Tag Archives: writing

When Walls Grow Higher

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As I walked to the pharmacy with my three-year-old, I noticed that most yards were enclosed by walls more than a metre high. For some reason, my mind wandered over all the streets I had walked through during the past year and a half, and I realised that almost every yard I had seen was closed in.

As I continued walking, I shook my head because it reminded me of home in Cameroon. These days, almost every new house is built with a high wall around it. Society has changed, and people no longer feel safe enough to leave their doors open.

In contrast, I found myself thinking about my visit to Amsterdam in April 2026. I had gone to visit my Japanese friend-sister in Hof Van Groenen, and from there they kindly drove me to Hilversum, a beautiful little town, to visit family friends I had first known during my teenage years in Cameroon. As we sat in their living room, I noticed people passing by on the street glancing through the windows into the homes around us.

At first, I found it strange, but my host simply smiled. Later, he and his wife took me to Naarden-Vesting, the historic fortress town, and explained the history behind its beautiful star-shaped design. As we walked through the town, I noticed once again that there were no fences around the houses, and people looked through the windows quite naturally.

Curious, I asked my host whether it was not considered inappropriate to look into other people’s homes. He explained that, in their culture, living rooms were often decorated to be seen and admired. People displayed old antiques on shelves or arranged tulips of different colours on the windowsills for others to enjoy.

That way of thinking challenged what I had grown used to seeing. It was comforting to know that there were still places where people valued openness, community, and tradition. Everywhere I went, I was met with warmth, kindness, and gestures of welcome.

As I reflected on that visit, I could not help but sigh deeply. It saddened me to think about how much my own society has changed. The spirit of togetherness that once held people close seems to be weakening. Children no longer show the same respect for elders, neighbours pass one another without greeting, and on buses, young people often remain absorbed in their phones while elderly or injured people are left standing.

Yet this reflection also reminds me that values do not disappear on their own; they fade when people stop practising them. If there is any hope for a more humane society, it must begin in the small, ordinary ways we choose to treat one another: in a greeting, in an open heart, in respect for the elderly, and in the willingness to see our neighbours not as strangers, but as part of our shared human family.

FREEDOM IN HORSES AND MOTORBIKES.

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From horses to motorbikes, my love for riding began when I was just two years old. The remarkable part is that I still remember that day. I remember being placed on a horse and sitting there for what felt like only a few moments before I suddenly let out a piercing cry. My mother rushed to lift me down as though the horse was covered in thorns. I did not stop screaming until she set me safely back on the ground.

As I struggled to pull down my trousers, my mother quickly realised that the source of my pain was hidden beneath my clothes and hurried to undress me. When she pulled down my underwear, she discovered a large red ant 🐜 clinging stubbornly to my skin with its sharp jaws. She removed it at once, and I calmed down almost immediately. Once the drama had passed, I climbed back onto the horse and proudly rode around the compound with its owner.

When I was sixteen, we visited a family friend and went horse riding with his daughters. The feeling of the wind against my face and the sense of freedom it brought were unforgettable. I wanted to remain in the saddle forever. Three years later, I found myself once again in a Fulani community, where our host father asked us to deliver a message to the next village, as phones were still rare. I was thrilled, knowing the journey would take between three and five hours. And so, three teenagers set off on horseback to deliver a simple message.

My two companions, Kali and Adamu, were far more experienced riders than I was, and they amused themselves by holding little races along the road. I could not help laughing when they both slipped from their horses on the muddy path. Even with the drizzle falling over us, we took in the beauty of the endless green plains stretching for miles ahead. The scene felt almost cinematic, like something out of Howl’s Moving Castle, with its dreamlike landscapes and quiet wonder. I imagined myself in the world of Anne of Green Gables or Heidi, growing up in a peaceful countryside untouched by the noise and pollution of city life. We passed cattle grazing calmly and rows of vegetables thriving in the earth. I felt completely at peace. When we finally arrived, we stepped into another idyllic picture: small gardens in front of huts, each bordered by neat little fences.

Our host was surprised to see three teenagers who had braved the rain to deliver a message. He welcomed us warmly, and his wife prepared warm water for us along with steaming, comforting food. We ate in the darkness, as electricity was scarce, but their kindness made the evening feel full. Grateful for their hospitality, we turned in early, knowing there was little to do after nightfall.

The next morning, we saddled our horses and returned to our host’s home. This journey felt easier and quicker because we followed the main road instead of the mountain trail we had taken the day before. As we rode through the villages, children ran out to wave at us beneath bright blue skies. It was the longest time I had ever spent on horseback, and I treasured every moment of it.

Once we arrived home, I thanked our host sincerely for the wonderful opportunity to ride the horses. When the time came to leave, I was reluctant to go, and the lady of the house seemed equally unwilling to let her “extra daughter” depart. During the two weeks Kali and I spent there, many neighbours stopped by to ask whether I was truly their daughter so that they could propose marriage. I looked and dressed like the local girls, and many assumed I was Fulani. Saying goodbye was not easy, but we cherished our time there and promised to return one day.

After high school, I moved to Kenya, where I often rode motorbike taxis to and from the main road before catching public transport into Nairobi. Each ride stirred the same feeling I had known years earlier on horseback: the wind against my face, the thrill of movement, and the deep sense of freedom that came with both. That connection inspired me to dream of learning to ride a motorbike myself. Although I never had the chance, I still hope that one day I will. I can already imagine riding through forests and over hills, feeling once again at one with nature.

Looking back, I realise that whether on the back of a horse or the seat of a motorbike, what has always moved me most is not simply the ride itself, but the freedom, wonder, and connection it brings. These moments have stayed with me across the years, linking childhood memories with later adventures and reminding me of how deeply joy can be tied to movement, nature, and discovery. Perhaps that is why the dream still lives on: to keep riding forward, wherever the road—or trail—may lead.