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Religious conflicts and Homophobic bullying: Black African queers

Dernière mise à jour : 4 juil. 2021

As an author, I’m sometimes the host of TV shows. Afterwards, I post the show’s link on social networks. I take the link directly from the TV’s website or from its YouTube’s channel. Lately, I noticed some TV’s YouTube channels disabled comments on few of my interviews.

Please let them belch their anger.

Them must be also free to bark.

The arrows. The spines. Bullets.

Giving or receiving. That must be also freedom.

I really love the purple pink smoke of my joint.

My mother, the light.

Outside, the sun shines like gold. Not sparkling. From afar, beyond the blind curtains of your anger, that useless anger, there’s a small green valley. A cock floating on still waters like a big black swan. Beautiful valley. Beautiful orgy. And there, where I dwell, I mean from my inside, there’s a valley dark like freedom.

As a child, I grew up with my gran parents. Of course, my parents were there too. Of course! But they were so young. I’m the fifth, my mother had me she was 22. She had her first child she was 15. Uhuh. That’s another generation. You can close your amazed eyes. She attended university in Cameroon. A brave wonderful and more than empowered woman. She had to study while having kids: her first fortune. And my father had to work too. He was a laboratory technician. Before he passed away, he was a top brewer at the national brewery company. Merit.

So, I grew up with my gran parents (– and many other mothers and fathers). My gran mother, the mother of my pa was a Jehovah witness. Jehovah Witnesses were very discriminated in Cameroon in the early 90s. I don’t know me why, but I recall people said it was a special kind of religious sect. (Are we talking about religious sects in Cameroon?) Back in those years, I was a kid, a small-small pikin, but I could see how sad my gran mother Marta was. Yeah, sometimes you could see fear, no, no fear, sadness in her eyes. But one day, all that persecution stopped. (Still people mock at Jehovah witnesses in Cameroon?)

With ma gran ma Marta, we go to La salle du Royaume de Dieu. Them Bible is a bit different. Them no want blood transfusion. Them Jesus has shorter hair, a bit chubby, I mean full cheeks, a normal guy you see, not really that white hippy long hair shepherd. Anyway, them Jesus is different from di one we’d watch in Jesus of Nazareth, the favourite movie of my gran ma, mother of my mother.

Colette. One-leg-woman. A long story to tell about her. I hope, with the will of God, I will write a novel about her one day. Smile. Call upon me when the sun will decrease. Light. On you. Call upon me.

Colette was Christian. First Catholic, then EPC (presbyterian church), then Protestant, then EPCatholic, then ProtesCatholic, then Protesterian aaaand finally Evangelist. We believe in the Pentecost. What’s Pentecost? Ok. Let's say Jesus died. And three days later he resurrected. Sorry but also angry withi His people, He said: “Well my cassava friends, you were too bad to me, uhuh, now I’m going back to my Father’s big-big house up there. I no fi take you withi me. Uhuh”. Then His people started crying, mourning oueeen, oueeen, oueeen like smal-smal ewes. Les moutons! Then Jesus said: "Assia oh! Assia ma countri people! Look, I’m not going to leave you alone oh, uhuh I will send you di Hoooly-spirit!",

Burn in me. The pink flame flying right here above my head. It burns. Don't you see? Why should I mourn again? When you got the flame, that specific Pink Flame given by heaven, gratos, you should not mourn anymore.


Ma gran ma Colette was persuaded, I’d become a pastor.


Ma mum’s pa – uh, my mum’s pa. He was Muslim. The Muslim name of my mum is Awa.


My mum’s pa, Lobe, was Aladji. He went to Mecca. Several times.

Sometimes, I’ve been in mosque. Listen to the sweet sound of Muezzin. Joy like a river in my soul. What’s soul? Some-nothing. Good Joy can’t be perceived. It’s euphoric. Yet, Better Joy can go beyond. You can touch it. It’s palpable. Touch it.

Listen to the call.

My father’s pa was an Animist. Ancestor’s souls. Tropical green forest. Home. Does it happen to you to speak with your love ones, those whose life came to an end? Have you tried? Plant’s cure. Green. Stand up and walk. You can’t pour new wine in an old glass. You’ll lose both, the wine and the glass. You better pour new wine in a bright pink glass. Stand up, take your carpet and go. You are free. Who's touched my dress? Your faith has saved you.

See that you say nothing to anyone.

I consider myself Christian. Blasphemy. It’s like BDSM.

Gospel According to Mark. Every time – almost every time, who cares? – Jesus-Christ heals someone, He says: “You say nothing to anyone”.

Ok, look, right now, I’m Covid positive. I’m isolated for 10 days. Home. Womb. Blossom. Freedom. I’ve got fever. I’ve lost my taste. My nose is dead – I can’t smell it when I go ova there to poo. Am I pregnant? Suddenly, a man appears in my bedroom, room, room, womb. home, stay at home, the man heals me, no more fever, my taste is back, my smell too, I even give birth and, and, and that man even set me free, fuck the system, he says, my son, stand up and walk out, what quarentine, you open una door, go out, go and have fun witihi una homies, have fun, party, even fup-fap, fap-fup-fup if you want, go fup-fup-fup, buuuuuut my son, see, you better don’t say nothing to anyone.

So please, let the dogs out. Let them belch their anger. The poison is sweet. Fire. Let it go.

I like it. Let it rain.

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