Action movies, bilingual tunes and the exorcism of a family of six: channel hopping in Cameroon

After a cosy night watching Dutch reality TV, daily viewing in western Africa retains all the entertainment and human drama - but the stakes are very different indeed.

I wrote, a few weeks ago, about the joy of discovering the television of a foreign place. Back then I was in Rotterdam, watching a Dutch variation of the popular UK Saturday night dating show, Take Me Out. I was grateful to see if not a familiar face, then a familiar format: something that made sense to me when the language did not.

On a work trip to northwest Cameroon a week ago, I had the reverse: a common language (half the time their official languages are French and English) but largely unknown setups. That is how I came to be watching a pastor on a stage in what looked like a megachurch, delivering a family of witches from the eternal damnation that surely awaited them if they continued down their dangerous and destructive path. The screen was grainy and the sound was poor, but the subtitles and the overly animated gestures of everyone onscreen involved kept me going.

It was no Take Me Out I grant you, but it was entertainment and human drama on a similar level, even if the stakes were very different.

The language when we landed in Yaounde, in central Cameroon, was firmly French: the road signs, the calls of the currency exchange guys outside the terminal, the hotel receptionists. As we moved further into the northwest, the signs began to change – by the time we’d reached Makénéné, the grip of French has loosened and given way completely by the time we ended up in Bamenda. I mentioned the northwest of the country specifically, as it is a firmly Anglophone area: under German colonial rule until their defeat in WWI led the League of Nations to hand it over to the British, who were governing Nigeria next door. In 1961, they joined the already independent République du Cameroun, which is one of the reasons why Cameroon does not have a single Independence Day (interestingly and unnecessarily confusingly, the name ‘Cameroon’ is actually of Portuguese origin). My first two days in Cameroon had been spent in Bamenda, and the hotel television gave a mixed diet: National Geographic, Al-Jazeera, BBC World (obviously) as well as French-speaking channels like TV5Monde Afrique, a Nigerian channel or two (NTA and whatever the aerial could pick up) and a curious Arabic-subtitle movie channel (which is how I came to be watching an uncanny valley Ray Winstone/Sean Bean hybrid utter the immortal “I’ve come to kill your monsta!” in Beowulf one warm night).

In Bamenda, I had managed to watch Live and Let Die, as crisply as the 70s intended, with breakfast, but then we moved further north, going up into the astonishing mountains and vastly more rural regions of Kumbo and Ndu, where television reception was a lot more mercurial. The proximity of Nigeria means a shared cultural identity as well as television one. So there were music channels with Africa-wide music, and a few Nollywood film channels too. And of course, there were the religious channels, featuring bearded men against backdrops of the Ka’aba and the evangelical Christian channels, on one of which I spotted the witches of two generations.

The drama of this particular scene cannot be overstated. There was organ music playing in the background, a constant, tinny sound on the television speakers, and the minister stalked the stage with purpose. The man of the family had his family lined up: two girls, one looked newly out of her teens and the other a few years younger; and two teen-looking boys. He spoke as though in a trance: “That one is my daughter,” he said, pointing at one of the boys. “I recruited the boy for her.” He carried on ‘revealing’ who was who in that dazed-but-sure voice, and each new disclosure brought forth a whimper and a head clasp from his wife, who kept exclaiming “I did not know! I did not know! All these witches in my house, pastor! OH, GOD.” And then when the confessions were over, the minster began casting out the witches. They left via shudders and eye rolls, leaving the bodies they had inhabited without prior permission in convulsive waves and spasms. The minister laid on hands, and compelled them - in the name of Jesus – to leave. And leave they did. The family looked around them, stunned by their deliverance; the congregation’s voice rose as one, marvelling at the awesome sight.

