Story, Louvier Kindo Tombe
The silence did not announce itself.
It crept in. Just after Four Corners Bambui, the lively chatter inside our 70 seater bus began to fade. Two men beside me, deep in conversation moments earlier, fell abruptly quiet.
By the time we passed St. Thomas Aquinas Major seminary Bambui, even the laughter from the back rows had evaporated. What remained was an uneasy hush, heavy enough to feel.
At first, i blamed fatigue. We had travelled overnight from Yaoundé. But this was not the silence of sleep. It was the silence of caution.
“Mami, abeg stop that ya pikin, mek yi no cry again. Noise no fine for here,” a man pleaded softly from the front.
The request was gentle, but the message was chilling: sound could be dangerous here. It felt as if fear itself had climbed aboard.
Everyone else seemed to know the rules of this stretch of road, everyone except me. As we approached the security checkpoint around Mile 13, life briefly returned. A police officer stepped into the bus, phone in hand, scanning a photograph.
“Wuna come good,” he assured us. “We no di disturb wuna. The person weh we di fine no deh this car.”
A ripple of relief passed through the bus. Someone laughed nervously. Another adjusted their seat. For a moment, normalcy returned.
Then we drove off. Less than a minute later, the tension came roaring back, stronger, tighter. The driver slowed to barely 3 kilometres per hour, forced by the battered road and, perhaps, by instinct.
“I don’t like this place,” a woman muttered, breaking the silence.
“Sister, na yi you di talk am small small so,” her neighbour warned.
Careful, words travel.
I looked out the window and noticed a narrow dirt road branching into the bush, climbing a hill before disappearing. My seatmate leaned closer and whispered,
“Na that road dem di take motor enter bush.”
That was when understanding hit me.
This was the Bambui–Babanki corridor, one of the most feared stretches in Cameroon’s Anglophone regions, where separatist fighters linked to the ongoing crisis have mounted roadblocks, abducted passengers, and extorted money in the name of a cause.
There are many or such corridors in the North West and South West regions of the country.
“Pray make we no meet dem today,” someone murmured.
Just a week earlier, security forces had killed more than six armed men at this very spot. Most were youths, barely out of their teens. Their bodies, abandoned by the roadside, were later buried by the Tubah Council. In Yaoundé, the news had sounded distant. On this road, it felt immediate.
That day, we did not meet “the boyses” as the fighters are often called. We were simply lucky. Along this road, no one can tell when they might appear, or disappear into the bush again. The uncertainty is part of the fear; survival often feels like a matter of timing.
The road ahead worsened. The bus lurched violently, nearly swallowed by a massive pothole. A gasp rippled through the passengers.
I found myself praying, not loudly, not bravely, but honestly. Let me reach home.
I was travelling to Babanki, my native village, for Kebenkendong, an annual cultural festival returning after nearly ten years of absence due to insecurity.
Before this journey, stories of kidnappings and ambushes had not shaken me. But sitting there, suspended between bush paths and broken asphalt, I thought, “Who even sent me?”
Then another thought followed. I imagined the masquerades, the echo of drums and flutes, the rhythm of Keben-Ke-Ndong, symbols of survival and identity. And I told myself, “Something must kill a man. It will not be fear.”
Around me, others shared their stories in hushed tones.
“I haven’t seen my village in three years,” one man said. “My mother died, and I couldn’t go.”
Another added, “Informants are everywhere, especially around Four Corners Bambui.”
A woman shook her head. “I can’t even drop there to take another car. You don’t know who is watching.”
Even transport companies have adapted. The bus we boarded runs directly from Yaoundé to Fundong, deliberately avoiding the dreaded Bambui motor park.
Slowly, almost painfully, we passed the danger zones. Then something shifted. Shoulders relaxed. Conversations resumed. Relief spread quietly.
When the Babanki royal palace appeared through the window, my heart leapt. That was my stop. That was home.
As I stepped down, joy mixed with a troubling question: How will I return?
I am writing this now from Yaoundé. Which means I did return, and safely.
But the road remains. The fear remains.
And luck, more than certainty, still decides who passes through unscathed.
