Cameroon Sahel: Edge of Fear: Where Tears Turn to Darkness
Boko Haram and Colonial Borders - The Strangulation of Cameroon's Far North
Logone-et-Chari, Cameroon–Nigeria frontier
This gallery is a brief selection from a much larger body of work. The remaining images and full narrative are reserved for my forthcoming book. For commissioning or licensing enquiries, please contact me directly.
Along the dust‑blown frontier of Logone‑et‑Chari, Boko Haram rides cheap motorbikes across a border Britain and France sketched in 1919—a line too porous for security yet lethal to the people it slices apart. Villages endure raids that begin as ochre clouds, end in torch‑black ruin.
A woman survived seven years in an underground “gift” pit; Tongushi, sixty, fled with a grand‑child through thorns while flames devoured her home; ten‑year‑old Garba hoes onions where eight sisters once slept; Mohammed cried himself blind after finding his family butchered. These stories haunt settlements already living on half‑rations.
The same cartographic vandalism that crippled trade now fuels militant commerce—guns in, girls out, cattle rustled both ways. Until tarmac, clinics and classrooms replace potholes and plate armour, insurgency will remain a symptom, not the disease. The dust keeps rising; it falls on the same forgotten villages, casualties of a war they never declared and a boundary they never chose.
Logone-et-Chari, Cameroon–Nigeria frontier
This gallery is a brief selection from a much larger body of work. The remaining images and full narrative are reserved for my forthcoming book. For commissioning or licensing enquiries, please contact me directly.
Along the dust‑blown frontier of Logone‑et‑Chari, Boko Haram rides cheap motorbikes across a border Britain and France sketched in 1919—a line too porous for security yet lethal to the people it slices apart. Villages endure raids that begin as ochre clouds, end in torch‑black ruin.
A woman survived seven years in an underground “gift” pit; Tongushi, sixty, fled with a grand‑child through thorns while flames devoured her home; ten‑year‑old Garba hoes onions where eight sisters once slept; Mohammed cried himself blind after finding his family butchered. These stories haunt settlements already living on half‑rations.
The same cartographic vandalism that crippled trade now fuels militant commerce—guns in, girls out, cattle rustled both ways. Until tarmac, clinics and classrooms replace potholes and plate armour, insurgency will remain a symptom, not the disease. The dust keeps rising; it falls on the same forgotten villages, casualties of a war they never declared and a boundary they never chose.
© Liz Loh-Taylor
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