In July of ‘24 my family traveled home to Bangente, Cameroon. The occasion unlike most times, was in good fortune. The mission was to celebrate my mother’s 60th birthday, and to open our new village house with a massive party. I’d spend 2 weeks in the hilltop home romantically titled, Honey Hill. I carried 1985’s Canon AE-1, and three rolls of Portra 800. All the while focused on harboring the joy found through days.

In the end, Cameroon was as much a lesson to me, as it was rest. The quiet moments gave me room to dream about how life could be. Conversely, the lively & loud days rang reminders of who and what spur my joy. Village culture is loving your neighbor. Creating bonds over what we “advanced” folk call “the little things.” This is entirely about the little things.

In the mornings I’d take walks down by the farm where life had already begun. Despite a language barrier, a man named Soulay and I connected over the animals he raised and the crops he grew. I’d pick beans and help dig out a few cassavas, one of which I’d eat raw for breakfast.

The more days I’d come down to the farm I’d notice precautions Soulay had taken to keep his animals safe. For example, he’d built a cage the chicks could rest in. He’d previously warned me of the hawks who’d sit perched atop my family’s house, and swoop down while mama hen was busy digging for worms, too busy to save a chick from becoming dinner. As days passed I felt almost as if I knew the chickens, which was likely aided by my six year old nephew naming one “Peck-Peck.” I also recall many heartfelt moments around a table with my siblings, under our forks being chicken, and other animals who lived gorgeous lives until they’d found our love under the axe. I thought it was strange how like the hawks, I too sat perched on the balcony, gazing down over the property. However in every story the hawks were our clear adversary. I told my nephew how if we ourselves were hunters, this would be the ultimate vantage point. We’d run down into the bush looking for the next meal, they’d never hear us coming.

One evening while on a walk to my neighbors house, I witnessed exactly what Soulay had foreshadowed. A chick being snatched into the air as quick as any fleeting memory the poor baby ever had. I’m working on understanding why the occasion felt any more saddening than it does anytime I’m at Chick-fil-a. In a way this is a nod to how at our core we all can relate to “that’s life.” We do what we have to do to make life happen for ours. The fact of cause and effect has proved to be one of the most meaningful things we learn. We’re all purposed, aiding or hindering something else. Maybe we can learn to appreciate the same forces we’re positioned against.

Ceremony is at the core of my culture. The substance of every lasting memory I have is the ceremony around it. Ceremony being the thought, the preparation, the dancing, angst and the execution. With the trip being centered around a birthday and an inaugural opening, the entire experience was in supplement to just that. People took ownership in their roles. In Western culture it’s popular to push aside one’s role in a system, and it’s loudly celebrated when one dares to step outside of what’s expected, and while it’s a positive thing for personal progression, it’s left a negative shade over the value of community, the value of us. While observing I was left to wonder where my place was.

When the mission is clear and simplified, all of a sudden your rolodex and surplus of skills you’re certain have given you an upper hand in life, don’t immediately translate to a setting rooted in family, love, and purpose. I’ve never skinned a goat, my first time digging a cassava was then, and I couldn’t tell you the first thing about which of the berries are dessert vs death. All of a sudden you realize your role is regressed to “just” being a good person, a beacon of joy and direction. Bare minimum.

I took the term “Mama-Eye” from Lori Carson, lead vocalist for The Golden Palominos in the early 90’s. “Women sort through the dead bodies like bags of laundry with exhausted mama eye. Sigh because they are too dry for tears.”

Surely a bit dark, but to me it speaks more to the superpower vision of a mother. The ability to see beyond the surface of things. It’s the acceptance of what’s difficult and the desire to push through personal tire. Mama-eye is seeing the stress of a screaming child and seeing its beauty. In other cases, seeing baron terrain and seeing the vegetables that’ll sustain life, or the home that’ll rest in that very spot. This vision is crucial to life, especially in Cameroon.