Even for all the time spent in Nigeria growing up, this made for a compelling spectacle. Cameroon – and Africa at large – is broadly made up of religious societies (there’s a reason the Catholic Church sees its diverse population as a ripe growth area) and of course, television reaches far more than the church on the corner can. Onscreen, a rolling tickertape gave addresses for the next gatherings of the faithful in two cities across the continent: in Nairobi, and some 2,000 miles north-west in Lagos. There was a prayer line with a Nigeria country code, and an email address to send prayer requests to. Globalisation is real, and God is a part of it.

Back in Bamenda a couple of days later, the morning I was due to drive back to Yaounde for my flight home, I turned on the telly and came face to face with 80s-era Sylvester Stallone – weird wet-look mullet, rippling muscles, shirtless, dog tags nestled in his tanned cleavage – in Rambo III . All the swearwords had been muted out, so there was no ‘shit’ or ‘bastard’ or even ‘son of a bitch’. But the scenes of torture and killing remained intact, and it wasn’t even noon yet.

Bim Adewunmi writes about race, feminism and popular culture. Her blog is  yorubagirldancing.com and you can find her on Twitter as @bimadew.

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Friedrich Nietzsche, the conqueror with the iron hand

Gavin Jacobson considers the great philosopher’s plan for society as revealed in Nietzsche’s Great Politics by Hugo Drochon.

In 1893 Elisabeth Förster-Nietzsche returned to her mother’s adopted home town of Naumburg in Germany. She had been living in Paraguay with her husband, Bernhard Förster, a nationalist and anti-Semite who had founded an Aryan colony to begin “the purification and rebirth of the human race”. Elisabeth’s brother, Friedrich Nietzsche, had condemned her husband’s anti-Semitism and her decision to join him in South America. The experiment failed in any case. Blighted by disease, poor harvests and intercommunal strife, the outpost collapsed in two years. Förster committed suicide in 1889. Around this time, Nietzsche began his final descent into madness and Elisabeth came back to take care of him and his legacy.

Nietzsche’s first book, The Birth of Tragedy, published in 1872 while he was a professor at the University of Basel, received marginal attention. It wasn’t until the 1890s that his writings gained a wide readership across Europe. Elisabeth soon took control of Nietzsche’s literary estate and, little by little, transformed him into an instrument of her fascist designs. She began to rework his notebooks and to clip, cross out and fabricate quotations, so that, in the public imagination, her brother went from an opponent of German nationalism to a lover of the fatherland, from the author of The Antichrist to a follower of the gospel, and from an anti-anti-Semite to a venomous ­Jew-hater. Before his death in 1900, Nietzsche had asked his sister to ensure that “no priest or anyone else utters falsehoods at my graveside, when I can no longer defend myself”. He could not have foreseen this betrayal by Elisabeth, as she cast him as the lodestar of National Socialism.

Since the 1950s, scholars have endeavoured to rescue Nietzsche from his asso­ciation with Nazism. Walter Kaufmann’s Nietzsche: Philosopher, Psychologist, Antichrist (1950) was a formative work in which the German philosopher became a humanist and progenitor of 20th-century existentialism. His thinking was directed not at the triumph of Teutonic supremacy but at reviving, as he wrote in Twilight of the Idols (1889), an “anti-political” high culture.

The problem was that, in stripping away the layers of external disfigurement that had built up and set over the years, Kaufmann and others denied Nietzsche an interest in politics. The task that Hugo Drochon sets himself is to reinsert some political content into Nietzsche and show that he had a systematic political theory. The result is a superb case of deep intellectual renewal and the most important book to have been written about him in the past few years.

Drochon’s study takes place against the backdrop of 19th-century Europe, as that is where Nietzsche’s account of politics – the fate of democracy, the role of the state and international relations – is best understood. Nietzsche’s sane life coincided with the main political events of his time. He served as a medical orderly in the Franco-Prussian War, witnessed German unification and experienced at first hand the traits of a modern democratic order: party competition, secret ballots, voting and the influence of mass media. He also lived through Britain’s and Russia’s “great game” for control over central Asia. He went mad in the year Bismarck tended his resignation to Wilhelm II.

