Slowly but surely, we are acquiring that famous culture of

Host: The evening sun melted slowly behind the hills of Yaoundé, turning the sky into a soft, amber river of light. The streets below buzzed with the pulse of daily life — motorbikes weaving between buses, vendors shouting over the clatter of coins, and children chasing a tattered football down the dusty road.

A faint breeze carried the smell of roasted plantains and diesel, that unique cocktail of progress and persistence.

Inside a quiet roadside café, the ceiling fan hummed lazily above two figures. Jack sat at a corner table, his sleeves rolled, a cup of black coffee untouched before him. Jeeny sat opposite, notebook in hand, her eyes steady, her tone calm yet full of conviction.

On the page before them, a quote was written in blue ink:
"Slowly but surely, we are acquiring that famous culture of democracy, which is our objective." — Paul Biya.

Jeeny: “You know, I like what Biya said here — slowly but surely. It’s an honest acknowledgment. Democracy isn’t a switch. It’s a seed. It takes time to grow.”

Jack: (smirking) “You sound like you’ve never waited for a government form to be processed in this country. Slowly, yes. Surely? That’s debatable.”

Host: His tone carried that familiar bite of cynicism, but beneath it lay a quiet weariness — the fatigue of someone who had seen too much promise turn into delay.

Jeeny: “You’re too harsh. Democracy isn’t built on speed. It’s built on understanding — on teaching people that their voice matters. You can’t rush that kind of awareness.”

Jack: “Maybe. But sometimes ‘slowly but surely’ is just code for we’re pretending to move while standing still.”

Host: The fan blades creaked softly above, slicing the air in rhythmic arcs. A radio played in the background — a local newscaster’s voice cutting through static, mentioning another election rally, another promise of reform.

Jeeny: “You think nothing’s changing?”

Jack: “Oh, everything’s changing — except the people in charge.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward) “You’re being cynical again, Jack. Look around you — young people debating politics online, communities organizing clean-ups, farmers demanding fairer prices. That is democracy growing. Slowly, yes. But surely.”

Jack: “And what happens when those voices get silenced, Jeeny? When peaceful protests end in tear gas? You think culture grows in a climate of fear?”

Jeeny: “It grows because of fear. Every voice that dares to speak under pressure plants a root. Look at history — the Indian independence movement, the civil rights struggle, South Africa’s apartheid. All of them took decades, centuries even. Culture doesn’t bloom in safety; it’s born in struggle.”

Host: The streetlight outside flickered to life as dusk deepened. The faces passing by the window turned to silhouettes — flickers of motion, of life, of persistence.

Jack: “You talk like struggle is a virtue. It’s not. It’s exhaustion disguised as progress. I’ve seen too many people give everything for change that never came.”

Jeeny: “And yet, if they hadn’t tried, we’d have nothing to stand on now. Every generation thinks democracy has failed — until they realize they’re the ones meant to carry it forward.”

Host: A brief silence followed — the kind that feels like two hearts measuring truth in the air. Jack stirred his coffee slowly, the spoon clinking against porcelain like a ticking clock.

Jack: “You sound like my father. He used to say the same thing: that democracy isn’t a gift, it’s a practice. But tell me, Jeeny, how long do we keep practicing before we admit we’re bad at it?”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “As long as it takes. Because the moment you stop practicing, you lose it. Democracy isn’t perfection — it’s participation.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, steady and luminous. Outside, the call to prayer rose from a distant mosque, blending with the hum of the city — the sound of many voices weaving into one.

Jack: “You make it sound almost poetic. But democracy isn’t poetry — it’s paperwork, corruption, campaign lies.”

Jeeny: “That’s the outer layer. The bureaucracy. The noise. But beneath that, there’s something real — the idea that power belongs to everyone, not just the few. Even when it’s messy, it’s still sacred.”

Jack: “Sacred? You think politics can be sacred?”

Jeeny: “Not politics — participation. When people care enough to argue, to vote, to protest — that’s sacred. Because apathy is death, Jack. Democracy doesn’t die from coups; it dies from indifference.”

Host: Her voice sharpened slightly, carrying the edge of conviction. Jack leaned back, his expression thoughtful. He looked out the window — at an old man helping a young girl cross the street, at two teenagers handing out pamphlets for a youth campaign.

Jack: “Maybe Biya meant exactly that — culture. Not just institutions, but the spirit. The idea that we have to learn how to be free together.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Democracy isn’t just about electing leaders. It’s about learning to listen. To argue without hating. To disagree without destroying.”

Host: The light inside the café shifted — the single bulb above them flickered, dimmed, then steadied again. The room seemed smaller now, more intimate, like a confession shared under candlelight.

Jack: “You know, I once covered an election in the North. I met a woman who walked ten miles to vote, carrying her baby. She said it made her feel like she existed. That her choice mattered. I guess that’s the culture Biya was talking about.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s how it begins. Not in parliaments or speeches — but in the quiet conviction of people like her.”

Jack: “And yet, the powerful keep treating democracy like it’s decoration — something you display when it suits you.”

Jeeny: “That’s why it has to be cultural, not cosmetic. Culture seeps deeper than politics. You can’t police people’s consciousness forever.”

Host: The rain began again — light, rhythmic, tapping on the tin roof. The air smelled of wet dust and hope.

Jack: (quietly) “So you think we’re getting there? Slowly but surely?”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Yes. Slowly — because understanding takes time. Surely — because the human spirit refuses to stay silent.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly — not in agreement, but in acceptance. The kind of smile born from realizing that skepticism doesn’t erase truth; it just tests its strength.

Jack: “Maybe that’s democracy’s secret. Not perfection, not progress — but persistence.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not a finish line, Jack. It’s a road we build while walking.”

Host: Outside, the city glowed — imperfect, loud, alive. The voices of the night merged into a kind of harmony: laughter, engines, music, prayer.

The camera drifted upward, rising above the café, over the roofs, past the power lines tangled like veins — the pulse of a nation still learning to speak its collective heart.

And beneath that vast Cameroonian sky, where hope and history still wrestled for breath, the words of Paul Biya echoed softly, like a promise both fragile and enduring:

"Slowly but surely, we are acquiring that famous culture of democracy, which is our objective."

Because even when the journey is long, the act of moving — of believing — is itself the victory.