Whey Pa! I find myself here before the daunting task of eulogizing you. I have never imagined that death will come to you, my dear baby brother, before me who is 10 years younger than you, who carried you on my back, fed you, washed your clothes and watched you grow and become a simply amazing gentleman. Whey, I have sat here many times before but the pain I feel at your departure and my tears have not let me type a word. I have decided that I will just talk about you, some random funny moments of your life, some of the things I want to remember and that I want your nieces and nephews to know about you.
I remember when you were born. Daddy told me that Mummy had trouble giving birth to you because you were too big but that just as the doctors were preparing to operate, you miraculously showed up. I am told that the nurses fell in love with you instantly, calling you “Mola” as you were born on Buea soil, and Mummy recounts they would take turns carrying you and showing you off and she will only see you when it was time for you to be fed. We your older siblings were all grown enough to really enjoy you. We lavished you with kisses and fought for turns to carry you.
I remember the events around your naming. Daddy had just returned from his Master’s Degree studies in Canada where he had gotten to learn about Brother Andre Albert Bessett, a friar of the order of Holy Cross, who had facilitated the building of the Oratory of Saint Joseph in Montreal. When Daddy said you will be named Andre, we did not like the name and we each set out to propose names for you. When I saw that daddy was relentless, I suggested that you be called Albert which will still be after the friar. Daddy chuckled and said gently “Mama, his name is Andre”. And so you were called Andre. Your name-sake was canonized a Saint in 2010. No body questioned that you were called “ Niba Bayong” after daddy’s only brother who we fondly called “Papa”. We all loved Papa and so “Papa” was one of your frequently used nicknames.
You grew up with this air of magic around you. You seemed to charm everyone who came in contact with you. I remember when you, I and daddy went to Marche Centrale in Yaounde to buy our first TV set. You were 4 years old then. The merchant literally gave that TV away because he was so enamored by you.
You must have been about 7 years old. There were certain foods you did not “like” and would refuse to eat them. You were frequently lucky that daddy would buy meat pie from Beno Bakery so you could say “no” to the foods you didn’t like much to mummy’s dismay. This one day, Mummy cooked kwacoco and groundnut soup. You vehemently refused to eat lunch. Daddy came back with no meat pie that day. You were upset and Mummy tried to coax you into eating and you refused and went to siesta hungry. While everyone “slept” the pots in the kitchen suddenly became noisy. Mummy and I almost immediately got up and went to investigate. We saw you peeling off the leaves from one kwacoco. You had your back turned to us so we quietly returned to our rooms. By dinner time, 2 kwacocos had disappeared from the pot. Mummy later begged Daddy not to bring home those meat pies so you could eat real food. He still did but just a little less frequently.
I remember how passionate you were about soccer. At about age 8, we lived in the second story of Dr Amin’s apartment homes in Yaounde. There was only one way out of the apartment and that was through the parlor. You wanted to go downstairs and play football (soccer) with your friends. Mummy and daddy refused and asked you to go to your room and do your homework. The rest of us were sitting in the parlor when suddenly we heard a voice that sounded like yours screaming “pass the ball to me; pass the ball to me.” We ran to the veranda and saw in disbelief that it really was you covered in sweat and dust. We wondered how you had gotten downstairs and mummy asked you to come upstairs immediately and explain yourself. You went to the balcony that was attached to their bedroom and pointed to a piece of twine that was still dangling on the railing where you had tied it and climbed down. I could see Mummy and Daddy go pale and I knew what was going through their minds because it was the same thing that was going through my mind. We were all thinking about what would have happened had you fallen onto the concrete floor of Dr Amin’s driveway. Mummy and Daddy were just too stunned at such a feat to admonish you. I heard Mummy quietly say to you “Niba, go downstairs through the door and play.” This nothing-can-stop-me-from-getting- what-I-want attitude has led you to find solutions even to the most difficult of problems. As an adult, you woke up early to work out before going to work. Looking and feeling fit were important to you.
