Colbert Gwain | The Muteff Factor (formerly The Colbert Factor)
A Ngvinkejem man was visiting his close friend in Muteff village situated off the jaws of Abuh in the Ijim hills in Fundong Subdivision of Cameroon's North West Region. The host instructed his children to sweep the entire compound, and they soon assured him the task was done. But instead, they had piled the dirt onto abandoned latrine pits behind the house.
When the guest later went to use the toilet, he was met with the stench and vomited on the spot. Pale and shaken, he announced his sudden departure. Only later did the host discover that the children’s carelessness in the backyard had ruined what, from the front, had seemed like a perfectly clean welcome.
Since that disgusting incident (and to avoid any future occurrence), village elders teach children an old lesson whenever a distinguished visitor is expected: sweep the entire compound, not just the front yard. The wisdom is simple but profound. A household that cleans only the entrance while leaving the backyard untidy risks hiding the suffering of its own people.
That lesson feels painfully relevant today. As Cameroon prepares to celebrate the International Women's Day this March and welcome Pope Leo XIV in mid April, the country’s front yard will almost certainly be spotless: streets swept, speeches polished, and ceremonies rehearsed. Yet in the backyard of the national compound sit thousands of women and young girls displaced by the Anglophone conflict—forgotten, unseen, and trapped in a relentless cycle of housing insecurity.
From Solidarity to Silence
When the Anglophone conflict erupted in 2016, waves of sympathy and support swept through Cameroon. Civil society organizations, churches, humanitarian groups, and countless individuals rallied to assist newly displaced persons. Communities opened their homes. Donations of food, clothing, and small cash assistance were distributed. Advocacy groups loudly promoted the rights of IDPs to live in dignity.
But conflicts have a way of exhausting compassion. As the crisis dragged on, fatigue replaced urgency. Humanitarian resources thinned, public attention drifted elsewhere, and the vibrant network of solidarity slowly dissolved. Nearly a decade later, IDPs are increasingly mentioned only in reports—as numbers rather than human beings struggling to survive.
The figures themselves are staggering: the conflict has displaced over 800,000 people within Cameroon, with women and children making up nearly 80 percent of the population of internally displaced persons. Many more have been displaced externally. Behind those numbers lie thousands of women navigating trauma, poverty, and the daily uncertainty of where they will sleep next.
A Night of Fire
Frida Nain—not her real name—fled her hometown of Belo in early 2018 after clashes between government forces and separatist fighters engulfed the community. “Our house burned to ashes,” she recalls. With nothing left, she ran to Bamenda, the regional capital, hoping to find safety and rebuild her life.
At first, kindness greeted her. She found a small room in Ntamulung for FCFA 10,000 a month. The landlord spoke warmly, neighbors offered food, and for a moment, she felt part of a community. “They told me I was now part of the family,” Frida remembers. “I thought my stay in Bamenda would only be temporary until peace returned.”
When Sympathy Fades
Five months later, the violence in Belo intensified. Frida’s six siblings fled and joined her in the cramped room. Almost immediately, the landlord’s attitude shifted. Complaints began to multiply: irregular rent payments, overcrowding, noise, and alleged misuse of the shared toilet.
A small glimmer of hope arrived when the then Senator from Boyo, Honoré Ngam visited Bamenda to support some displaced persons. Each beneficiary received FCFA 50,000 to start small income-generating activities. “With that money I bought fish and a small charcoal stove,” Frida recalls. “I started roasting and selling fish in front of a bar near City Chemist. It was exhausting, but I could pay rent and feed my siblings. For the first time in months, I felt a little stability.”
Yet the world of displaced women is precarious. Before long, Frida was served a one-week eviction notice, likely linked to unwanted advances she had resisted from her landlord. She had to move again—this time to Foumbot in the West Region—where she continues to survive on small-scale farming.
