Douala. A bumbling and bustling town. With all shades and colors of characters. People living fiercely. Facing each day with gusto. Everyone in Douala enjoys this town, I think. There’s just something about it.
The politics of the country is the worst, the economy is slowly becoming tougher, the climate is sometimes unbearably hot, but still… still we have la joie de vivre. That je ne sais quoi, a joy of shared community.
Everyone in Douala is like a family to you. Because we are always having squabbles over little things. Is it the market woman whose goods you pushed while passing? She’ll hit you with barbed sarcasm. The inspiration to quickly and wittily hit someone with a stinging comment is always on hand.
Or is it the bike rider, trying to pass between two trucks to overtake with you as passenger? Then you get on his case, telling him you are too precious to your parents for anything to happen to you. He quickly hits back asking you if you thought his parents don’t care about him too. But he will still rush and you both might fall somewhere ahead. Now, what happened to the carefulness he claimed he was applying for his own sake too?
Douala is such a fun place. As the weekends draw near, the feeling in the air changes. People begin to get ready to go out and drink beer very well and correctly. The bars and joints are all full on Friday and Saturday. Girls with crop tops and guys brooding behind a couple of bottles of whiskey, because they think they have done a lot, just by affording the whiskey. If the DJ is not good, we ain’t going there a second time. I mean, with all the new afrobeat songs and amapiano, nobody has time to waste on boring music. The ambiance, oh the ambiance. Darkness, with colored lights and music booming out of hidden speakers. The music vibrates in my body and pulls me to my feet as I rock from one foot to the other. This is so good, let me send a drink to the DJ to appreciate this.
I could go to the central market everyday. Beautiful crop tops shipped in from China every week. Classy outfits, sexy heels. And I do go to the market almost everyday to shop. I tell myself that this is not really like an addiction because I don’t have the things I’m buying. Right? Like look at this glittery pink mini top with it’s dangling strands. I’m actually buying it because I have nothing like it in my closet. So no, I’m not addicted. But tomorrow I’ll be back for a pair of jeans that go perfectly with it.
My neighborhood is not far from the market, just a stone’s throw away. It’s one of the most unsafe neighborhoods in Douala. I was even held at knife point once when I just moved here and my phone stolen. But since then, I have integrated. When I pass by, the boys washing cars by the road greet and ask “grande souer, don’t you have anything for us?” From time to time, I’ll squeeze some cash into their hand. Immediately their countenance change, and they start hailing me. Those boys then alert the thieves, that this big sister is not one for them to mess with.
After work, the kids playing in front of my house will sight me and rush over shouting “tantine Iya” (auntie Iya). Then the hugs and the how are yous. I always make sure to prepare much more popcorn than I need, because they love it when I share with them.
Rosalie, the lady that braids my hair calls me “ma soeur” (my sister), same with Stephanie, the lady that cleans my house. Stephanie’s husband beats her sometimes. The money I pay her helps, I hope, and she always reaches out when there is an outstanding hospital bill or the birthday of one of her kids, so I can chip in.
I used to think that I wanted to travel to America. But all of this goodness is too sweet to give up. This town and these people have embraced me, I am a part of the tapestry.
To think that I would give this up to look for greener pastures is the real definition of thinking that the grass is greener on the other side of the fence.