On several occasions, Cameroon has been the stage of public executions inherited from the colonial era, particularly in its western regions. These scenes, repeated to the point of indecency, have shaped a painful collective memory. Among them, the execution of Ernest Ouandié continues to resonate as a profound outrage. It exposes a society that, with chilling composure, reproduced the gestures of the colonizer, as though proclaimed independence had never truly broken the chains. On January 15, 1971, in Bafoussam, one of the darkest pages in Cameroon’s history was written in blood and courage. That morning, Ernest Ouandié stood upright, his wrists bound by handcuffs, as he was led before the firing squad. Yet nothing restrained his dignity. He walked forward, resolute and composed, animated by an inner strength that even death could not extinguish. Imprisonment alone is already a heavy punishment. In his case, it was compounded by an excess of cruelty. Ouandié advanced without protest or outcry. He knew his death was inevitable, yet he transformed it into an act of resistance. Throughout his political life, he spoke of freedom, of justice, and of his unwavering faith in Cameroon’s future. He knew that after him, others would carry on the struggle. He trusted those men scattered across the world who would one day demand accountability. As if to seal this commitment in collective memory, he uttered a prophecy. He asked that Ahidjo be told he would die on the land of his ancestors, while Ahidjo himself would die far from his country.
In that ultimate defiance, the man facing death became a prophet. History often confirms such words, some spoken, others fulfilled in silence. Moments before the shots rang out, he cried out, long live Cameroon, history will judge. Shortly before, he had asked his guards to tell his wife and children that he had not betrayed them. The man who should have been remembered as a liberator was presented as a victim. He endured the torment of a monstrous idea. To put to death a man who chose politics as his path is worse than death itself. Humanity seemed to have vanished. The executioners had become numb, stripped of all compassion. One may grieve, but there remain only blows to keep people seated, silent, and obedient. Ernest Ouandié walked calmly, with a firm step, surrounded by soldiers. Condemned, yet radiant like a martyr. At his side walked Gabriel Tabeu, known as Wambo the Current, and the young Raphaël Fotsing. The crowd held its breath. The sorrow was so dense that words could no longer contain it. Upon reaching the execution ground, true to himself, Ouandié refused to be blindfolded. He wanted to face death head-on. His posture commanded respect. His gaze was proud. He allowed himself a faint smile, one that defied oppression and silently promised that the struggle would not end there. Before him, a vast crowd had gathered. Faces were frozen, suspended between fear, grief, and mute admiration. The air was heavy, almost unbreathable. The murmurs faded away. Only the sharp sound of boots striking the ground remained. During his lifetime, Ouandié had been relentlessly engaged in political struggle. He fought social misery, defended freedom, and rejected the yoke of neocolonialism.
Arrested, tortured, condemned in Yaoundé, it was in a cell in Bafoussam that he awaited the morning when they would come to take him from life. This indignation, coupled with a desire to awaken consciences, had driven him to embrace the fight for his people’s liberation. Many of those who ordered or carried out his execution are still alive today, silent witnesses to an act that time itself cannot absolve. If this story continues to move us so deeply, it is because those who once accused Ernest Ouandié of every wrongdoing often went on to do far worse in the destruction of our country. Such suffering calls for writing, as a vital need to speak and to unburden the soul. Time itself seems to falter, reference points blur, and the hollow words of certain media discourses only add to the confusion. That morning, on the face of the prisoner, emaciated by harsh detention conditions, no extreme suffering could be read. Neither physical nor psychological. If there was pain, it stemmed from the brutal discomfort of the cell, from waiting, from deprivation. The day before, news of the execution had been widely broadcast to draw a crowd, as though it were a spectacle. People came from distant villages and neighborhoods. Most stood with arms crossed, overwhelmed by an unbearable anxiety that saturated the atmosphere. The behavior of the soldiers surrounding him only heightened the tragic nature of the event. The sentence was read. The shot was fired. A great man fell. Time seemed to drain of substance. Imagination suffocated. Each spectator left with a mind imprisoned by what they had witnessed. No one would forget. In the 1970s, death sentences were frequent. Almost every Saturday, people were killed.
I remember a man executed in Nkongsamba for stealing a rooster. Killed for stealing a rooster. There are acts so unthinkable that they defy reason, regardless of the society or the era. This is what Kant called the categorical imperative, the universal principle that forbids killing one’s fellow human being. It was an excessive, absurd, and inhumane sentence. That day, with Ernest, an attempt was made to extinguish hope. To erase lives that refused injustice. Yet the blood that was shed was not in vain. On this soil soaked with sacrifice, a nation continued to take shape. A flame, against all odds, was rekindled. The body of Ernest Ouandié, buried in an unmarked grave, remains a wound to this day. We have no right to forget. Ernest Ouandié, Gabriel Tabeu, Raphaël Fotsing, you fell, but your ideals live on. You have become immortal. Your memory guides us. A day will come when the true homeland will pay you the tribute you deserve. Until then, the struggle continues, for justice, for freedom, and for the future of this nation born of your courage.
