event where Mister Minister was supposed to donate some equipment in favor of a public school in the West Region. From the point of view of his communication team, this would have had a better impact on the national opinion than the television show. Even if it was difficult for me to understand their reasons and make them mine, at the end of the day, I had no other choice than to follow an approved decision. I was still trying to accept that modification of the planning when they notified me of the place of the donation: a village in the northern part of the West Region. That locality had terrible publicity all over the country and all was true: a risky road to reach there. With multiple accidents only this year, some thugs and bandits specialized in holding up and assaulting travelers by using tree trunks to block the road before harassing them; many things were made for this area to be known as the most dangerous place in the country. Adding to the fact that historically, the whole region had always been the base of mutineers and rebels, there was enough to hold any intention of visiting without any other argument. Even twenty years after the latest war in our republic, the place was still full of animosity; hatred toward the government hadn’t disappeared. The most recent evidence of this detestation was the vast riot that took place only some months ago; people were complaining about a government tax, a land tax. The protest movement paralyzed the whole region for months. If it wasn’t because of intense negotiations with the government, the situation would have gotten worse. But although there was a sort of peace since that time, everyone who had the occasion to travel there had always testified about the abhorrence citizens of that region felt. Every representative of state authority was not welcome. So for me, it was such a crazy decision to go there. Besides, schools in need were not lacking in the country, this was a suicide…
But finally, despite my reluctances, I put my feelings aside and follow my unpleasant duties. After a short nap, I did a brief prayer session with my wife then went to my car before heading straight to Waloua. I had to travel with two gendarmes for understandable security reasons; they joined me at the junction before the highway.
However, I was shocked at the beginning of our trip; I couldn’t imagine it was that peaceful and joyful. The beauty of nature carried me into something I had never felt before; a brutal and sweet emotion that erased took away all my fears and made me regret all the apprehensions I had had before taking the road. The wonder ride sent me into a powerful delight and a brutalizing pleasure when I discovered the artistic way the coffee plantations were made. It was as if the farmers of that region had some creative intentions when they planted them. I had never seen anything so amazing. The architectural design of the houses was way more inspirational than the urbanity in which I was forcing myself to get accustomed to in the capital city. The air was so pure that I felt I was in heaven; a sweet humidity touched my skin, leaving me with a juicy sensation as our car was facing the wind. From time to time, especially whenever we had to stop at the transport tax office, we found ourselves in the middle of a huge crowd of aggressive sellers; an authentic demonstration of rural people’s resourcefulness. Even though most of them were teenagers, they all showed a remarkable ability to attract customers and perseverance to sell at least one of their products. They presented to us some good food I could hardly find in the city at cheap prices, and various regional provisions like cassava baton, pistachio meal, etc. Their outstanding kindness and their seductive approach rudely challenged the usual and tyrannical domination of my stinginess. I couldn’t resist for long with the addition of a guilty feeling of not helping young people in their legal hustle in a region known for its high rate of criminality. Unsurprised, I bought some things for myself and my family.
Desolately, the rest of the trip before reaching Waloua was very much more disappointing regarding this surprising start; it came as a poignant confirmation of my multiple apprehensions. Just some yards after the tax office, the juicy paradise was disappearing and replaced by a dark and pathetic picture before us. Everything was sorrowful; the indication plate that welcomed people was a sufficient sign of poverty and desperation. After all these years, the place still looked like a war zone, think Syria or Libya. The atmosphere was terrorizing as if we were in a haunted house with demons everywhere. I felt like one of those crazy reporters ready to risk their lives for professional motivations in hostile territory, so enthusiastic in their job that they finally become mad enough to accept anything.
How could they live in this misery? Poverty was running all over! Even basic things were lacking; how were they able to survive? Why all this treatment from the rest of the country? Why was the government so silent about that? It is a shame that even after all these years, many of us still considered these people as rebel supporters. Leaving them with no resources to live. Treating them with no mercy as the most hated enemies ever. We will all have to respond to this injustice one day.
It took me a long time before reconnecting my head to the mission I was assigned to do; I had never felt so pained. But as I was now trying to move over and start thinking about the first people to meet in the village, I saw a group of about ten young men coming right at our car with hostile and unsympathetic looks. And when I looked in the car to see the reaction of my bodyguards, I saw tension burning in their eyes and anger all over their body language. Their muscles were already tightening up, the rage was dominant on their faces, and their fists were clenched ready to destroy their opponents. Just some seconds later, as I was looking back at those young guys to convince myself they were not that hostile, I heard the backseat door opening and subsequently; I realized one of the gendarmes was already out and was facing the youth with his gun pointed at them and ready to kill.
“Where do you think you are, man? We’re in Waloua here man! Go ahead! Shoot! You will have to kill the entire village, man!” One of the guys said with confidence, he seemed to be their leader from the way he was behaving. Tension made him uglier in my eyes. Surely, his domination on the member of his gang was due to his hideous face because he was the least portly in the group, plus he was as small as a teenager and not really charismatic.
An insecure silence took place after his word. All the challengers were exchanging aggressive looks, gazing at each other face-to-face like in a cowboy movie, a scene that could be cast in the good, the bad, the ugly western movie, with me as the “good,” the gendarmes as “the bad,” and the youth leader as “the ugly”. A little voice in my head advised me to do something before things turn into carnage. With this high tension in the atmosphere, the gendarmes were at the point of shooting those idiots who wielded simple machetes as weapons. I needed to intervene and avoid press titles and international community blames, as they are always ready to blame and accuse African’s governments sometimes without embarrassing themselves of verifying and investigating.
So I suppressed my fears, opened the car door, and addressed the gendarmes in the most polite manner possible:
“Hey guys, it’s ok, put your guns down. Let’s discuss with them, ok?”
After clearly showing their discontent via body language, they finally obeyed. None of them would have felt guilty after shooting and punishing those miserable hooligans.
“Hey! My name is Paul Endenne. I work for the Minister of National Education, and we are here for the charity event organized by the Minister himself for the benefit of your village’s public school. Please, just allow us to carry on with our duty…” I told the youths in an imploring manner.
Strangely, they took my gentle manners as an insult to their authority and started staring at me with disrespect. For them, I was not fearful enough and was too confident as if they could not do anything wrong to me. This was just the normal and predictable conclusion one could expect from terrorist like them since they were used to fear and fright from visitors. As a matter of fact, if a stranger did not kneel before them, it meant he was not afraid or he was impolite. If they could only see inside my brain, they would have realized I was far away from the self-control
