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Gone So Soon, O’Sam 

By Bouddih Adams

O’Sam, why the sudden departure, at the 62nd minute,

Of the social soccer which you tangoed in life?

Your fans bemoan the 28 minutes they are deprived of.

O’Sam, couldn’t you wait even for the scriptural three score and ten?

Why did you decide to owe your family and friends eight?

Why so soon? Why now, why, O’Sam?


Can you remember our days of yore?

As we toiled and moiled for ads for your choice paper

That we ruggedly dug up and posted in The Post

After which we tiredly lodged at Douala’s El Mariza

Fearing to ‘stretch our legs – lest the sheets will tear’

In the words of Peter Terence Awa, another goner


Blowing but outwards always was your fan in the sweltering heat

For reason of the I-ray meditation I and I know

Preening your Danchiki and keeping its accompaniments spic and span

While I would mimic Bate Besong, yet another quitter,

And dance to the Obasanjom you drummed on the table

And you would explode in laughter, betraying an even dental formula


See when you chose to go, O’Sam, in October

The month of the anniversary of the State you yearned for

For which you created the Free West Cameroon Movement

Rather than see it opt out of the shackles you set out to break

You have opted out, without seeing your dream realised

Thereby leaving your followers midstream


Your walk of life you so cherished left, just like that

Insisting that the pen must change society

Plus the language you spoke artfully as if from source

And to up-keep the calling into the first realm of the state

For generations today, tomorrow and the day after

Hopefully, O’Sam, that is what you have taken to hereafter


What about the ventures we tailored together

Awaiting your final return from the country of Ivory

After serving the ivory tower of the comity of nations?

What with the newsmagazine, or the audio ads-tracking project

Which among them all and others will keep your legacy?

O’Sam, if you could only wake up, name it before slumbering


Who will unblinkingly hush speakers’ tongues to right the wrong?

Which they interpreted as dementia that on you they hung

For which you were rejected like a bad coin in the market

Condemned and sent to Coventry

Shoved and shelved into the dark side of life

Now, they all, all come shedding tears like crocodiles


Abandoned to all-weather friends and Emma

To them then you were anathema

Bright weather friends shut their doors even to your shadow

And peeped at you through the window

Until you landed the world body job

Unto you all of them wanted to hop


You’ve gone too soon, O’Sam


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