“When Comes Such Another?” - Reminiscing in the Wake of an Icon: Linus Tongwo Asong

Ever since news of Asong’s death, which reduced me into a state of numbness, I have wept on and off whenever the pangs hit, irrespective of my location, as I continue to wonder about the passing of such a phenomenon with so much unfinished personal and public business. This then was me shedding tears in front of my students, inadvertently though, as I tried accounting for my uncharacteristic lackluster mood in class. I was sharing with them my days back in Cameroon side by side Asong, sharing with them what manner of man he was, when it all happened: my eyes were flooded and drops of tears rolled down my cheeks even as I bent my head, with my fingers brushing away the tears. My class went dead with comprehension.

Even as others reacted almost immediately with distinguished pieces about the passing of this icon, the news was an incubus on my being. All I could do, as I have done especially during the last fourteen years of my life, was think about death, its meaning, and the true nature of man, people not being what they make out to be and so on. In the process I wondered about the value of eulogies, especially as most of the people who say fascinating things about those dead are more likely never to have said these things to them when they were alive, nor do these posthumous revelations benefit the deceased in any way significant it would seem to me. This notwithstanding, I was able to acknowledge that eulogies are significant contributions which tell posterity what contemporaries thought of one by the time of one’s transition. Eulogies, therefore, the role I cherish the most, offer opportunities for lamentation and venting. Accordingly, I have chosen not to wrap Professor Linus Tongwo Asong’s body in verbal shrouds of encomiums and flawlessness, but just to reminisce of the wonderful days I spent together with this rare soul who, I am honoured to say, became more than a colleague, friend, or brother to me.

Meanwhile, as recently as a week before his death, I spoke with Asong from time to time and only once in a while with his wife who always queried me for calling only Pa. This time I had to call Therese aka “Mammy” as she is known to a few of us. It was an opportunity for her to vent, and she did, still sounding strong, but I fear this is that adrenaline catalysed bullheaded rush which comes with shock, that fleeting strength in a driver, for example, who jumps out of his car after an accident and runs off, while claiming to be alright, only to crumble after a while. The point is that as of now she sounds strong and is dealing well with the blow; one can only hope she is never deserted by this strength.

It was some time in 1990 when I stepped in to the secretariat at Ecole Normale Supérieure (ENS), Bambili, to apply for a job with the university system in Cameroon, having just returned home with a Ph.D. As fate would have it, this apparently stern and busy looking man with a baseball cap and thick reading glasses hurried into the secretariat where I was talking to a staff person; he offered a quick “good morning” and walked past into the office of the director delegate, Dr. Omer Yembe. When he re-emerged some minutes later on, he listened to the staff person giving me ideas on how faculty positions advertised would appear in the gazette and all that tasteless jargon reeking of corruption and the lack of transparency. Asong looked at me and asked me a few questions about my background and job search. I answered him with ease, not wondering who he may be. “Okay Sir, nice meeting you; I am on my way back to town.” I said. “You have a ride then?” “No” I answered. “In that case, give me a few minutes and we can go together.” “Thank you,” I replied and stood outside whiling time reading the notice boards of what used to be the main building when I was a student in the Cameroon College of Arts Science and Technology (CCAST) which had now become the administrative nerve centre for a college of the University of Yaounde. I could not help wondering why it was so difficult for the government to give ENS a building of its own even after over three decades in existence. “Dr. Doh,” called Asong with so much familiarity. “Sir,” I answered, “Let’s go.”

As we drove back to town, Pr. Asong talked to me about my specialty, and then navigated our discussions to other literature topics. We sailed from African literature to English, American, Canadian, through Russian literature, for which Asong has a gripping fondness, and then berthed in Literary Theory and Criticism with names like Longinus, Plato, Aristotle, Aristophanes bandied around over and over. In the end, as if whispering to himself, Asong declared repeatedly: “You are the man I have been waiting for.” From then on, he made it his business to see to it that I surmounted the characteristic man-made barriers that were bound to be flung my way as I struggled to be recruited. Experience had taught Asong well.

About an hour had gone by when he dropped me off at House No. 2 on Sacred Heart Campus where I was holding a temporary position. My wife was not home, so he bade me goodbye and promised to stop by again. He came back just several hours after and invited me back into town where there was a high profile party going on. My spouse, who had just returned from work, saw him for the first time. Asong wanted me to meet and know people, some of whom wielded a lot of influence in society, and so began a most interesting and equally adventurous phase of my life.

