In every generation, truth does not merely live in books—it is spoken, challenged, refined, and preserved through both voice and action. What we now call “history” was once a living conversation. What we now call “art” was once dismissed as ordinary work.
When I stated that carpentry is an art and history itself is also an art, it was not a casual remark. It was a recognition that creation—whether with hands or with memory—is sacred. The builder and the historian are not far apart; one shapes wood, the other shapes time. Both require vision, discipline, and truth.
It is therefore concerning that when I proposed a transparent and intellectually grounded approach—calling for multiple historians to research and write diverse perspectives of Mbum history—the idea was not examined, but erased. Not corrected, not debated—deleted.
This is not just a digital action. It is a spiritual signal.
Across cultures and even within Christian tradition, truth has always been tested in the open. Prophets spoke not because it was convenient, but because silence would have been a greater error. When something is in formation—whether a law, a system, or a historical narrative—statements, objections, and contributions are not disruptions; they are safeguards.
An idea that cannot withstand dialogue is not yet ready to become history.
My intention was simple but essential: that history, once written, should not become a closed document but a living testimony—examined from multiple lenses, strengthened through intellectual diversity, and preserved with integrity. A single narrative risks becoming a single point of failure. Multiple narratives create resilience, depth, and truth.
The deletion of such a suggestion raises a deeper question: Are we building history, or are we controlling it?
I have come to understand something through lived experience—words spoken online are not empty. They travel, they remain, and they act. I have seen statements made in passing return with consequence. I have seen corrections, reflections, and even sermons shared in digital spaces produce real-world impact over time.
The digital space is not separate from reality—it is an extension of it.
There was a moment that stayed with me: an elder, living in comfort within a well-structured society, chose not to contribute meaningfully, yet spoke words that diminished the struggle of my father—who labored to raise us. That moment did not disappear. It remains, not just in memory, but in meaning. This is why every statement matters.
To delete a contribution is not only to remove words—it is to interrupt a possible correction, a future reference point, or a needed balance. What is dismissed today may be the very insight required tomorrow.
I therefore choose to restate, clearly and without hesitation: History deserves plurality.
Truth requires openness.
And digital spaces must not become places where ideas are filtered by preference rather than refined by dialogue. If an instrument, system, or historical record is being built, then let it be strong enough to receive critique. Because if it fails in the future, it is often the ignored voices of the past that hold the key to its correction.
This is not resistance.
This is responsibility.
And so, I submit this not as a complaint, but as a record—that a voice spoke, that an idea was offered,
and that history, whether accepted or rejected, has now been witnessed.
A Living Archive Speaks: Authority, Memory, and the Voice of Tfurndabi Tawong
The narrative “Meet ‘Ngang’: Disclosing the ‘Boo-Nsoh’ Code and the Juju That Shapes Tabenken’s Identity” is more than cultural reflection–it is a living transmission of memory, lineage, and authority. Its meaning rests in the voice that carries it.
Who is Tfurndabi Tawong in This Context?
He does not speak as an observer or external researcher. He speaks as:
• A direct descendant of the lineage he describes
• A bearer of inherited memory and encoded tradition
• A voice shaped by bloodline continuity, not study alone
His contribution is therefore not merely intellectual–it is lived and embodied.
