Federation. I’m actually tempted to rejoice because one can look at it as payback or vindication to Boris Yeltsin and his gang.”

“What do you mean?” Mikhail Pugo asked.

“You know the pivotal role the Boris Yeltsin-led Russia played in the breakup of the Soviet Union, don’t you? But I shouldn’t be joyful at all. Yes, I shouldn’t be happy about it because if I do, then I would be like the crazy and blind ethnic-nationalists in the different republics that emerged from the Soviet Union.”

“Allow me to chip in a word or two on the growing Tatar sentiments for secession. I see your emotions are getting the better of you,” Temudin Yakov, another Crimean Tatar in the crowd, offered.

Kerbalay nodded in acceptance, looking broodier than before.

“Comrades, please allow me to express my soft side. The Volga Tatar issue is a highly disheartening one for accommodating souls like us. There is a rising clamor in the autonomous republic of Tatarstan for its secession from the Russian Federation. That does not mean the secessionists are in a majority. The uproar is coming only from the dumb-witted and selfish Volga Tatars who reside in that homeland. Only about thirty percent of the Volga Tatar people are in Tatarstan. There were close to eight million Tatars in 1989. Mustn’t Volga Tatars who reside outside the republic have a say in determining the nature of relations between ethnic Tatars and the other nationalities from the Soviet Union, especially if the relationship is about to be altered?”

“They certainly should,” Boris mumbled.

“My concern is that if the Volga Tatar nationalists accomplish an inconsiderate independence and feed their nationalism on discrimination like our stupid Baltic leaders are doing, then we should expect one outcome only.”

“What’s that?” Mikhail Pugo asked.

“Bear with me, my comrades. I won’t be surprised if these ultra-nationalists lead the Volga Tatars to trample on the rights of the forty-five percent ethnic Russians and the seven percent Chuvashes, Mordvinians, Udmurts and other smaller nationalities. Fear of repercussions, my comrades, has prevented an explosion thus far. But it is hard to imagine hostilities not breaking out when the growing Volga Tatar nationalism becomes xenophobic, and the xenophobes start suppressing the rights of Tatarstan’s minorities?”

“Madness, madness,” somebody in the crowd bellowed.

“Perhaps madness is the right word for the situations in the lands of our hearts,” Yakov continued, “Comrades, we should expect a backlash if things degenerate. The backlash would be on the innocent Volga Tatars who reside beyond the borders of the Tatarstan Autonomous Republic. Imagine the nature of the chaos that would ensue if all the minorities assert their rights and pick up arms? Mind you, we are on a time bomb that the irrational nationalism of our people is only strengthening. I fear the repercussions if it explodes. Hmm, I fear a boomerang in the lands we all cherish. That boomerang may even be worse than the unfortunate developments we are witnessing today in what was before a peaceful Yugoslavia.”

“It is sad,” Boris said with a sigh.

“I am puzzled by man’s tendency to be exclusive in the group he wants to identify with. It is as if all of us are not of mixed heritage? Yes, there is hardly anyone here with a pure lineage,” Yakov said and picked up his drink.

“You are right, Comrade Temudin. All of us here are mongrels,” Taidje interjected.

“No, I’m not. I’m a full-blooded Kazakh,” objected the twenty-nine-year-old Nursultan Bazayev, who only twenty days ago won the National Chess Championship.

“What do you know, my young comrade?” Taidje said with a seriousness in his voice that made Nursultan push back the words he was about to utter. “Yes, you are a Kazakh today, a Kazakh of the Little Juz or Western subgroup. Tell me, what were the people you came from a hundred, two hundred, five hundred or a thousand years ago?”

“You tell us,” Nursultan Bazayev chortled.

“For your information, the Little Juz people are from the Nogais people, whom the Kazakhs defeated four hundred years ago. Interbreeding followed that defeat, and today, the Nogais people of that area identify themselves as Kazakhs.”

“Yes, all of us are mixed breeds,” Peter Miller, an English journalist who was dawdling with his bottle of beer, shouted from the counter, and then leaped from his barstool and faced Taidje.

“What do you mean by that, my foreign comrade? Permit me to call you comrade, even though you are yet to prove to us that you are not here to feed the West with false information about our true achievements,” Taidje said.

“I’m English,” Peter began with a ring of excitement in his voice. “But what were my people centuries or even millennia ago? Anglos and Saxons, they say; Children of Roman soldiers before that, and even cavemen who might have emigrated from the Middle East. I’m considered an Englishman today, for the simple reason that I identify with the English culture, language, food, territory, and history.”

“You are right, our English friend,” said Yunis Selouane, who, as a brilliant teenager, won a scholarship to study medicine in the Soviet Union, “What am I? Who am I? I’m a Moroccan. A millennium and a half ago, our people identified themselves as Imazighen or Berbers, or as Moors and even more. They can’t even say for sure who they were two, three or four millennia ago. Even though the Arabs conquered our people twelve hundred years ago, their influence was limited to the cities and plains. You may not know this, but my grandfather, whose father spoke the Berber tongue called Tamazight, only picked up Arabic after he moved to the city. Before that, he could hardly understand a word in the language from Arabia, being the illiterate that he was. All his grandchildren speak Arabic today, and quite a few of my relatives have Arab blood running through their veins. So, who am I? Am I an Arab, a Berber, a Francophone, or a Moroccan? What would they call my children, whose mother is Udmurt?”

