Now, it is difficult to make out what I said to my friend. In fact, the words were spontaneous and imaginative like the bold, rolling, interlocking hills, valleys and plains throughout Bui, which warm, charm, bewitch and enliven any touristic soul.

My pal, a normal Victoria boy or Buea pikin is well established in Kumbo. Emmanuel Obiechina, a Nigerian critic, was sublimely right: you can give soul or meaning only to what you believe in.

Njavnyuy Motor Park and the modern market were scanty. There was no vehicle for Djottin-Noni but there were two for Elak-Oku. I whiled away the time moving around the well-built and fenced market. All the stalls were padlocked. It was quite dusty but clean! The red earth was not too friendly to a virtual Mola like me. On a metal plate at the entrance to the market was inscribed: God Bless Kumbo.

A motor boy approached me and said there was a bendskin (known as achaba in these parts) bound for Djottin. For his pains, I dashed him one hundred francs. When I thought of the hilly terrain, I shuddered. However, the motorbike-taxi rider allayed my fears. Thus, I began a picturesque journey to Djottin.

We rode through the dusty roads from Kumbo to Tadu. Cattle grazed graciously on the savannah hills that can tempt any producer of cowboy films. As we sped past, I waved at a gainako. It was a Sunday. He looked distant as he chewed on his cola nut and waved back.

From the brownish grazing fields of Tadu, we descended to Buh, leaving behind the road that branch off to Oku. To my right, the luxuriant farmlands of Mbiim tucked between high-rise hills with the Kilum (Kirum) hill towering above all others left me breathless. To some, it rivals the plains of Jars in Laos that is famous for its beauty and luxuriance.

On my left, majestic granite hills stood out defiantly against the surrounding environment. As we rode on towards Djottin, I had the impression that we were inspecting a guard of honour mounted by the hills on both sides of the un-tarred, limestone, stony and chalky road. Why my forebears did choose this setting, I wondered.

The sweet smelling scent of ripe oranges (oren) hit my nostrils as we twisted and turned along the road. Here and there, there were settlements surrounded by Arabica coffee that has been cut down for economic reasons. In Buh, the motorbike rider reminded me of the Buh-Djottin farmland conflict.

Then I recalled a story written sometime ago by Desmond Wamey entitled: Pascal’s Campaign. Behind one or two hills away, once raged the Oku-Din farmland conflict; too much for a people bound by a common culture and tradition.

Djottin, which is one of the nine villages of Noni, is located in an undulating valley. Its lush vegetation and fertile soils produce coffee, huge bunches of bananas (kigum), beans (koti), corn, cabbages, huckleberry, potatoes (kiyu), oranges, mangoes (mangro), plantains, cowpeas, groundnuts, men and women with fine brains and brawn.

Arguably, the potable water is one of the best in the Province. These make up for electricity, road and information technology deficits.At a village joint in the company of Fali Ndituba and Fali Kidji we gulped fresh, sweet palm wine and talked village development. Just then, the Fon of Kinengti passed by and everybody prostrated.

Then it dawned on me that I had not been to either of the palaces (Kinengti and Fonty). They were all smiles with the creation of a Government Secondary School at Lafele and a Government Technical School. The first batch of students passed out this year scoring well above 60 percent at the GCE Ordinary Level. Some of them would move over to the Government High School Nkor (one of the nine Noni villages) or elsewhere.

Their main headaches are roads and electricity. However, before the government, the Catholic Church was the pillar of development; a primary school, health centre, village hall, an imposing church building, a crafts centre and so on.

I walked towards the market and took in the landscape characterised by hills, valleys, streams and waterfalls. I went back almost twenty years ago when this land of my ancestors inspired me to write a story entitled: “If There Is Blood In My Eyes”. For my pains, I received a prize offered by CREPLA.