I remember when you passed the Common Entrance Exam and it was time to choose a Secondary School. Daddy had his mind set on giving one of his sons to God as a priest and it was you he had chosen and so he said you will go to Bishop Rogan College. You vehemently refused as you wanted to go to Sacred Heart College like your big brother. Interview dates for both colleges were being performed in Yaounde so children who lived there will not have to travel to the various towns. The date for Sacred Heart interviews came and went by and not a word was said at home about it deliberately by the person who knew the date. You were then presented with the only choice that was left which was that of Bishop Rogan. You grudging and sadly went to the interview and got admitted. You ended up liking Bishop Rogan but much to Daddy’s dismay, the priesthood was not your calling. It was funny to see you and Jacob during the holidays. While he played the piano and sang songs that the Marist brothers taught them, you could drum on any utensil and sing Latin songs as well as many Cameroonian-composed church songs. You were always singing. Most of time it was beautiful and we will all join in. Sometimes daddy will say “Enough now. Can we have some peace and quiet?”
I left Cameroon when you were still in BIROCOL and so missed the events around your high school days at Saint Bede’s. I am sure your friends have some fun stories to tell.
Then I remember when you came to the United States of America. You were quietly determined to accomplish your goals. You stayed focused and you studied hard. That I really liked about you. You, however, tried to pick up some bad habits. I guess you were trying to be “American” or something, but one day I saw you in Pharmacy hall with your pants sitting slightly below your boxers. My stomach rumbled. I waited until your friends had left you alone and I walked up to you and asked you pointing to you pants “Pa, what is this?” You smiling asked me “what sis?” I warmed you about copying the bad aspects of a society. I asked you to pull your pants up and wear a belt next time. You wanted to start arguing, and then you thought about it and quietly said “O.K. Sis, I hear you. It won’t happen again.” And I never saw your pants down again. It is funny how later on you became obsessed with looking sharp and professional.
I remember the events that took place once you received your letter to interview at the University of Maryland School of pharmacy. I remember how you, Barbara and I went on a shopping spree to try to find you an appropriate outfit and how much fun we had that day as we went from store to store until we found something that was appropriate and within our budget. I remember how Mathilda spent time grilling you with interview questions and how seriously you took those mock sessions.
I remember your graduation from pharmacy school. We were so happy and daddy was very proud of you and jokingly called you “Docta.” I can still vividly see you walking out in line after your ceremony was over. Tah Batchia literally ran up to you, gave you a big hug and grabbed your hand steering you towards daddy who was sitting in his wheelchair quietly waiting for you. Even though Daddy’s beautiful smile had become a rarity as his facial muscles had been stiffened from Parkinson’s disease, his muscles seemed to relax at that time and I saw the brightest smile of Daddy’s sick days as he shook your hand. He was so happy. I remember the little house party we had for you, full of family members and how we danced and celebrated all night long.
I remember when you got your first job. Your preceptor at Bon Secours had been so impressed with your performance there that she immediately recommended you for hire. You were hired as a pharmacy intern with a pharmacist’s salary. It was not until you passed your boards that you brought your first pharmacist salary to Daddy in keeping with our culture. You even brought some of the money you had saved from your intern days to give to your siblings. I remember Daddy took only half the money you gave to him and returned the rest to you. You added it to the money you were going to give your siblings and went home with nothing. You will have it no other way.
I remember our family fun times together – our thanksgiving dinners and our Christmas parties. How we ate and sang and danced and just caught up on what was happening to everyone. You played just as hard as you worked. I remember the impromptu choir at the Christmas party at Tah Batchia’s house. Tah Batchia conducted and we all sang Christmas carols. Then you said to Joseph “Pericus, let’s give them a special number.” You and Jo, then proceeded to sing “It is a moon-light Christmas, tambo.” I can still hear your exaggerated bass as you sang “Tambo yeah yeah, TAMBO.” Oh Pa, that beautiful voice is now quiet, but I will forever hear it.”
