Raoul Djimedji is a Camerounian writer and poet. His collection of poetry “Pending the Coming Days” invites the world to share in a climate of conviviality. The charms of this work runs deep. It is a collection with which Djimedji opens the way to his poetic career, but already the lines bear the marks of a spectacular wealth of beauty and lyric composition.

Through the few poems already put in song by another young artist elsewhere, the taste of poetry that had started disappearing comes back even stronger here. Indeed, “Pending the Coming Days” is a collection of poems that will forever set a path for others to follow in his native Yaounde. The major character of the poems is a lone child. In Yaoundé where he lives on the street, there are only buildings and churches of the wealthy, cars and lies of the rulers to fill his eyes. His whole generation is abandoned to itself and visions of a better life must be supervised and censored by a failed political kleptocracy. For Djimedji poetry, like the poet that called him forth, is how he fights, waiting for the coming days of freedom. Here presented, The Sun Doesn’t Wake offers a journey from home to the corners of the inner city where living itself is a disease, a disease for some and a luxurious heaven for others. The Sun Doesn’t Wake is a snapshot of a solitary sojourner on a quest for survival.

The Sun Doesn’t Wake

The sun doesn’t wake the deaths

it goes behind the sea where life is handful of sand
it goes through a canoe full of fun but worried ô ke ndui’te kô
shadows live on monkeys land rising sun is answer to exile
wait, brother. wait. tomorrow is another day
there is only one word the rest is obese, repressed by the surfs of the atlantic
there is only one word: the child on the shore like the hand on the trigger
waters know the mystery those who died never went let them remain in power
if i should go i will sing a song of joy drink a cup of tea
and when the day spits its dead bodies on the lips of the ocean
i will sink again drink again
the sun shines on the seashore death snares the destiny of rats
and the poet, seated on embers counts the waste and counts the waves