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Review by Samira Edi-Mesumbe

Good journalism is the moral compass of a nation. Practised with integrity, it does more than inform—it interrogates power, elevates public discourse, and helps shape the ethical and intellectual foundation upon which a just society must rest. In its highest form, journalism does not merely report events but shapes the moral architecture upon which great nations are built. It is a form of civic duty, a silent pact with truth and posterity.

It is precisely this noble tradition that feels imperilled within segments of Cameroon’s contemporary Fourth Estate. Too many seem disconnected from the very lineage they inhabit—unwilling to learn from, or even acknowledge those who bore the scars of journalism in darker times. You cannot amputate memory and expect to walk upright, when you play subservient sycophancy to members of the government you’re meant to hold to account. When journalists choose servility over scrutiny, when they coddle power instead of questioning it, they do more than betray the profession—they debase the public sphere. With each article, each broadcast, the bar lowers itself not from standard but from pity, and the nation is ill-served by their mediocrity and moral laziness.

It is against this backdrop that 𝐈𝐧𝐤 𝐈𝐧 𝐌𝐲 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 the long-awaited journalistic chronicles from the irrepressible behemoth of his profession; Charlie Ndi Chia, arrives not merely as his memoir but as moral corrective. Launched in Buea on 18 May 2025, and now available to a global audience, this slender yet weighty book could easily bear the title 𝑩𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝑰𝒏 𝑴𝒚 𝑰𝒏𝒌 so vividly does it capture the cost of truth-telling by a journalist of integrity who managed to navigate a landscape of excessive censorship .

For what it lacks in heft, (lean at 120 pages), it more than compensates for in depth and substance, serving as both a cherished historical record and moral witness.

It is a testament to the trials of a journalist who, armed only with his conscience, sought to report truth under the suffocating grip of repression. Through an epistolary lens, Uncle Charlie Ndi Chia charts his life from spirited youth to defiant veteran of the press. We see the early signs of his character—a child punished for defending others, a conscientious objector—crystallised into the man who became 𝐶𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑛’𝑠 𝑒𝑛𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑗𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑚: courageous, uncompromising, and suffers no fool’s sanctimony or posturing.

But this is no nostalgic chronicle. It is not simply Uncle Charlie’s memoir; it is evidence. It chronicles the psychological and physical torment meted out to journalists of integrity—censorship, surveillance, arbitrary arrests, and forced transfers engineered for torture. It is a verifiable ledger of state-inflicted torment by bureaucratic design. It records, with unnerving precision, the price of principled reporting in a country allergic to scrutiny and dissent.

Those who know Uncle Charlie Ndi Chia understand that his words are not written in vanity, but in valour. It is no wonder that even those absent from the launch insisted on being represented. He is not simply respected—he is a revered memeber of his former profession. No wonder some people bought bulk copies of the work.

To the younger generation of journalists, Charlie Ndi Chia offers a gentle exhortation: “𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑎𝑛 𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡; 𝑖𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑛 𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡.”

Yet let us not confuse gentleness with leniency. For the discerning reader, it is both a call and a challenge. Embrace weight. Seek substance. Carry forward the candour, discipline, and unwavering integrity of those who made journalism a vocation and not merely a chequebook job—giants like Victor Epie Ngome, Rose Epie, Professor Victor Julius Ngoh, Albert Mukong, Aunty Becky Ndive, the Akwayas, and Uncle Charlie Ndi Chia himself. These colossi stood unbowed before the might of Semengue, Forchive, and their ilk. They did not flinch. Neither should you.

I urge you to read this book—you will find it both illuminating and profoundly rewarding.