By Canute Tangwa
The business of memory is quite rich in anecdotes, truths, half-truths, experiences and perceptions.
The business of memory informs the business of history which in turn analyses and appraises the actions, perceptions, behaviour and interactions of actors within defined theoretical and methodological frameworks.
Hence, memory and history thus become encapsulated into a scientific construct.
Over thirty-two years ago, fresh and bubbling with perceptions of my own, I walked into the campus of the lone university at the time and enrolled at the Faculty of Law and Economic Sciences.
First of all, I was taken aback by the teeming student population; secondly by the off-handed and laissez faire attitude in treating freshmen complaints/requests; thirdly by the overbearing and domineering French language on and off campus; fourthly by certain buzzwords such as Anglo, Frog, Partiels, Epsi, Cops etc; fifthly by the crammed amphitheatres; and sixthly by the dress code within campus.
I was impressed by the calibre of teachers (Law): Stanislas Melone, Augustin Kontchou Kouomegne, Carlson Anyangwe, Bipoun Woum Joseph Marie, Simon Munzu, Maurice Kamto, Aletum Tabuwe, Ephraim Ngwafor, Fomudey Ngu Kisob, Dion Ngute, Fonkam Azu, Pougoue Gerard, François Mbome, Gabriel Nlep, Peter Yana Ntamark, Nicole Claire Ndoko, Diane Acha Morfaw and so on.
However, as a freshman I was disappointed and I would say let down by persons I thought would understand me better because we spoke one language and invariably shared the same values and culture.
Yes, the famous ‘Partiels’ exams had come and gone and the results were staring us in the face. But I had a peculiar problem; I effectively wrote all the courses but on the noticeboard I realized I scored zero in almost all the courses offered during ‘partiels’.
First reaction: I dashed to the Dean’s office; he politely told me in French that I should go-see the head of Anglophone Private Law, which I did. I explained to him my wahala. He looked at me beneath thick glasses and asked how old I was and he said something like repeating a class would not be a bad idea. I lost my cool. Then he ushered me into a hall where tons and tons of marked scripts were kept and asked me if it was possible to search and find my script. Stunned, I walked out.
Next stop; the famous, ‘poulailler.’ (housed teachers’ offices). There, I stumbled on one of ours but was rebuffed in these terms, “So you come and see me only when you have problems?” Haba! Ngaya! I did not know. Gbam!! I thought I was dreaming but it dawned on me that my fate no longer lay in the hands of ‘my own’ so to speak. Should I adopt the “shiddon look” attitude? No.
The image of my mother blocking the door and telling me not to run away but to face the bully came to my mind. Yes, it was one of those rare visits to the village with my parents. I did turn back and my teeth did the rest leaving the bully falling and crying in pain; then I pounced on him.
Thus, I “gathered courage” and went up to the strikingly beautiful and reserved Lisette Elomo Ntonga. She was coming down the stairs of the main block when I accosted her. She listened attentively and asked me to write a complaint which I hurriedly did and handed to her. She dismissed me.
Two weeks or so later, I was idling around the famous Batiment H when a friend ran towards me shouting…Boy an additional list has just been put up and I have seen your name.
Christ, we ran together to the office block like the two apostles (hearing that Jesus has risen). Indeed, I saw my name. We concerted and was advised to go thank Madam Lisette Elomo Ntonga.
Just as I was about knocking her door, she came out. She looked at me and frowned. I shivered. She gave me a lecture on her role as teacher in the university; a teacher’s role is to assist, guide and orientate students. She ordered me to go prepare my orals rather than rushing to thank her…. 
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