Story, Louvier Kindo Tombe
Félicité Hortense Ngon Bissou adjusted her black kaba as she stepped onto the narrow dirt path leading to Socapalm’s V4 plantation in Edéa. Around her, about twenty women from Apouh, Dehane, Ongue, and Koukoue carried hand-painted placards demanding the return of ancestral land. The sun beat down, glinting off the placards, as whispers and quiet murmurs traveled through the group. Every footstep toward the plantation gates was met with tension.
Suddenly, a Socapalm pickup truck rolled to a stop across the entrance. Company personnel emerged, arms folded, barring the path.
“I am just doing my job. Go and get authorization from the plantation director. Everyone is defending their interests,” said a Socapalm representative, refusing to give his name.
Earlier, Ngon Bissou’s delegation comprising media personnel had already been stopped at gate another by a security guard from the Village Vigilance Committee (CVV). The women could go no further without official permission, a stark reminder of the obstacles they face in accessing farmland that has sustained their families for generations.
The women of AFRISE, the association of women neighbouring Socapalm Edéa, were on a move to present to journalists the challenges they face on a daily basis from the activities of Socapalm. For Ngon Bissou, President of AFRISE, the protest was not symbolic, it was a fight for survival.
“We no longer have space to plant even a single cassava cutting near our homes,” she said. “Replanting or not, the land is already gone. That is the real problem.”
Gustave Olkane Etamane, a 43-year-old resident of Apouh, described his daily struggle:
“I have to walk more than 14 kilometers to reach my fields because the land near us is no longer ours. Every day, it feels like our village is shrinking.”
On her part, Marie Thérèse Ngon Ndoumé, secretary-general of AFRISE, added: “Our children are hungry. We are forced to go to neighboring villages to plant, but even that access is controlled. Every step feels like permission must be granted.”
The scene at the gates, women blocked, gendarme officer intervening, voices rising, placards trembling, was a physical manifestation of the broader blockade on survival the community faces.
Talk, no relief
Socapalm has issued multiple statements emphasizing procedural points. In its official communication dated January 23, the company said: “This intrusion took place in violation of the procedures in force and was marked by acts of aggression against the security officer on duty. Socapalm reminds that access to its sites is strictly regulated for the safety of people and property.”
It added that the company has not been formally notified of any planned action or prior grievance. However, and once the management became aware of the situation, it immediately sought dialogue with the concerned group, reiterating that the approach had no effect: no member responded, and no formal claim was submitted.
While these statements focus on procedural compliance, security, and technical definitions, they ignore the central concerns repeatedly raised by Ngon Bissou and her community: how much farmland remains accessible to women in Apouh, Dehane, Ongue, and Koukoue; why villagers must travel 14–17 kilometers to reach their farms; why access to ancestral land is restricted; and when restitution will occur.
A pattern of suppression
The blocked protest is part of a broader pattern. Historical records show the chief of Apouh, His Majesty Ditope Lindoume, traditionally a supporter of AFRISE, was once arrested and jailed during a similar protest, a move residents describe as intimidation.
Repeated protests and blockages have occurred since 2023, while ministry inspections in 2024 reportedly confirmed boundary overruns within the Socapalm concession. Despite this, the company continues to emphasize compliance and procedure, leaving the lived realities of the community invisible.
Ngon Bissou said: “This is not just my story. Every woman in Apouh, Dehane, Ongue, and Koukoue faces the same struggle.”
Other residents confirmed the hardship: fields far from homes, restricted access, and disrupted livelihoods. Even when the company claims that replanting occurs only on already exploited land, families feel the impact of lost farmland daily.
The women insist they are not opposed to development but argue that focusing on replanting or expansion distracts from the urgent question: how can communities survive when land has already been seized?
“Socapalm talks about procedure, but procedure doesn’t feed our children,” said Marie Claire Mikangue, a riverine resident. “We just want space to plant, to feed our families, to survive.”
This sentiment reflects a wider crisis across Edéa: access denied, land lost, and livelihoods threatened, even as the company communicates frequently to the public.
For the women of Apouh, Dehane, Ongue, and Koukoue, the halted protest is evidence of a broader truth: while Socapalm communicates extensively, it avoids addressing the central crisis, the land already seized and its impact on survival.
As Cameroon continues to promote agro-industrial growth, the Edéa situation raises a pressing question: Can development be justified when communities that feed the nation are systematically denied the land they need, and when public statements focus on procedure rather than survival?
