Cameroon’s National Day: When ‘Unity’ Silences Identity

The origins of this contested date trace back to May 20, 1972, when then-President Ahmadou Ahidjo scrapped the federal constitution that had been the cornerstone of the fragile union between La République du Cameroun and the former British Southern Cameroons. Without adequate consultation or constitutional safeguards, Ahidjo orchestrated a national referendum to create a unitary state—a move widely condemned by Anglophones as unconstitutional and deceptive.

What was sold as “unity” became, in the eyes of many, the beginning of annexation. Over the next decades, the centralized Francophone government tightened its grip on political power, economic resources, and cultural identity. The promises of federalism vanished. So did trust.

By the early 1990s, resentment had reached a boiling point. Anglophone lawyers, teachers, and civil society groups began to organize, demanding equal treatment under the law and respect for their educational and judicial systems. Their voices were ignored, their concerns dismissed. Protests were met with brutal crackdowns. It all came to a head in 2016, when peaceful demonstrations in Buea and Bamenda over the imposition of Francophone judges and teachers in Anglophone regions were violently suppressed.

Leaders like Barrister Felix Agbor Balla, Dr. Fontem Neba, and broadcaster Mancho Bibixy (Mancho NBC) were imprisoned. The crackdown radicalized a new generation. In 2017, separatist leaders such as Sisiku Julius Ayuk Tabe declared the independence of a breakaway state: Ambazonia. He and others were abducted from Nigeria, tried in secret, and sentenced to life in prison.

Meanwhile, others like Ayaba Cho Lucas took up arms in the diaspora, coordinating militant resistance back home. The conflict has since spiraled into one of Africa’s most underreported humanitarian crises. Over 6,000 people have died, entire villages have been burned, and atrocities committed on both sides continue unabated. Ngaburh, Bamenda, Muyuka, and Kumba have become synonymous with military raids, massacres, and civilian suffering.

Students have been stripped and beaten at the University of Buea. Schoolchildren have been gunned down in class. Civilians have been arrested without trial and dumped in Kondengui and Douala Central Prison, many languishing for years. The streets of Kumba, Wum, and Bamenda bear the marks of blood and bullets more than banners of peace.

Today, over 800,000 Anglophones are internally displaced, with tens of thousands seeking refuge in Nigeria. Families are separated. Communities shattered. Cultural heritage—once proudly defended—now silenced by fear and firepower.

Still, the state insists on celebrating May 20 as a triumph of unity.

But unity cannot be declared. It must be earned. It must be just. It must be voluntary.

For Anglophone Cameroonians, May 20 is not a national holiday. It is a national wound. It is the day their voice was taken from the constitutional table and thrown into the dustbin of political convenience. It is the day their identity became a threat to the state, and their history a danger to the official narrative.

Cameroon cannot heal until it confronts this truth. The path forward lies not in parades and presidential speeches but in justice, dialogue, and genuine federal reform. The international community must stop ignoring what has become one of Africa’s most entrenched conflicts. Cameroonians must demand more than silence from their leaders.

Because a house divided cannot stand—and a nation that ignores the cries of its own people cannot call itself united.

Should Cameroon reinstate federalism as a path to peace?
Why has the international community stayed silent on the Anglophone crisis?
What does “unity” mean when it comes at the expense of identity?
Is May 20 worth celebrating—or time for national reflection and redirection?