Manyu Women's Art & Folklore poetry

African women's art is usually neglected especially because it functions principally in the domestic sphere, but we are beginning to claim our own. In the following poems, Dr. Joyce Ashuntantang celebrates Manyu women art and folklore. Manyu Division is found in the Southwest Province of Cameroon.

Asoreh Love

It was my way of telling you “I love you”
Yes it was.
The white sprawling designs
Captured the intricate passions of my heart.
Each time I poured tachot in it
The aroma mingled with that of our lovemaking
But that was all in my head.
When you dipped your hand in that chalice of gourds
My heart glowed with the smile breaking on your face.
Today, nkwane your asoreh is gone from me
Like you it has disappeared
Just like that.
I saw it break in front of my eyes
Then I knew you were not coming back.
I looked around but couldn’t see
Tears clouded the pupils that dilated for you
But I wanted to keep it,
I wanted the asoreh to stay
Stay in my room, in that corner
Right above my ‘embo
So when I turn at night
You’ll be there, right there
You, my Asoreh love,
But they broke it
So I can be ready for another
Will I be ready? When will that be?
I am broken, like our asoreh
But our love remains, Our Asoreh love.

In Manyu Women crafted traditional dishes for eating called “Epkere”. These were made out of gourds. These were sometimes elaborately decorated with white chalk and engravings Pounded fufu could stay fresh in these “ekperes” for days. In fact for those who are old enough to recall, there’s still nostalgia for overnight fufu and ogbono soup which is a staple in this region. There was also a special type of ekpere shaped like a chalice called an “Asoreh”. This was a special soup dish for the father of the house. Each wife decorated her husbands Asoreh richly. After a husband’s death the breaking of the Asoreh by the “Ebhongu”,  an Ekpe masquerade became the symbolic separation of the living from the dead. It marked the end of the intimate relationship between husband and wife and she was now deemed ready for a new sexual relationship.

Epkere

Three days have passed
Enough for the Christ to rise
Three full days.
I counted as I came to you
Right inside these ekperes
But three days are like one
Trinity for fufu
You are so fresh,
Echieh but fresh
And between my palms
I feel you soft yet firm
The soup is hot
Steaming right here
Three full days
All fufu days

Ngobkodems:

Dawn breaks over your silhouette

Ossing coming in full view

Enchanting the morning of days gone by

Your one arm no longer there

Telling the story of your rape.

The rape of your land

The rape of your people

But your beauty is legend

Your grace a folktale

Songs still carry your name

Even our children too

Bessem, Eyere, Eneke and Efu

Yes the names linger, refusing to die

This morning the mist cleared

Your right leg was gone too

And that pretty face has lost an ear

Then my child cried

Was it for your pain?

Or what I had said?

“Man No Rest” did not stop

So I passed you by quickly

But your image remained

Clearing with the morning light

May be when I return, you’ll be gone completely

But I write you down and here you’ll stay

And I know

You’ll be up again someday

When the rape is over,

The rape of our lands

And our mem’ries of you.

Ngbokodem, our ngbokodems.

A drive through Manyu division and you quickly noticed statues dotted here and there. Most Manyu villages follow a linear settlement, with houses lined on both sides of the highway, so these statues of women are very noticeable as one drives past. These are statues of  what one can term “society women” made up of  princesses and daughters of titled men. These women belonged to a sacred organization known as “ndem” and they were called Ngbokondems. These Ngbokondems went through special initiation ceremonies and at the end they took on special names like Eyere, Bessem, Ebangha, Eneke. Unlike the other children in the family their names were linked to their father’s names and not their mothers. When a Ngbokondem died a life-like statue of her was erected. This statue made of clay was richly decorated by the women. Almost all the ngbokodems are now dead and because of  encroachement of western civilization, their society the Ndehm (fairy) is now almost forgotten, but their names live on and we continue to pass them on to our children. Most of the statues are now heavily destroyed but one can still find them in villages in manyu Division in Cameroon especially in the Ejagham area.