“You are a Union-Muzhik,” Mikhail Pugo shouted.

“I’m a Union-Muzhik too,” Benjamin De Maas chipped in with a raised voice. “I was born in Moscow and call the Soyuz Republic home.”

“No, you are not. You are a South African, and you are considered colored if you need me to be more precise about it. Hah…hah, hah, my Union-Muzhik friend,” Mikhail Pugo laughed and patted Benjamin on his shoulder, “I’m waiting to hear our Zulu comrade’s opinion on this,” he whispered into Benjamin’s ear.

“I consider myself a South African by origin, so I won’t allow anybody to say anything about it,” Benjamin De Maas articulated, assertively moving his shoulders.

“Preposterous. Your parents spoke Afrikaans as their mother tongue. That’s the language you spoke at home as a child. Your English isn’t good enough either, and you can hardly speak a word in any of our African languages. You say you are colored, but I consider you a Griqua,” Thabo Madlala, Benjamin’s Zulu friend, interjected.

“Don’t go there, my friend. I’m proud of my mixed heritage. In fact, I hold no grudge against my Dutch ancestors and extol the Khoisan side of my lineage. Now, do you want to run your mouth? Get on with it. My Khoisan ancestors called South Africa home millennia before your marauding Bantu ancestors, and the thieving Dutch almost drove them into extinction. I’m partly a product of their survival, yet you, the descendant of recent settlers in South Africa, think I’m not South African enough? Madness!”

“Consider my point a joke. That’s how I meant it. Believe me, I applaud you for standing up strong in making your point. You and I can identify ourselves as South Africans by origin and Union-Muzhiks by choice.”

“That’s my point. I curse ethnic nationalism in all its forms. My patria vera, or true fatherland, is the place that enriches my soul. That’s why we are union-nationalists,” Benjamin articulated.

“It is sad! The developments going on in the lands of our people horrify me,” announced Nikolai Mazepa, a Zaporozhian Cossack from Ukraine.

“What have you known all your life besides sadness? Didn’t you reject your mother’s breast milk when you were just five months old, and deprived her of the joy of motherhood even further by clawing at the tits of every woman who carried you, even though all you truly wanted was cereal?” Mikhail Pugo said.

“To blazes with you, Comrade Mikhail,” Nikolai Mazepa shot back.

“To blazes, I go. Now, what is your story?”

“I was about to say that my maternal grandfather told me colorful stories when I was a boy. He was a Don Cossack from Russia and talked proudly of his forefathers who participated in the grim campaigns that resulted in the exploration and consolidation of new lands. They encountered new peoples that they did a good job of befriending. The new nationalities became their compatriots, their brothers, and their sisters. I have Yakut blood in my veins. I’m part Kazakh, Komi, Buryat, Russian, Lithuanian, and Armenian. However, my Cossack blood is the one that dominates. I embrace people who cherish the land I love. I embrace all of them as my true compatriots. Tell me, my dear comrades! How many of our immobile compatriots think that way? How many of them can discard their prejudices? How many of them are capable of accepting other nationalities based on common values and common interests?”

“People with your mindset are numbered like trees in the tundra,” Kerbalay interjected…

The Union Moujik

About the SDF (Social Democratic Front) of Cameroon December 01, 2003

2026-07-18T06:17:42.858-07:00

We are heading towards Nowhere. But unfortunately for the struggle, some people, especially our former comrades still in the SDF and the so-called opposition continue to think that Nowhere is a destination, that the best that we can achieve is in Nowhere. What is sad is that Nowhere is our grave, the dead end for the SDF and the opposition as we have known it in the past decade; it is the SDF’s political suicide.

Janvier Tchouteu December 01, 2003

THE SOCIAL DEMOCRATIC FRONT (SDF) OF CAMEROON: The Role and Path of the 1990-1997 Historic Party of the Opposition in Cameroon’s Quest for Democracy before its Derailment

by Janvier Tchouteu

UN DÉCÈS À GENÈVE QUI A MENÉ UNE NATION DANS UN COMA ET QUI A TRAUMATISÉ L’AFRIQUE: L'assassinat de Félix-Roland Moumié et la libération inachevée du Cameroun (French Edition)

French Edition | by Janvier Tchouteu

CAMEROON: A Case of Social Engineering by the Neo-Colonialist Faction in France's Political Establishment (English Edition)

Edizione Inglese | di Janvier Tchouteu

TWO PATHS OF DEMOCRATIZATION ― CAMEROON AND GHANA: How France’s Political Mafia and the Regime of Cameroon’s Paul Biya Created the World’s Most Notorious Election Rigging Machinery (English Edition)

The Permanent Settlements in the different states in the USA and the European countries or peoples who founded them

2026-07-17T07:11:05.011-07:00

HEGEMON IN THE MAKING: THE BIRTH AND GROWTH OF THE WESTERN ELITE POLITICAL CLASS—From Celtic to Roman to Anglo-Saxon/Germanic

Book 1 of 1: HEGEMON |

MEDIEVAL ENGLAND: The Foundation and Growth of a European Power (THE MAKING OF A EUROPEAN POWER Book 1)

Book 1 of 1: THE MAKING OF A EUROPEAN POWER |