From 1990 until 1997 when I finally left Cameroon, Pr. Asong and I spent at least three hours a day together, on average, eating, conversing, drinking, sharing jokes, reading, writing, travelling and playing tennis and all what not. These escapades took us to different cities and venues like an off license that was in front of the Kilo residence along the Fish pond street in Bamenda popularly known by the name of the guy who owned it, Jean Paul, where we shared jokes and discussed serious projects from time to time. It is true that most of the people who frequented this off-license did so because Pr. Asong was going to be present there.

With Asong, we were a team willing to dream; the third member of the team was Engineer Charles Fofang aka Charlie Boy, a tall handsome easygoing person. From time to time, Asong called the trio “the unholy trinity.” We dreamed of so many projects: a business centre that would make available medical supplies and equipment supplying medical equipment etc. in our dreary medical world, and also of starting a publishing venture with the name of Patron Publishing House. Asong was later to forge on alone with the latter in spite of events advising against. Even as we dreamed, if we were not at Jean Paul, we were at Low Cost, a mini supper market with an off license section then belonging to one of the Allo’s, but here we were always met by the Proprietor of Allo Comprehensive College Bamenda, Pa Martin Allo. Such days usually ended up with Pa Allo inviting us to his house where his dignified yet easy going wife would feed us for the evening.

This was how we spent our time, and then The crown of Thorns was published. Pr. Asong and his wife came to my house—with samples—where we started celebrating the text even as we planned a book launch. I had a review of the book written; Asong will not look at it. He said to me, “Manu,” “Pa” I answered. “I have done my part; I have written the book, now it is your turn as critics to do what you want with it. Rip it apart if that’s what you feel like doing, that’s your business. True to this declaration, Asong never reacted to any review or critique of his work; never! Our friendship and togetherness was the order of the day by this time. It was always Asong, Doh, and Fofang, and when we got to Yaounde, it was to visit Dr. Ba’bila Mutia who belonged, but for the distance between Bamenda and Yaounde. All of a sudden, Engineer Charles Fofang whom we agreed was to manage all our finances became very sick. We did all we could to reverse his condition. Asong and I were with him on a daily basis at his Atuakom residence where they had been neighbours before Asong moved to Foncha’s Street where he rented for a while before buying a piece of land further inside, off of Foncha Street and started a construction project.

Then Charlie Fofang died. We were devastated. Asong and I cried like children as we lowered Charlie’s body into his grave in Bali. We were still in church with his body when the rigged election results of 1992 which resulted in the uprising that was to culminate in the State of Emergency were being read. With Charlie gone, it was the dawn of a new era in our relationship. Our lives became permanently dazed and unreal without Charlie Boy. He was our driver whenever the three of us went on long distance trips like Yaounde or Limbe and so on. We all loved Congo music and so it was always blaring in our car as we drove, especially our favourite—Nyboma, Pepe Kalle et al’s “Stop Feu Rouge.” Pr. Asong had a way of telling Fofang to slow down even without speaking. I usually sat in front with Fofang and Pa Asong behind. Then all of a sudden as Fofang’s speed increased and was gliding past 130km/h, Pa Asong would suddenly become quiet. When I look behind, he would be clinging to the roof of the car with both hands. All I had to do was call out “Pa?” and he would answer “Yes na, I hold na my parachute so,” and we would all burst out laughing as Charlie Boy slowed down. Pa Asong used to tell us there was no point driving faster that 100km/h because as he put it, it was only a matter of a few minute’s difference, but which could lead to tragic consequences. He said the man who was driving above 100km/h would still be unpacking the car when the man going 100km/h would be arriving. As a result, he always urged us to drive slowly and to try and forget that interstate driving habit we had picked up in Nigeria.

Charlie Fofang’s death crushed all our business plans, so Asong and I now focused otherwise: teaching, writing etc, even as my frustration with the system started mounting. Asong was aware of certain practices within the system that I just could not tolerate and so confirmed my plans. “Leave Manu,” he said to me, “leave! You are still young, and there is a lot for you to learn out there.” Over and over he had shared his experiences in Canada with me until I hungered to visit Alberta, Edmonton and other Canadian and North American cities with names that became second place in my life because of how often Asong talked about these places. He talked about great scholars like Stephen Arnold after whom he, in fact, named one of his sons and so on.