Tambong

My hands weary

Criss-crossing and weaving

But I weave my sleep in between

When I lay me down on my mat,

My Tambong.

My aches disappear

And when I wake

I break in song

“Tambong ayingne nor chingne kpa”

Tambong ayingne nor chingne kpa

And so in spirit I end my day

Once more on the mat

In sweet sleep

Monikim Dancer

I knew I had seen you some where

But my dream was quite vague

Then I stretched on my ‘embo

And you came in full view

Those hips chasing one another

My eyes could not be still

Moonlight playing my game.

Your legs keeping the beat

Took me to your feet

I saw beads jingling in sinc

Foot work artfully paced

I felt you then in my waist

Not just there but below

As my man hit my thighs from side to side

So I tugged my sanja

And fixed my man in shape

Yes I’d seen you somewhere

But that dream was really vague

When I bathed in the stream

Caressing my man

You came again in full view

The white tattoos enhancing your chiseled face

Your pointed breasts like arrows

Shot straight into my heart

I clutched it and could swear

You had seen me in the act

The nipples dark and round

Called my name not once

Or so I must have thought

And so I answer “yes”.

I worhip at your shrine

My moninkim dancer

Today I’ll tell your father

I saw a hen in his backyard

Today I’ll tell him

There’s a ripe orange on his tree

And all the cowries from distant lands I’ll bring

You’re worth more than all I will find

I wait for hunters from the hills of Apiong

I’ll bring a whole deer for your mother today

And eteuhs of palm oil too

Tonight you’ll dance again I know

This time for me I hope.

Let me worship in your shrine

My moninkim dancer

Traditionally the Monikims were young maidens specially selected, beautiful and voluptuous to be part of the “nkim” club.  They wore beautifully decorated waist beads in multiple layers and intricate tattoo pattern on their body. All the art work on these dancers was done by the women. The women dance the “nkim” dance by gyrating their waist and hips which is why a monikim had to have a full body to be effective. The Moninkim dance continues today eventhough the dance is no longer as exclusive as it was in yester-years. The monikim dance is one one of the dances that have been gracefully transported to the African Diaspora by Manyu indegenes.

Wall Painting

My mother led the way,

The men were done

And their drinks caressed their lips

Women’s voices beckoned in song

Hands stamping on the wall

Each hand a witness in color

Color of chalk

of limestone

Color of dreams

Dreams on the wall

Together the women paint

Hands stamping on the wall

Each hand a witness in love

Each hand a support

Each hand a pillar

For hands together, form a shield

And when all is done

the wall stays with us

Each hand follows me

Each hand, a support

Each hand, a shield

So the wall becomes a shield

the hands of our women

Shielding us

Most houses in Manyu villages were made of mud. The women hand-plastered houses after the men had pinned the sticks. Then the men did the roofing, while the women also drew patterns on the walls with white chalk, potato leaves and wood ash. Inside these homes women built “embos” mud beds for sleeping. These beds were also creatively decorated. Women also made mats for sleeping. A favorite mat was one that was called “Tambong”.

Obansijom

The mirrors for eyes reflected the sun

And trancelike danced towards the suspect

Our long necks pushing to see

Were shoved back behind patriarchal lines

Mingling with children was our lot

But like tranced robots we clapped

And cheered our half status

We clapped for she who had pushed beyond the line

And earned the name of “witch”

She waited for her charge

This came in guttural sounds

From the deeps of ancestral lands

Her crime “destroyer of farms”

Not as feeble woman but as elephant

That other king of the jungle

She answered “yes” to all charges

To flee the hemlock platter

After all she was an elephant

Big above man and woman

Bountiful harvests in years

Reaping guilt for poor neighborly yield

She claimed her title “witch”

If it made them happy

Then went back to her farms, only wiser.

Comments

[Ayuk]

this is simply wonderful.
Keep the goodwork.
I have learnt so much about my culture today from your poems.
thank you