A Pattern of Displacement
Frida’s ordeal mirrors the experiences of thousands of female IDPs. Women fleeing towns like Widikum, Mamfe, Fundong, and Mankon often arrive in Douala, Yaoundé, Bafoussam, and Nkongsamba only to face a new and hostile reality: the scarcity of affordable housing, discrimination against Anglophones, and exploitation by landlords or intermediaries.
Arshley Tasang, displaced from Widikum, recalls being lured by a broker to temporary lodging in Douala, only to be pressured into sexual favors. “The first night he took me drinking,” she says. “He told me if I spent the night with him, he would extend my hotel stay.” The next morning he disappeared.
Brenda Ashu, from Mamfe, was refused housing by a Yaounde landlord who preferred a man claiming he could work harder to pay the rent. Hilda Tuma from Mankon saw her six-month lease expire without renewal because landlords knew they could charge more to incoming displaced Anglophones.
Housing as a Gendered Vulnerability
Across Cameroon’s cities, landlords wield enormous power in determining who gets access to scarce housing.
For female IDPs, that imbalance often results in exploitation. Many recount similar obstacles: landlords demanding sexual favors, brokers extracting money without securing accommodation and
eviction when rent payments falter. Brenda Ashu, displaced from Mamfe, searched unsuccessfully for housing in Yaoundé. “The landlord chose to rent to a young man instead of me,” she says. “He said the boy could work harder to pay the rent.”
Others are forced out when landlords realize they can charge higher rents to new arrivals. "My six-month contract expired,” says Hilda Tuma from Mankon. “The landlord said he wanted to renovate and increase the rent because displaced Anglophones were ready to pay more.”
The Geography of Vulnerability
Unable to find affordable lodging in safe city centers, many female IDPs are forced to live in peripheral neighborhoods plagued by crime, drugs, and poor infrastructure. For mothers, the consequences ripple through their children’s lives. “It is painful when the only affordable houses are far from good schools,” says Irene Tumasang, now living in Yaoundé. “Sometimes you send your children to schools where they don’t even understand the language.”
Since the outbreak of the Anglophone crisis in 2016, and its morphing into an armed conflict in 2017-2018, provoking an unprecedented wave of displacements, evictions, gentrification, and constant insecurity have trapped women in a cycle of movement, trauma, and dependence.
Breaking the Cycle
Addressing this crisis requires more than humanitarian sympathy. Cameroon urgently needs housing policies that recognize the specific vulnerabilities of displaced women. Possible interventions include: tax incentives encouraging landlords to house female IDPs,
targeted affordable housing programs for displaced families, trauma-informed housing services, and stronger protections against exploitation and discrimination
Interestingly, and while the country looks away, Cameroon’s Ministries of Social Affairs, Women’s Empowerment, and Housing—ironically all are led by women. They would have championed such reforms.
Remembering the Backyard
If Muteff’s wisdom teaches anything, it is this: the true measure of a household—or a nation—is not how well it welcomes distinguished guests, but how faithfully it protects its most vulnerable members. Until Cameroon remembers its displaced daughters, no amount of swept streets or polished ceremonies can hide the unfinished work in the backyard.
Nearly a decade into the Anglophone conflict, their stories have faded from public discourse. Yet behind those numbers are women like Frida, Arshley, Brenda, and Tumasang—still searching not for charity, but for something far more basic: A door that cannot be locked against them. A roof that cannot be taken away by coercion. A place where displacement does not begin again every six months.
In reflecting on the role of writers in society, Toni Morrison once observed: “A writer's life and work are not just a gift to mankind; they are its necessity.” Her words resonate powerfully at moments when entire communities risk being forgotten in the glare of national events.
In line with Tony Morrison's spirit, we at The Muteff Factor (formerly The Colbert Factor) are determined to continually bring the human cost of the raging and senseless conflict in Cameroon's two English-speaking regions back to the forefront of public consciousness. But such investigative reporting isn't easy, cheap, or affordable. And that's where you come in.
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