And so in 1997, I left Cameroon, parting ways with a man who had influenced me like non other on earth outside the one who gave me birth. Asong was devastated when I left, but he told me it was the right decision. I never returned to Cameroon on a visit and did not see and barely talked to him for years. Asong was hurt, like many other great friends I used to have, but as soon as he heard what I had been going through which made it impossible for me to stay in touch with him or the rest of the world for years after I left, he suffered deeply for me, incredulous of the human potential for evil. I was not so lucky with other friends who had judged and condemned me without bothering about my side of the story. They believed my silence was a new attitude as a result of my having gone overseas. However, as my health slowly improved, I was able to visit Cameroon more often, and, on each occasion, until I met Asong, it felt as though I was not yet home. His presence during my late father’s funeral and the money he squeezed into my hand reminded me of our time together in Kumba in the early nineties when we went to bury his dearly beloved sister who had passed on. When she was sick, Asong caused her to join his family in Bamenda where he and his very devoted wife and kids did all to keep her happy. She died, and another true friend, Pa. Martin Allo placed his pick-up at our disposal to carry the corpse down to Kumba where this lady was buried. We were a convoy to Kumba and back, Dr. John N. Ndongmanji of ENS Bambili, another very good friend though on the quieter side, was with us.

It was in 2004 when I returned home in search of help with my relapsing condition that Asong told me his own health was beginning to bother him a little. We will skip the details. After I returned to the US, we stayed in touch as I tried convincing him to come out as a visiting professor, in vain. “Manu, there is a lot I want to complete before I can think of that” He would assure me. My idea was that out here he would get good health care; I failed to convince him to come out. Then I went home in 2011, and as usually met with my dear friend, brother, and role model. There was something wrong with the Pa Asong: the light, joy, verve, zeal, spark, that was always in Asong’s face was weaker; he still joked though. He laughed at my troubled look and said “you don see wetin.” Pa and I loved conversing in pidgin because of how well it carried some of his, or should I say “our” jokes and our stories, because not only had I learnt a lot from him, he had proven to me that I also had a lot of humour in me which came out when I was with the right company. He told me that not only had he been very sick, but that he almost died in an accident with one of these travel agencies back in Cameroon. He told me virtually everyone around him died and because he was unconscious he had been taken for dead also. Someone had called his house to report the accident and told his wife that everyone in the vehicle had died. Hours later on, Asong came to, found his phone and called his wife and told her “Yes, it is me, but virtually everyone else died.” My “Pa” now looked tired and with a slight expression on the left side of his face like one recovering from a mild stroke; Pa had suddenly aged. I was distressed. “Manu, no worry ya, your Pa still dey” he assured me. We were at Bob Fullan, an off-license across from his private office around Foncha’s Street Junction Bamenda. Later on I carried out a planned interview with him, given a project I have in mind. My wife whom he loved to call “Mammy,” and I bade Pa good bye. We were to leave the next day for Douala and then to fly out of the country. Little did we know that was the last time I was seeing Pr. Linus Tongwo Asong.

Asong was humourous, selfless, and generous to a fault and would carry your cross, if he believed in it, with the same if not more readiness than you whose burden it was. Accordingly, sometime in 1991 when Bamenda was struggling with the first ghost towns when no taxis were going about, Pr. Asong completely handed over to me one of his family’s two cars, a blue Peugeot 504. He reminded me that I lived far out and needed a vehicle; he would share his wife’s 505 with her he assured me. Remember that we had not known each other for up to a year even. I kept this car until I bought a car for my family about a month later. Asong never asked about his car until I brought it back with Charlie Fofang driving my own new car which we had driven in from Douala. Pa Asong loved my car but he declared: “Emmanu, (as he called me when excited or had good news) one in town car, one in town problems.” Needless to say he was correct; I learned the hard way.

Asong loved sports and so we played tennis for long sessions from Club 58 to Ayaba hotel even as far as Club 88 in Yaounde and back. I remember once when he asked me to go play tennis with him and I told him I did not have any white pair of shorts for the game; upon picking me up Asong handed me one of his tennis shorts to use. His waist line was way bigger than mine then, and so I used a pair to track pants for the game. I had to be present; that was how fond he was of me and of his other “son” Charlie Fofang. Asong turned almost every situation into a joke and laughed all the time. As a result, I told him once that when he would die, people would look at his body and laugh instead; he confirmed it and we all laughed. I was Asong’s spoiled child. He always looked at me like what can I do to or for you. He thought there was so much in me that was not being exploited and so he spent his time trying to figure out how to make better use of me. I was his adopted son and age has nothing to do here given that I could pass for his younger brother. Once I dared (because I was going against Bamenda tradition) to call by his first name alone instead of “Pa” as I have called him forever. He looked at me and determined I was playing truant as ever. He smiled and told me “You must don drink kwacha.” I laughed and we all laughed about it. My obvious audaciousness along with my pretended Western accent was what made it funny.

