Mottanni, Goethe Decouverte 2026 Jury Member For Spoken Word Poetry

It all started in the dusty, lively hallways of GBHS Bamenda, a notebook always threatening to burst from my back pocket. Secondary school was where the first clumsy verses were born, ink bleeding onto pages as I tried to make sense of the world. That obsession followed me to the university, where words became my closest companions.

But poetry, I soon learned, isn't meant to live in solitude. It breathes when it's shared. So Yembe and I would sit, passing crumpled papers back and forth, each poem a challenge, a gift. Then Chia joined the circle, and our informal gatherings became a sacred ritual—three young men trading verses, savoring each other's rhythms, pushing each other to bleed better onto the page.

Then came 2015. Or was it 2016? Time blurs when you're in the thick of something electric. Akumbu Jones walked in with a wild idea he called Black Swagger Poetry Slam, and suddenly I wasn't just a poet anymore—I was an organizer, a performer, and on nights when the DJ didn't show, I was the one fumbling with cables and playlists. For nearly a decade, that stage was home.

Just when I thought I'd seen what poetry could do, the Cameroonian Cultural Network came knocking with Bruises—a spoken word album confronting gender-based violence. They asked if I wanted to tour with it. Did I want to breathe?

What followed was a blur of red dirt roads and endless horizons. Adamawa's heat, the lush secrets of the East, Littoral's coastal energy, the highlands of the West, the familiar hills of the North West, and the bustling heart of the Centre region. New faces in every city, leaning forward to catch every word. Hands clasped after performances, eyes wet with recognition. Amazing experiences. Amazing people. An amazing team that became family. Amazing travels that turned Cameroon from places on a map into stories written on my skin.

And now? The ancestors have a wicked sense of timing.

Goethe Decouverte called. I'd seen their program before, felt that familiar ache of "if only I'd known sooner" when I realized I'd aged past their participant limit. Life laughed, shook its head, and said, "Not so fast." So here I am—not as a participant, not anymore—but as a jury member for the 2026 Spoken Word Poetry selection. From writing verses in a secondary school notebook to deciding which voices deserve to be amplified next.

To Yembe, who still challenges me with a single raised eyebrow. To Chia, whose pen remains sharper than mine. To every audience that sat still in the heat, listening. To every poet who made me believe words could bruise and heal in the same breath.

I can only say thank you. All of you. For letting this poet's journey become our story.