A trip to remember (Opinion)

I didn’t want to go. I knew I didn’t want to go as soon as I heard about the bombings. Two young girls had just blown themselves up at a market in Maroua, northern Cameroon. Twenty people lay dead. The country I once called home had been taken by Boko Haram.

Twenty hours later, our final flight was descending at Yaoundé Nsimalen International Airport, and I held my breath in a futile attempt to calm my nerves. Once we landed, I noticed the emptiness of the usually crowded airport. Something was different. No one was waiting for us. Finally, I noticed my aunt slip past a guard as she made her way over to us. She explained what was going on; due to the bombings, only travelers were allowed inside.

On the way home, I noticed every bump in the road, every homeless person, and every child selling street food to help feed their family. The familiar sights of a night in Cameroon helped ease the anxiety I was struggling to overcome.

My nervousness quickly went away after my cousin’s daily routine became mine. We’d buy breakfast at the market, do daily chores, and then go to Grandma’s house for the rest of the day.

Everything was great. I was with my family, I was on summer break, I was finally having fun instead of constantly worrying. One attempted bombing changed all of that.

The attempt was at a church in Douala a few weeks into my stay. I was set to go there in a week, I was supposed to stay with my aunt and my cousin. I wasn’t supposed to be in constant fear for my life.

More bombings occurred during our stay in Douala. While we were at the train station, on our way back to Yaoundé, soldiers could be seen with machine guns and magazines strapped to their shoulders, they were on their way to the border, and most likely, their deaths.

The refugees from cities that had been bombed arrived shaken, but safe. I looked on as their bags were thoroughly searched, their belongings thrown onto the ground. They had been displaced due to the fighting, they thought they were finally free, but instead, they were treated as criminals.

Soon after we came back from Douala, there was a bomb scare. As soon as my cousins heard the blast, they rushed to my aunt’s closet where they, along with the rest of the family, hid. No one spoke, our trembling bodies seemed to be the only movements made. After 15 minutes of silence, we came out to discover that a carbon dioxide air tank had exploded at the bar. Everyone was unnerved, yet thankfully, no one was injured.

That was when it clicked. I was looking at the situation as an outsider, and complaining about life before Boko Haram. I complained about weak internet connections, while my cousins were living in fear of losing their homes, or even their lives. We were all the same age, yet my cousins were forced to mature much faster.

My situation was temporary. I got to leave, I had an out. Soon, I’d be back home in Texas, and my biggest worry would be the start of junior year. I got to live my cousins’ dream life, a secure home, a good school, and the knowledge that my family would always have food on the table. But for my cousins, and the millions of other Cameroonians, the nightmare of Boko Haram had become their reality.