Of Dust and Ink: A Reflection on the Cameroonian Page

Reflective Essay  By K.K. Bonteh

There is something sacred about the Cameroonian page. It does not merely hold ink—it holds memory. It trembles under the weight of unspoken griefs, of ancestral echoes, and the playful laughter of children under red-soiled mango trees. The page—whether in English or French, Pidgin or Fulfulde, Ewondo or Lamnso’—is not silent. It speaks in tongues, braided by history, bruised by colonial chalk, yet glowing with resilience.

I have long believed that storytelling in Cameroon is not a pastime—it is a survival act. Whether around the fireside in a Noni village or through WhatsApp flash fiction shared between university dorms in Buea, we tell stories to remember, to resist, and to reinvent. Our storytellers are griots of transition, standing between yesterday’s dust and tomorrow’s dreams.

I remember my first encounter with a short story that changed me. It was about a boy, not unlike myself, caught between the traditional expectations of his village and the modern allure of a city he did not fully understand. The story was brief, but it carved a canyon of thought in my young mind. It made me feel seen—and that is the singular gift of Cameroonian literature: it sees us. In our flaws and our fullness. In our sorrows and our satire. It reminds us that no matter how fractured our nation might seem, we are stitched together by a shared rhythm of narrative.

Today, when I see young Cameroonian writers daring to shape their worlds with words, I see a quiet revolution. In each story, a mirror. In each metaphor, a roadmap. And in each published page, a declaration that we are not voiceless, not invisible.

This is why I believe so deeply in the mission of The Best Cameroonian Short Story Series. It is not merely an anthology—it is an archive of national spirit. A place where our past converses with our present, and our future dares to speak back.