March 8, 2009 dawns a clear day in Bamenda, my hometown in the North West Province of Cameroon. I am not there to witness the day, but I hear that the women were celebrating. I was not there, but I hear the women.

The women wake up to a rain-swept city. It rained in Bamenda on Saturday. I hear the patter of the raindrops on corrugated iron roofs and see the steam rise from the hot hoods of battered cars. This is the first of the rains to wash the Harmattan dust off the weary, thirsty, wrinkled, dry season face of Bamenda. The rain comes to clean things for the feet of the women. Rain. Rain. Rain. Nature rolls out her red carpet. Just for the women. And just in time for International Women’s Day.

Since events have fallen on a day of worship, some women catch the early Sunday mass or service at the cathedrals and churches on the hills that dot the uneven, valley landscape of the city. Perhaps, they skip church for the day and head out early to Commercial Avenue, the broad and often taxi-filled, pedestrian-trampled thoroughfare of Bamenda, where the parade takes place. The night before, some women make extra meals for their families. And some women leave their husbands and children to fend for themselves. Today, the women celebrate life away from home and out in the town and in their gowns custom-made for this special day.

I can feel the slide of purse straps the women slip over their arms, as they head out the door. I feel the glide of their hips, hear the stiff swish of new cotton print fabric that has yet to be broken from washing and wear. The sun will fade this fabric, burn it like the backs of women toiling among their stalks of corn. But, for now, the cloth is still new. I feel the rustle of soft-haired wigs placed on heads and covered with new head-ties. I feel the warm gold of earrings and necklaces, the caress of jewelry dangling on cheek and chest. 

Once the women get to the assigned places where they assemble in their groups and associations, I can hear the chatter of their voices and the excitement in their words. Friends see friends, relatives see relatives, and they hug each other and say, Good morning, Sister. Good morning, Mother. If I pay attention, I can hear the annoyance in their tones as they question any delays.  Some are serious, they have things weighing on their minds, things to get done. Tomorrow is Monday, and there are preparations to be made for the long week ahead. But, for today, most of the women are smiling, and if they are not smiling, they are at least feeling a sense of pride in who they are.

The women are saying, This is our day. And as they say this, they beam like the sun, as only African women can beam, when they know they are on display and the cameras of visitors and spectators are snapping away. In all the beautiful, tailored dresses of myriad bright hues, greens and browns and turquoise blues, the women sparkle. They shine and glow like full-spectrum light bulbs. They are such a sight to behold. And soon Commercial Avenue is not a street anymore but a rainbow piercing the brown heart of Bamenda after a storm.

I can hear the women. They are warning each other to get in line and march straight, just the way they rehearsed. I can hear the silence, the hush over the crowd and the world, as they concentrate on the task at hand. I can hear the hush interrupted by the uniform click of the women’s heels on the cool tarmac. Left, right. Left, right. Left, right. Their feet tap so, marking time in one spot, left and right, left and right, and then someone calls out, Forward march! and off they go. Off they go, as they march and march side by side, together, and march and march side by side, into the future.