The visit to Epen was challenging. Challenging – from the 4-hour motorbike ride my body had to endure down to a visit to Akume’s grave.
The roads to Epen were unpaved and muddy, and motorbikes were the only guaranteed form of transportation that would get us to the village within the same day. Cars frequently got trapped in the mud trenches and many camp out overnight waiting for additional manpower.
The motorbike ride from the nearest city to Epen was physically toiling for everyone involved. With 8 people traveling with me, all of us managed to fit our luggage and ourselves on 3 bikes. Along the way, we rode over all types of roads and bridges ranging from sharp rocks to makeshift bridges put together by 6” wood planks. I felt every bounce, shake, and slip reverberate from the bottom of my spine up to my neck every second of the 240-minute ride. Getting off the bike wasn’t so much relieving as it was achingly stressful. As I straightened out, I could feel pain radiating through every tissue in my body. My spine felt misaligned, my body was swollen, and I was in so much pain that I wanted to vomit.
We had finally arrived in Epen, a large cocoa farming village in Southwest Cameroon. This was where Akume spent his childhood, and a village he proposed that we work in before he passed away in January.
7 months ago, I thought that I would be visiting Epen with Akume. Akume spent a year organizing and writing the proposal for Epen before submitting it to us. He hired a professional photographer to capture the village, and wanted to make sure the narrative was comprehensive and catered to my high expectations for detail. I was really proud of him the day I read that proposal.
To be flung into a reality where I was now visiting Epen to visit Akume’s grave corroded an essential part of my being. I wish I could say that visiting Akume’s grave was closure for me. I think that when you experience the death of someone who was taken so abruptly and unfairly, that moment becomes a frozen snapshot that you can’t move forward from, you embrace the tragedy to become a part of you. You reluctantly limp forward, one foot in front of the other, continuing through life a little slower. You constantly replay your memories of the person hoping it’ll one day alleviate how much you miss them.
The first time Akume and I started talking about hiring him on to Water Collective, we were sitting outside surrounded by an endless rainforest and wild animals. It was nighttime – we were the guests of a Chief who had thrown a party for us to welcome us to his village. I remember the night so vividly, from how brightly the stars shone on that side of the world to the songs that groups of women were singing to share their joy. I'll never forget how excited Akume was that night. He told me his dreams, how excited he was for the future, and why he had to be a part of Water Collective. His loyalty to our mission was unique; you could tell it was the type of loyalty that was ingrained in his DNA. He wasn't loyal because he loved what we did; he was loyal because Water Collective was him. The work satiated a calling he had felt his whole life. Once I returned home to our office in New York, our team decided to hire Akume, to which he enthusiastically replied, “I AM READY”.
Throughout the years that we worked together, we faced some challenging social and cultural dynamics at our projects. To name a few - people purposely cutting into pipelines for revenge, false rumors being spread for power, and Chiefs fighting over land rights. People often forget that the nature of our work is deeply political, requiring patience and grace while wearing sharp teeth. There were times when our work was miserably stressful for me, where I’d flinch whenever I received a new email. An ‘Oh no, what now?’ dread would fill me. Akume never let me dwell in those moments though. He had the ability to absorb people’s fears and walk you through your answers. It was a trait that led to the success of our work in Cameroon. Akume was a great listener who made sure every voice was heard; every person under his care was valued, and he always took people’s worries seriously. His respect for people always returned twofold, turning the majority of our challenges into moments we can now reflect on and giggle about.
Despite the difficulty of his job, Akume never complained, or hated a minute of it. Even during the times he hurt his knees on a catchment trek, or caught typhoid at one of our partnered communities. He was always thankful and shocked when someone complimented him for his work. He fought and worked so hard for so many communities because he was fiercely passionate about seeing people thrive. The appreciation that people held for Akume could be witnessed even in his last moments. At his memorial ceremony, a person from every community he’s ever worked with traveled to Epen to say goodbye.
I hope to fight nearly as hard as Akume did for over 55,000 people while he worked with us in Cameroon, but this time for his own village. I don’t want Akume’s story to end with his passing, but for it to continue with the water he wanted to see flow in Epen. I won’t let Akume’s death be his legacy. It would be an incredible disservice to summarize Akume’s giving, selfless, loving life through the eulogy of his mortality. People like Akume deserve all the courage our bodies can muster to finish the stories that they started.
Epen’s water system is 19-years old, broken, and has only 1 reliable tap stand. Women and children crowd around in long lines around this tap, waiting for water from a system that was only meant to serve 514 people. Today this tap serves 6,800 people with great difficulty.