Pa Asong was a happy man for which reason he was able to churn out joke after joke which transformed the mood about him into a lighter one at all times. If he had any regrets, besides our universal frustration with the socio-political climate which denied us the chance to serve our country well, then he must have kept them to himself. He was never envious and had no guile. If he did not like something about someone he said it out and that was it; he moved on. It is not surprising then that he hated injustice and nothing offended Asong more. In like manner, you offended Asong only once because you never had a second chance. He felt if one could succeed in offending him then that person was evil because of the length to which he would have gone and so he severed any links he had with such a person.

Asong’s faith in religion was badly shaken in the early 90’s at the Small Mankon Catholic Church. Asong had gone to the church premises for some church related function I cannot now recall. All of a sudden he developed a severe stomach upset and desperately needed to use a restroom and so he rushed to the father’s house and rang the door bell for help. A certain priest showed up and Asong explained his condition. Even then, this priest would not let Asong use their restroom; it was not for the public. Asong rushed out of the fenced church premises to a lady directly across from the church’s gate and the woman led him into their home where he was able to relief himself. Asong never forgot this experience; I pray he later forgave the priest.

Asong worked and played hard. He was always surrounded by dear friends as he drank; his only flaw. Yes, Asong drank, but in all our years together, no matter how much he had, I never heard him mix up words, nor did I see him stagger or lose control. He was always reined in and so gave us no reason to complain other than to point to his health which may be affected later on. Because he never said anything in return, I guess he took to heart those moments of faint protestations from me. Even then, the off-license was his portrait gallery, the backdrop against which he conjured, fashioned and painted his characters. It was here that he tested his portraits and the conflicts propelling his plots as he shared the stories with us to measure our reactions.

I cannot stop without sharing some of his jokes which came up whenever we were together. Because of his unique sense of humour, Asong was infectious. He taught me how to enjoy a joke. To him sharing a joke was an art form. He had several jokes that I can categorize thus: The ones he just shared like a story which led to laughter, the ones he created from an immediate situation at hand (spontaneous) and the humour was obvious, and those that he performed and needed an interjection at certain points for the humour to become obvious. Here are examples. Again this is the oral art being arrested in print, and so I can only hope some of the humour can be grasped without tone, attitude, and gestures being heard or seen as Asong performed them:

Category One: (Narrated Humour)

1) Asong used to tell of a man who was once so drunk he was seen standing by one of those electric poles in front of Boulangerie Patisserie at Nkwen with his head slowly moving from his right to his left. After watching the drunk for a while a passerby asked him what he was doing just standing there and staring from side to side. The man answered that he was seeing houses going past in front of him and so he was waiting for his own house to come so he could get in. The passenger reminded him that he was drunk and needed to figure out where his house was and get moving.

Category Two: (Spontaneous Humour)

1) I remember one day when one man who worked at the governor’s office in Bamenda attacked us for not behaving like doctors simply because we were sharing jokes and laughing heartily with the rest of the people in the off-license. The man, completely disappointed at the lack of sophistication and acquired haughtiness he believed befitted our academic standing in the way we interacted, snapped: “I cannot believe this; you people are not behaving like doctors.” True to Asong’s approach to life, he quipped in pidgin “You be don be doctor for whusai for know how wey doctor them di behave.” The man walked away embarrassed as people laughed at him. Now we understood why the man had been standoffish in his disposition. To him, he was a “big man” working in the governor’s office and was here to rub shoulders with academic doctors in whose presence he would have flattered himself as having climbed to the top of society. He was too disappointed to see us mixing with society without putting on any airs. “No wonder he come shidon here like man whey hi woman don beat am fine; make water rain carry your shoes go, foolish man.” Asong added in jest as the group laughed at the man. He must have learned a lesson in humility for we never saw him again at that drinking spot.

2) There were times when upon arrival at a rendezvous spot, I would walk up to where Pr. Asong was already sitting with people gathered around him listening to his stories and I would greet him by calling out “Pa!” He would give me this mean look while asking “Na who you di callam Pa? Na me I born you? Na so wuna di waka spoil man yi market say Pa, Pa.” and everybody would burst out laughing.

