By Colbert Gwain | The Muteff Factor (formerly The Colbert Factor)
In Muteff village, tucked into the green shoulders of the Ijim Hills near Abuh in Fundong Subdivision, lived my uncle, Bobe Ngango—a man whose authority was felt long before it was ever explained. His wealth came from timber exploitation, but his power flowed from something quieter: restraint, patience, and a commanding silence that never needed public validation.
From his estate in Upper Muteff, he persuaded his brothers to build their compounds around his own, arranging the family like planets around a sun. Authority, in this setting, was not negotiated; it was assumed.
As age and illness crept in, Bobe Ngango quietly handed his timber business—and, by implication, the nerve centre of his authority—to his younger brother, Bobe Mindzi. The transfer was informal and undocumented, but deeply consequential. Other brothers, notably Bobe Yuh and Bobe Yelli, resisted the arrangement, openly disputing Mindzi’s claim that he acted on the permanent “high instructions” of Bobe Ngango.
Crucially, Bobe Ngango refused to clarify matters. He neither confirmed nor denied Mindzi’s authority. His silence, once a symbol of strength, became a breeding ground for suspicion. As his health declined, he retreated into near-mythical absence—a living ancestor whose authority was now mediated by another voice. The village no longer heard Bobe Ngango; it heard Bobe Mindzi speaking for him.
When death eventually intervened—first taking Bobe Ngango, then Bobe Mindzi—the outcome defied expectations. From the margins emerged Bobe Yelli, long sidelined and underestimated. In a turn that felt almost judicial, he inherited Bobe Ngango’s estate and assumed decisive authority over who would be enthroned in the compounds of both Bobe Mindzi and the late Bobe Yuh.
Silence had completed its work. Long after the original power-holder was gone, it reshaped authority in ways no one had predicted.
That village story now echoes uncomfortably in Cameroon’s national politics.
President Paul Biya’s omnipresent portrait mirrors Bobe Ngango’s legacy: always visible, yet increasingly distant. In 2019, when President Biya granted permanent signature authority to his Secretary General at the Presidency, Minister of State Ferdinand Ngoh Ngoh, he effectively created a modern equivalent of Bobe Mindzi.
Since then, communiqués have flowed steadily from Unity Palace, almost ritualistically invoking issuance on the “High Instructions of the Head of State.” Rather than clarifying governance, the phrase has become a fog—repeated so often that it now provokes doubt instead of confidence.
The controversy surrounding the attempted replacement of Elhadj Bako at the SNH is instructive. Acting on supposed “High Instructions,” Bako was removed, only for SNH Administrator-General Adolphe Moudiki to question the decision’s authenticity. After direct clarification from the President, Bako was reinstated. The delegated voice, it appeared, had spoken louder—and more boldly—than the principal.
Today, ministers and senior officials increasingly contest claims that decisions are taken in the President’s name. Authority, once centralized, is now openly interrogated. Yet the President remains silent, declining to confirm, deny, or recalibrate the scope of delegated power. Like Bobe Ngango in his final years, silence persists—but its effect has changed.
What was once control now resembles vacuum. Into that vacuum rush rivalry, institutional friction, and policy incoherence.
This context is essential to understanding the escalating dispute over cargo scanning operations at the Douala Port Authority. What began as a technical and contractual disagreement involving SGS, Transatlantic, and PAD has evolved into a full-blown test of state authority and policy discipline.
At the heart of the conflict lies a dangerous ambiguity: whose “High Instructions” should prevail? Those channelled through Ferdinand Ngoh Ngoh, or those associated with the Prime Minister and Head of Government, Chief Dr Dion Ngute? The dispute exposes a fractured chain of command, where authority depends less on law or policy than on which messenger speaks loudest.
This is not a trivial matter. Ports are sovereign spaces, critical to revenue collection, trade facilitation, and national security. Prolonged uncertainty at Douala Port—the country’s primary economic gateway—undermines investor confidence, raises transaction costs, and signals administrative instability.
Cameroonians are now aware that PAD’s interest in Transatlantic’s proposal lies in its revenue-sharing model: XAF 35,000 remitted to PAD for every XAF 95,000 collected per scanned container, compared to the XAF 10,000 paid by SGS. The rational question, therefore, is not why PAD prefers Transatlantic, but why the government has not simply renegotiated the existing contract or launched a fresh, transparent tender—rather than attempting to eject SGS through forceful administrative manoeuvres.
A functioning state depends on clarity of roles, respect for hierarchy, and predictability of policy. If a port scanning policy exists, it must be enforced uniformly and lawfully. If contradictions exist, they must be resolved institutionally—not through public standoffs that paralyse strategic infrastructure.
Resolving the Douala Port scanning dispute is therefore about more than scanners. It is about reaffirming the credibility of the Cameroonian state, restoring coherence to delegated authority, and demonstrating that power flows from institutions—not from ambiguity.
Handled well, this moment could signal a government capable of resolving conflicts amicably and lawfully—at the port, and by extension, in the Far North, the North West, and the South West. Mishandled, it risks confirming a more troubling lesson: that silence, once mistaken for strength, can ultimately unravel the very authority it was meant to protect.
This article was published on the African Think Tank platform
