No contribution is too small in the advancement of a community. A chant in Limbum, offered in honour of a fallen elder, can echo longer than a political slogan. And in the long arc of Ambazonia’s history, it is culture that keeps the nation alive when institutions fall silent.
By Dogo Dogo The Independentistnews contributor
When Ndeh Ntumazah died in 2010, Ambazonia lost more than a political elder. We lost a living bridge to the earliest phase of our modern resistance — a man whose life spanned the era of the 1961 plebiscite, the illusion of federation, and the long decades of silent assimilation that followed.
For many in my generation, Ntumazah was first encountered in books and classrooms — a figure discussed in the context of constitutional debates, federal promises, and political marginalisation. As a teacher, I passed on that knowledge to my students. But when he passed away, I realised that political memory confined to textbooks is fragile. If a nation is to endure, its history must live in culture.
That is why I chose to honour him through the Wan Mabuh chant — a sacred masquerade tradition from Mbumland.
At the time, I was serving as Vice Principal of GBHS Santa and was also a widely recognised media personality, hosting one of the most listened-to radio programmes of that era. Yet despite my public profile, some considered my cultural expression “primitive.” That reaction itself reflected the deeper wound of colonial conditioning: the belief that authenticity must be filtered through foreign languages to be legitimate.
Ambazonia’s struggle has never been solely political. It has always been cultural.
The erosion of institutions began with the erosion of identity — language in courts, curriculum in schools, administrative systems, and eventually memory itself. To chant in Limbum was not nostalgia. It was resistance. It was a quiet assertion that our story did not begin in Yaoundé and would not end there either.
After performing the tribute, I was invited to appear on CRTV’s widely listened-to programme Morning Safari. When I finished chanting, the first question posed to me was why I had not sung in English.
The question revealed more than curiosity. It exposed the hierarchy of languages imposed on us. Why must a sacred chant rooted in Limbum be translated into English or French to be deemed respectable?
I answered plainly: I was born in Moh. I had never heard the followers of Wan Mabuh chant in English or French. Even in neighbouring Mbum villages, the only additional language ever used was Lamnso. The chant belongs to Limbum. Its symbolism, cadence, and spiritual authority are inseparable from that tongue.
Still, I was asked to narrate its meaning in English. As I explained the song — its references to sacrifice, betrayal, endurance, and unfinished struggle — something shifted. Listeners began to understand why the chant could not have been born in another language. The phone lines lit up. Callers asked for copies.
The tribute was produced at Water to Wine Studio by Lemmy Moise, with CDs and jackets prepared by the late artist Latchi Tepino. During Ntumazah’s burial, the response was overwhelming. People were not just purchasing a CD; they were purchasing memory — a piece of their own history articulated without apology.
What strikes me today is how certain themes referenced in the chant later unfolded in visible ways. Someone recently reminded me of the Ring Road — one of the symbolic references embedded in the song’s reflection on neglect and broken promises. Culture often sees ahead of politics. The artist senses the fault lines long before policy documents admit them.
The Ambazonian struggle did not begin in 2016. It did not begin with protests, nor with armed resistance. It began with voices — voices that warned, that petitioned, that preserved. Ntumazah belonged to that earlier generation of warning voices.
My chant was not a political speech. It was a cultural affirmation that the struggle spans generations.
Unfortunately, I no longer have a copy of the recording. The single copy I kept for myself disappeared over time. But perhaps that is fitting. What remains is not the disc, but the testimony. The fact that it was sung. The fact that it was heard. The fact that it affirmed a people’s dignity in their own tongue.
In every liberation movement, there are visible actors and invisible preservers. Some carry flags. Others carry memory.
No contribution is too small in the advancement of a community. A chant in Limbum, offered in honour of a fallen elder, can echo longer than a political slogan. And in the long arc of Ambazonia’s history, it is culture that keeps the nation alive when institutions fall silent.
Dogo Dogo The independentistnews Contributor from Mbumland
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