Category Three (Group Act Humour)

1) Because we were always sharing a couple of drinks whenever we were together, Pa Asong had a habit of always trying to pour a libation before we could drink. Without anyone expecting such a formality and in an off license for that matter, he would suddenly de-crown his beer bottle, stand up, while holding his figure and face in a most solemn yet ridiculous manner. With the crown in his right hand, propped by the tips of his figure like a tiny cup help by one with arthritis, and the bottle of beer in his left, he would pretend to pour some beer into the crown while murmuring some inaudible words supposedly words of prayer. At this point I would ask him: “Pa na whetin?” and he would answer “You think say I bi wuna wey wuna no sabi country fashion?” Charles Fofang at this point would say “Big man, na off-license this you hear na, no be your house so no disturb people wey them want drink.” Some other person who knows Asong well would urge us to leave Pa to carry on with the country fashion. Pa would then explain that he was about giving a drink to the ancestors. Now those who did not know what he was doing understood his gestures, but then, when least expected, Asong would behave as if he was trying to sprinkle, as a blessing, the beer in the crown on all of us sitting and people would dive for cover behind the nearest person only to realize that he had in fact not even poured any beer into the crown and everyone would burst out laughing. He would then sit down and take a swig.

2) Once he announced to everyone present that he was going home to his house after having been with us for a while. He made sure everyone heard him. Then all of a sudden he rushes back in from outside alarmed and calling out: “Dr Doh! Dr. Doh!” “Pa!” I would answer “Dem don thif my steering.” “Whetin?” I would answer looking shocked. “Come seeam na” he would urge. I would stand up and go out of the off-license with him and so would many others willing to confirm that his steering wheel had been stolen. Dr. Asong would go and open the front passenger door of his car and point to the dashboard saying “See na, I not tell you?” One had to know how to react to give completion to some of his jokes and I learnt this well with time. So in a case like this I would answer back: “Big man, na passenger side this ya, your steering dey na for the other side.” People would burst out laughing with relief as Pa would walk around to the driver side to confirm his error and then would begin apologizing for having disturbed our peace.

3) Pa had the habit of drinking with us, then he would step out of the drinking spot may be to ease himself or something. As he is returning to his sit, right at the door where everyone could see him, he would stop and begin staring at the floor fixedly. This is where Charlie or I came in. “Pa na wetin?” One of us would ask. “I saye-eh? Na who don put steps for this place now–now wey I pass comot?” Then Charlie Boy would answer: “Big man, that mimbo de like yi don begin di work eh,” and everyone would burst out laughing because there were no stairs there.

4) On another occasion, Pa would just walk out of the off license and position himself close to the door where everyone was seeing him and then he would go for his zipper as if he wanted to release himself right there. One of us had to ask:”Big man, na wetin you di do dey.” Our question would catch everyone’s attention and then they would all turn in Pa’s direction and just then he would walk away laughing as people are shouting: “Pa no doam for dey,” and he would ask back laughing “Do wetin?”

5) In 2010 when I went home, I called his cell phone in “speaker mode” and he came on after several rings “Hello, who is this?” I said in reply “Can’t you tell your son’s voice?” “Who?” He asked “I am your son, I answered back.” He replied:”From your voice I cannot remember your mother. Then he heard my wife laughing at his answer and he shouted out “Hey! Manu!” “Pa,” I answered, “Na me.” He shouted and promised to be with us within the next twenty minutes; he came. That was the last time I saw and spoke with Pr. Asong.

Asong was a man happy with what he had, and with his own dreams for which he would not kill himself or anyone else to achieve. He simply lived and enjoyed life; it is for this reason one never forgot Asong after meeting him the first time. How can one say enough so as to do true service to a character so richly endowed, for which reason I chose to share phases of our time together that they may better speak for themselves so that my loss and society’s may be measured from these humble episodes. If only you could hear me now Pa: Thank you Sir for the light you brought into my life, the joy and hope you brought into my years even when I was so sick I could not smile, thank you Sir for the many lessons you taught me. Pa, thank you for your friendship, our time together, your love, trust, confidence, and guidance. You gave me all. May St Joseph, whose product you are, stand by you before the divine throne, and may our Lord forgive you your sins and welcome you home. May He bless your wife, children, and grand children with the strength to accept your departure. Because I will miss you, I continue to shed these tears; however, my consolation is that I know we would meet again and never to part; yes I know, otherwise all that there is would be nonsense. Here indeed was a rare soul, when comes such another?

Emmanuel Fru Doh