Mama always repeated what people said to him. Lost in his thoughts, he hadnât noticed the happiness written on the face of this reborn mother.
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13
A Hell of a Car!
It took a while to get over a visit from Charles Atangana. It wasnât Nji Mama who would announce the chiefâs arrival, but the commotion triggered by the appearance of his car in Mount Pleasant. He came to pay his respects to the sultan, as he regularly did, but this time he obviously also wanted to introduce the yellow-and-black Cadillac, the Golden Car he had purchased at the Colonial Exhibition. Charles Atangana wasnât the first person in the city to have a car. There were a good number of whites who had them. Everybody recognized the high commissionerâs black Peugeotâor had at least heard of it. Njoya also had one; its skeleton, sitting there in the courtyard, had, through lifeâs twists and turns, ended up as a plaything for the children. For them, there was nothing trivial about hearing the roar of a real engineâ vroom! ânor about seeing an automobile appear in the distance and slowly make its way into their lives. When its horn set the universe in motion, even the adults stopped dead, dropped what they were doing, and ran after the machine, shouting and clapping, their bodies clothed in a cloud of dust.
The artisans, servants, even the animals of Mount Pleasant followed the chiefâs vehicle into the sultanâs courtyard. This was just the start of a long-standing fascination, for even after cars had become banal, the Cameroonian government would choose yellow as the color for taxicabs, as if to remind everyone of the chiefâs mythic Cadillac.
This event gave Nebu his first real chance to leave Berthaâs house. How so? The boy just gaily followed the crowd, mesmerized by the machineâs magical movement; that was how he learned to navigate the corridors and gardens of Mount Pleasant. Neither Berthaâs breasts nor her calls could hold him back. No more than could Nji Mamaâs threats rein in the children dancing around the miracle. Not to mention their parents, who stood there gaping. When the chief emerged from his infernal machine and stood in front of everyone, a long cigar in one hand and his foot on the running board, the collective frenzy reached a crescendo. Decked out, hat to socks, in the same color as his car, it seemed as if he were waiting for someone to take a picture. The sultan himself couldnât stay away.
Charles Atanganaâs explosive laughter wasnât enough to silence the din caused by his arrival. Faced with such a technological marvel, the sultan, too, was like a child with new sandals. The chief glowed with pride as his friend walked around the machine, silently examining it piece by piece. Then he opened the door wide, as if inviting the whole breathless crowd into the secret realm of the gods.
âArenât you coming?â he asked Njoya, who had come out without his cane.
Charles Atanganaâs voice rose above the crowdâs chatter and took hold of the sultan, who still hesitated to get into this Car of Light. It was a far cry from Njoyaâs old red pickup truck, you have to admit. Luckily, he hadnât been caught totally off guard, for he was dressed in his best.
âDonnerwetter,â he said at last. âGod damn!â
His daughter Ngutane was the first to get into the vehicle of temptation. No one who knew her was surprised. Ngutane, oh Ngutane! The way she walked was an artistic manifesto. No one could imitate how she swayed her hips from left to right! Years earlier in Foumban, she had been the first to wear a brightly colored fabric that was all the rage in Berlinâa gift from the German schoolteacher, Fräulein Wuhrmann. Afterward she had ordered her tailors to make her a dress fashioned after the boysâ clothes sheâd seen in the Quelle catalogs her Swiss friend collected.
In the Basel archives
Â
13
A Hell of a Car!
It took a while to get over a visit from Charles Atangana. It wasnât Nji Mama who would announce the chiefâs arrival, but the commotion triggered by the appearance of his car in Mount Pleasant. He came to pay his respects to the sultan, as he regularly did, but this time he obviously also wanted to introduce the yellow-and-black Cadillac, the Golden Car he had purchased at the Colonial Exhibition. Charles Atangana wasnât the first person in the city to have a car. There were a good number of whites who had them. Everybody recognized the high commissionerâs black Peugeotâor had at least heard of it. Njoya also had one; its skeleton, sitting there in the courtyard, had, through lifeâs twists and turns, ended up as a plaything for the children. For them, there was nothing trivial about hearing the roar of a real engineâ vroom! ânor about seeing an automobile appear in the distance and slowly make its way into their lives. When its horn set the universe in motion, even the adults stopped dead, dropped what they were doing, and ran after the machine, shouting and clapping, their bodies clothed in a cloud of dust.
The artisans, servants, even the animals of Mount Pleasant followed the chiefâs vehicle into the sultanâs courtyard. This was just the start of a long-standing fascination, for even after cars had become banal, the Cameroonian government would choose yellow as the color for taxicabs, as if to remind everyone of the chiefâs mythic Cadillac.
This event gave Nebu his first real chance to leave Berthaâs house. How so? The boy just gaily followed the crowd, mesmerized by the machineâs magical movement; that was how he learned to navigate the corridors and gardens of Mount Pleasant. Neither Berthaâs breasts nor her calls could hold him back. No more than could Nji Mamaâs threats rein in the children dancing around the miracle. Not to mention their parents, who stood there gaping. When the chief emerged from his infernal machine and stood in front of everyone, a long cigar in one hand and his foot on the running board, the collective frenzy reached a crescendo. Decked out, hat to socks, in the same color as his car, it seemed as if he were waiting for someone to take a picture. The sultan himself couldnât stay away.
Charles Atanganaâs explosive laughter wasnât enough to silence the din caused by his arrival. Faced with such a technological marvel, the sultan, too, was like a child with new sandals. The chief glowed with pride as his friend walked around the machine, silently examining it piece by piece. Then he opened the door wide, as if inviting the whole breathless crowd into the secret realm of the gods.
âArenât you coming?â he asked Njoya, who had come out without his cane.
Charles Atanganaâs voice rose above the crowdâs chatter and took hold of the sultan, who still hesitated to get into this Car of Light. It was a far cry from Njoyaâs old red pickup truck, you have to admit. Luckily, he hadnât been caught totally off guard, for he was dressed in his best.
âDonnerwetter,â he said at last. âGod damn!â
His daughter Ngutane was the first to get into the vehicle of temptation. No one who knew her was surprised. Ngutane, oh Ngutane! The way she walked was an artistic manifesto. No one could imitate how she swayed her hips from left to right! Years earlier in Foumban, she had been the first to wear a brightly colored fabric that was all the rage in Berlinâa gift from the German schoolteacher, Fräulein Wuhrmann. Afterward she had ordered her tailors to make her a dress fashioned after the boysâ clothes sheâd seen in the Quelle catalogs her Swiss friend collected.
In the Basel archives
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