is a well written article. I remember way back when I was young, we used to be asked in class, "what would you like to be when you grow up?" Most everyone would say they wanted to be teachers or lawyers; Many a times my answer would elicit sharp glances from the teachers: A writer, I would say. "You need to get more practical Judy. What would you have of interest to tell to the world? If I were you, I would aspire to be a nurse, now thats a noble profession."

Anyway, I shouldn't put my having not penned anything substantial to-date to negativity by teachers etc; frankly it might be more to laziness, but all in all, it is hard to produce an African writer with all those negative vibes.

Recently, the Langaa Research and Publishing Common Initiative Group in Bamenda has republished Francis Nyamnjoh’s first novel Mind Searching (2007 [1991]). After having read A Nose for Money (2006) which came with lightning and thunder, Mind Searching entered my mind as a thought provoking but gentle breath of air. The central theme in the two novels is the perverse functioning of the political system and its effects on the man in the street, in Mind Searching explicitly set in Cameroon, in A Nose For Money in the fictional Mimboland, a mirror of Nyamnjoh’s beloved and reviled Cameroon. Where the protagonist of Mind Searching, Judascious Fanda Yanda, is presented as a more or less virtuous man in most part of the book, Prospère, the protagonist of the second novel, is far more opportunistic right from the start. Although the idea that greed is stronger than anything else prevails in both novels, it is worked out in much more detail in A Nose for Money.

MIND SEARCHING

As the title Mind Searching suggests, the reader is presented with the detailed river of thoughts of Judascious Fanda Yanda. He is a young man, a pious Christian, living in Briqueterie, a poor neighbourhood of the capital. One of the persons who gives him a lot of food for thought is the very prosperous Honourable Vice Minister, who attends the same church as he does. Judascious Fanda Yanda knows that this minister rends nocturnal visits to a fortune teller behind his shack. When there is a baptism feast at the residence of the minister, Judascious Fanda Yanda decides to “capitalise” upon the piece of knowledge that he has (p.106) by telling the minister he knows all about his secret visits. It appears that this is the key to a better life, providing Judascious Fanda Yanda an entrance to the world of the well-to-do-people: It so happens that the Honourable V.M. gives him a job as his Private Secretary in exchange for keeping the secret. like At the end of the story, Judascious Fanda Yanda can be considered a successful young man, who has moved from the shacks of the neighbourhood Briqueterie to the upper-class quarter of Bastos.

I love to travel. I enjoy visiting distant and new places and learning about new cultures. Of late, however, I have developed a dread for travel not because of a latent fear of traveling by air or road, but more so on account of my strong objection to the increasingly degrading treatment travelers, especially from the global south, are subjected to at embassies and in both northern and southern ports.

My primary objection lies with the fact that the traveler today is subjected to gross violations of his or her privacy and personal rights, demands and practices which a few years ago would have attracted wide condemnation from different quarters. The War on Terror, as well as the desire of western nations to keep migrants (and visitors) from the global south out of northern borders has meant that the civil liberties of populations, especially from the global South wishing to visit the North, are disregarded and even abused.

It's just been a few weeks since Nelson Mandela was taken off the United States terrorism watch list. No doubt so that they too could join in the celebrations of this living icon, without the embarrassment of hoisting up a revolutionary.

I gather that a revolutionary in America is, someone, not quite viewed through the same rose-tinted lens worn by us Southerners.

Mandela made the cover of Time Magazine again this week. It's his fourth time on the cover. I couldn't resist picking it up as I walked past the magazine rack at the local store, knowing well that I was going to be presented with yet another romantic glorification of his role as reconciler.

Not that I disagree with the sentiment. I join the rest of the world in praising the power of his peacemaking in our deeply divided nation. But Mandela is my hero for a few different reasons too. There is much more to our beloved leader than the image of the sanitised reconciler we've been fed since his release from prison.

Ten years ago, in May 1998, I had the pleasure of meeting Hillary Clinton, then the First Lady of the US, for a few minutes in Geneva during the World Health Organisation's 50th Anniversary Assembly. She was one of the VIPs invited to celebrate this event at the WHO which had just passed under the leadership of its first woman Director-General, Dr. Gro Haarlem Brundtland, former Prime Minister of Norway.

Mrs. Clinton's presence was in recognition of her unsuccessful, but commendable attempt, during her husband's first presidential term, to convince her country's legislators to introduce some form of medical insurance for American citizens, some 40% of whom had no medical cover then, and still do not, to this day.