The ancestors see you. The ground that drank your tears turns them into thunder. Every bullet you took, every brother buried under the night sky, every village you left so the enemy could not use it — all of it is written in fire across the heavens that only the brave can read.
By a Patriot in the Diaspora
To the warriors who walk barefoot on the red soil of memory, To the mothers who turned grief into grenades and lullabies into battle cries, To the boys who became men in the silence between gunshots, To the girls who carried ammunition in their schoolbags and hope in their hearts— To every soul who stood when the world looked away.
Today, and every day that the sun rises over the mountains of Lebialem, the forests of Manyu, the plains of Ndian, and the sacred hills of Ngoketunjia, your names are whispered by the wind itself. The rivers Munchi, Mungo, and Cross sing your story in tongues the colonizer will never understand. The palm trees bow when you pass — not in surrender, but in eternal salute.
You fought a war the world refused to name. You bled on soil that history books may try to erase. You held the line when cameras turned away, when microphones went silent, when hashtags faded, and diplomats feasted on your pain. You became shadows so that your children might one day walk in the light.
Perhaps no monuments will rise for you in Buea or Bamenda. Your names may never be carved on the arches of triumph, nor spoken by those who switched sides when victory seemed near. But know this, blood of our blood:
The ancestors see you. The ground that drank your tears turns them into thunder. Every bullet you took, every brother buried under the night sky, every village you left so the enemy could not use it — all of it is written in fire across the heavens that only the brave can read.
You are the reason a child in Kumba or Kumbo will one day speak freely, the reason the flag you stitched in darkness will one day fly under open sunlight without fear. You are not forgotten. You are the wound that will not close until justice is done — and because of that wound, Ambazonia will never rest until she rises free.
Your sacrifice is not invisible. It walks before us, shielding us from despair. It burns within us, guiding the generations that will never bow again.
So rest now, if your body needs rest. Weep, if your soul still carries the weight. But never — never — hang your head.
You are the truest patriots this land has ever borne. You are the generation that chose broken chains over bent necks. You are the answer to the prayers of our ancestors who were once dragged into foreign uniforms to die for empires that despised them.
We, the living, owe you a debt we can never repay.
But we will honor it every single day — by continuing, by remembering, by refusing to let your blood dry in vain.
Until the day we meet again beneath a free Ambazonian sky, may the spirits of our fallen kings walk beside you. May the ground you defended rise to embrace you. May your children’s children never know the taste of occupation.
You are not stateless. You are not forgotten. You are not alone.
You are Ambazonia. And Ambazonia is eternal because of you. With unbreakable love, eternal reverence, and undying gratitude—
Patriot in the Diaspora
Written in honor of all veterans of the Ambazonia War of Independence.
November 11, 2025