I remember at my “knock-door” Daddy quietly said to my in-laws, “If anything comes up and I am not here, see him” pointing to you. Then daddy passed away and you were made his successor. You cared for us like a father in every way imaginable. You were wise beyond your years. You sent me materials to broaden my knowledge and advised me about work. I can still hear you “Sis, you have to stay relevant.” You supported us in many ways, morally, financially and just by lending a listening ear. You also made a beautiful mark on your nephews and nieces even though for such a short time. You frequently talked to me about exercise and weight loss and warned about the risk of developing chronic conditions such as diabetes and hypertension.
I will forever treasure the last moments we spent together. On Sunday May 10th 2015, mother’s day, you took me out. Ngumfor’s birthday had just passed a few days before and you said we will celebrate that too. We had such as great time. You cracked jokes; you played with your niece and recounted stories of how your friends had duped you into tasting some really bad food.
On May 22nd 2015, we celebrated Willy’s graduation. I remember Tah Sama saying that he was surprised when he received a call from you asking where they were. You had arrived even before them and this made them hurry out of the house. I remember what a good time we had at the party and how well you advised me on a problem I was having at that time.
On Father’s Day, we remembered Daddy at the special father’s day mass at the Grotto of Our Lady of Lourdes on Mount Saint Mary in Emmittsburg. We then visited the holy grounds and you answered all the questions that Alex asked you as we passed the various statues of Holy people. You explained the love of God for us very beautifully to him and I made a mental note to use some of those words to re-inforce the information. When we got to the statue of Pope John Paul II, you said “ Habemus Papam.” This Pope is one that our family feels a special connection because like Daddy, he suffered from Parkinson’s disease. His photograph hung at Dad’s bedside for encouragement and we frequently sought his intercession for Dad. We looked at the plaques of people who had been immortalized there and we decided it is in this John Paul II Pavillion that we will place Daddy’s plaque.I told everyone that it will cost $2500 and you said that will not be a problem and we discussed what time frame we will need to do this.
I remember the great time we had at home after Daddy’s mass. I was too tired to cook so we just ordered Chinese. I remember how you were pleasantly surprised when Manyi said to you “Papa, I will serve you first. What do you want to eat?” You smilingly asked Manyi to serve my husband first. Manyi vehemently refused stating “Mais tu es le Pere.” You then let her serve you and we joked about the fact that if you got married, you could get this kind of treatment all the time. I remember how amused you were and said you were working on it. That was the last time I saw you, Sunday June 21st 2015 and you passed away on June 28th.
I was charged by the family to write a biography for you and I wanted to know what kinds of things you did and what kind of person you were at work. I called the pharmacy at Bon Secours, introduced myself and explained why I had called. Oh my! There was such an outpouring of love and sympathy. Some of the comments I heard were: “he was such a smart young man and was a great resource to all of us”. “There is nothing he doesn’t know and nothing he can’t do”. “He was very helpful and had a calm way of handling even the most irate of people”. “He never lost his cool and was able to stay calm and collected even in busiest moments and he always got the job done”. “He was very sharp and a very good clinician”. “There was certain uniqueness about him”. Other adjectives used to describe you were “humble, respectful, polite, very thorough and organized”. I was told that you were a clinical pharmacist, an anticoagulation pharmacist at the outpatient Coumadin clinic and a pyxis specialist. I was also told that you had been an assistant pharmacy manager. I learned that many of your co-workers and patients wept when they heard of your passing. To me it was amazing to see that you touched the lives of so many as positively as you touched ours and that they were able to see you as beautifully as we saw you.
And so it is said in the bible that there is a time for everything under the sun: a time to be born and a time to die. Well, your time came too soon for me, baby brother. But I thank God for the beautiful, precious gift of your life. It was a real pleasure growing up with you and even though I feel dismembered, you will FOREVER live in my heart, FOREVER. The love I have for you will never die. Adieu my brother, my father and I pray that our heavenly Father has found you as beautiful as we found you down here.
With much love, your sister,
Njuibi.