Drochon traces Nietzsche’s “intelligible account of modern society” in response to these events. Inspired by the Greeks – especially Plato and his mission to legislate a new state and train the men to do it – Nietzsche wanted to establish a healthy culture in which philosophy and great art could be produced. He was certain that slavery was necessary for this (a view that led to his eventual split with Wagner). The “cruel-sounding truth”, he admitted, was that “slavery belongs to the essence of culture”, as the artistic class, “a small number of Olympian men”, is released from the drudgery of daily existence to focus on producing art.

His disagreement with Wagner over the role of slavery led Nietzsche to describe the genesis and decay of the state. He saw clearly, like Hobbes, that the state of nature was “the war of all against all”. But whereas Hobbes imagined the state arising through a contract, Nietzsche saw it originating from a “conqueror with the iron hand”, who “suddenly, violently and bloodily” takes control of a people and forces it into a hierarchical society. Nietzsche then plotted its evolution, from a space within which culture flourished to the modern Kulturstaat, in which culture was appropriated for its own sake. If the state’s birth was violent, its decay was slow and was linked to Nietz­sche’s notorious phrase about the death of God: given that the Christian God was no longer a self-evident foundation of morality upon which societies could support themselves, the state faced dissolution.

Tracing with great forensic skill the minutiae of Nietzsche’s arguments across multiple sources, Drochon never loses the overall narrative thread (an occupational hazard of studying the history of political thought). Nor does he shy away from his subject’s unsavoury views. If Nietzsche’s remarks on slavery were harsh enough, his thinking on eugenics, or his physiologically inflected theories about democracy (which he regarded as the victory of a slave morality – associated with the “dark-skinned and especially dark-haired man” – over a master morality of the “Aryan conquering race”) sound even more repellent. Without wishing to justify these ideas, Drochon reminds us that theories of racial classification were prevalent and acceptable modes of inquiry in the 19th century. It would have been strange if Nietzsche had not drawn on them.

His darker side notwithstanding, many of Nietzsche’s insights speak to our politics now. He foresaw the privatisation of the state, in which “private companies” (Privatgesellschaften) would assume the business of the state, including those activities that are the “most resistant remainder of what was formerly the work of the government” – that is, “protecting the private person from the private person”. He showed how democracies gave birth to aristocracies and could become hostage to a “herd morality”, majoritarianism and misarchism: “the democratic idiosyncrasy of being against everything that dominates and wants to dominate”. He explored the question of wage labour and the increasing hostility between workers and employers and predicted the erosion of trust in
public institutions.

Nietzsche also described how statesmen revive the kind of pathologies that are corrupting European and American societies at the moment: nationalism, racism, intellectual parochialism and political insularity. He knew what he was talking about: Bismarck’s power politics, a tribute to blood (war) and iron (technology), was a “petty politics” that divided nations and peoples. Nietzsche’s “great politics”, by contrast, imagined the unification of Europe led by a cultural elite, the class he termed “good Europeans”, bred by intermixing Prussian military officers and Jewish financiers. Continental union would not only constitute a geopolitical counterweight to Britain and Russia. Good Europeans would, as Drochon writes, create “a new trans-European culture, which itself is specially called on to lead a world culture”.

So, this book has come at the right time. In the light of Britain’s vote for Brexit, which threatens to take us back to a petty politics of nationalism and continental division, Nietzsche’s writings are more significant than ever. Those of us who desire a more integrated and peaceful union with our neighbours cling despairingly – and with receding hope – to his dream that, in spite of “the morbid estrangement which the nationality craze has induced and still induces among the peoples of Europe, owing also to the short-sighted and hasty-handed politicians . . . Europe wishes to be one”.

Nietzsche’s Great Politics by Hugo Drochon is published by Princeton University Press, 224pp, £34.95

Gavin Jacobson is a writer and book critic

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt