I am adopted. I am the thirteenth child of Madelaine and Francois Nguebe, better known as Mama and Papa. I was visiting Mama the other day with a young missionary kid and introduced him to my mom. He gave us the most confused look. “But, but, but...” he said, looking at us, “that’s not true”. I suppose, in the flesh, it does look a bit impossible, with me a snow white Caucasian and the Nguebe’s as black as any Central African. But in spirit, I have become an Nguebe, the thirteenth, if somewhat pampered, child. As an adopted child I admit to having special privileges. When I first entered the family, five years ago now, I was chastened for sitting on a mat on the ground when a perfectly suitable chair had been hauled out of the house specifically for me to sit in. It used to be a big deal when I arrived in the afternoon to sit and visit, more along the lines of the patron coming to your house. Over the years though, the bond of adoption has strengthened. While I have yet to do dishes or make gozo for the family meal (the cassava staple), there being plenty of children and spare wives to do these tasks, likely better than me, I am slowly losing my place of privilege. While you may not think this worth rejoicing over, it is something I have sought after from the beginning. No more chairs of honour or friends addressing me as “Madame Darren”. Now, when I arrive, I am greeted with the same titles of respect that any other Nguebe would use for each other. I am “Angela”, “Mama”, “Aunty”, “my daughter” or “my sister” as the case allows. I have never been happier.
Five years since my adoption, I am sitting on a couch with Remy to my right and Clarisse across from me, watching French TV in the bar of GEM Diamonds-Likaya, an hour and a half from Berberati. Clarisse and I came to Berberati on vacation, two nights only, but it is a stretch given Clarisse’s responsibilities at the hospital and the kids-nieces, nephews and grandchild-we left crying at home on our way here. After spending the night at our sister Elise’s house, Remy, the firstborn and family patriarch came to pick us up this morning to take us to this Central African bush paradise.
Perhaps paradise is too strong a word, but since it closed operations it has become a very tranquil place to visit. It has more amenities than you could find anywhere in Berberati, the second largest city in the country. No outhouses in Likaya, just flush toilets, hot water showers, air conditioning and a second story bar overlooking the river. C’est tres bien!
It is hard, if not impossible to characterize a family, let alone a country. As far as the Nguebe’s are concerned, they are a Central African family that has been transformed by a living God. They are far from perfect. Between the twelve brothers and sisters (six of each sex) you can find any number of faults, but no more so than you would find amongst my dad’s own eleven siblings. However you break it down though, there exists something different among them. I have met them all and, while I know some better than others, generosity and perseverance are common characteristics.
