The Materiality of Cement in the Cultural Matrix of the Middle Cross River Region
2016; UCLA James S. Coleman African Studies Center; Volume: 49; Issue: 3 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1162/afar_a_00298
ISSN1937-2108
Autores Tópico(s)Anthropological Studies and Insights
Resumoall photos by the author, except where otherwise notedOgbinon, a sacred, black-suited masquerade with a head crest made out of jawbones, genuflects to a cement sculpture in the Cross River town of Adim (Fig. 1). His knees barely touch the ground before he jumps to his feet and chases a young man. Yanked back by an attendant, he twists around and unleashes a fury of machete blows on the chains that restrain him. Next the masquerade kneels back down; this time for a minute of silence. In front of him, on a stool, sits a life-sized, polychrome female figure. Towering above him, on a high pedestal, stands a naturalistically rendered traditional ruler with a sword and a shield. Suddenly the masquerade dangles from the wrought iron fence that encloses the commemorative monument's platform. He crosses its length, leaps to the ground and performs another set of superbly executed dance steps; then he dashes off.The paradoxical nature of this encounter between a bellicose masquerade and a modern cement sculpture is not immediately apparent.1 Worldwide, ceremonies periodically surround commemorative sculptures, whose patriotic sentiments bear "a strong affinity with religious meanings" (Anderson 1991:10). Closely associated with the nineteenth century emergence of modern nation states, this genre of sculpture interprets important forebears as the product of a people's shared history so as to inculcate in them a vision of a joint future (Weiner 1985:210). As objects that provide a frame for social action (Goffman 1959), local commemorative sculptures like the one in Adim furthermore resemble the region's fertility and war shrines; in fact, as I discuss later, they partake in the latter's genealogy. Although these shrines consist of heaps of boulders and today only rarely display figurative sculpture, they too are the subject of masquerades' devotion, embody collective histories (although via ancestral spirits, not historicized figures) and facilitate social cohesion (albeit among members of clans and wards, not nations).2Still, Ogbinon's 2001 performance during Adim's new yam festival is perplexing. It is characterized by opposing "memorializing strategies" (de Jong and Rowlands 2007). The historicism at work in the cement sculpture adopts the former British colonizer's visual language and technology to propound a statement so resolute as to warrant a permanent fixture in the center of the town. Presumably, the artwork, in and of itself a product of "postcolonial pastiche" (Basu 2013:24), communicates "inalienable values" (Weiner 1985, Weiss 1997) and considers the community's relationship to the global world.3 An indigenous mode of memorializing, brought out through Ogbinon's ephemeral performance, does the opposite. The masquerade treads carefully around the religious sensitivities of a deeply divided population. Catholics, Protestants, and Pentecostals' varying degrees of (in)tolerance towards local religious practices—spirit invocation in particular—are the subject of heated debates and sometimes result in fierce confrontations. Deliberately elusive and fragile, the masquerade permits multifarious interpretations and calls for constant renewal.The subject of my investigation is a body of hitherto undocumented commemorative sculptures and their meaning. Cement statues by the workshop of Ubi Obongha Ikpi (a.k.a. Ubi Artist; ca. 1930–2005) of the Yakurr town of Mkpani embellish the town centers of twelve agrarian communities in the Middle Cross River region of Nigeria.4 These monuments span four decades, 1960 to 2002, and were commissioned by age grades and individuals intending to leave a mark on their communities. Outstanding they are. For even though they are embedded in time-honored cultural productions and are continuously assailed by the immediacies, ambiguities and intensities of their performances contexts, their most noteworthy characteristic is this: they do not budge.To complement the literature on cement sculptures in the broader region, the majority of which appear in funerary contexts as tombs or tombstones or constitute civic monuments (see Butler 1963, Nicklin and Salmon 1977, Domowitz and Mandirola 1984, Rosevear 1984, Soulillou et al. 1985, Vogel 1991, Carlson 2003, Arnoldi 2007, Ross 2007, Basu 2013), I approach Ubi Artist's sculptures through their stubborn materiality. My overriding questions are: does the use of cement in expressions of postcolonial modernity in the Middle Cross River region play a significant role in the process by which people shed themselves of their colonial modernity; and does cement, apart from being a foreign-introduced medium with a priori associations of cosmopolitanism, permit people to not merely represent their postcolonial sentiments, but conceptualize them—that is, think in and through them?I use the discourse of new materialism as a framework for my investigation. Conceptions of causality in the material world have undergone radical changes in the last four decades. The "brute 'thereness' [of matter] seems so self-evident and unassailable" (Coole and Frost 2010:7). Yet, based on current insights in quantum physics, matter instead appears to be "a mercurial stabilization of dynamic processes" (Coole and Frost 2010:13). New materialism considers matter to possess agency—to be "lively" (Coole and Frost 2010:7)—and the hard boundaries between sentient and nonsentient beings drawn by Cartesian dualism to be iffy.Older studies of materialism that are rooted in Newtonian mechanics and Cartesian dualism nevertheless continue to be useful. There is general agreement among scholars that even though the experience of being-in-the-world requires an "ontological commitment to the materiality of things," at an analytical level, subjects and objects constitute each other (Van Beek 1996:19). "The immaterial can only be expressed through the material" (Miller 2010:72). This turns objects into social actors whose capacities are particularly effective because we take them for granted. Daniel Miller calls this "the humility of things" (Miller 2010:50). Alfred Gell, to whom objects' capacity to intervene in the human sphere is ultimately traceable to spatiotemporal dispersed human agency, also recognizes that objects, once unleashed, create unintended consequences (1998:16, 221–23).Marshall McLuhan (1994) and Walter Benjamin (1999) in particular advanced the notion that objects' agency is far reaching, resulting (in the case of newly invented media and technologies) in an alteration of human perception. However, the notion that new media have intrinsic capacities with universal outcomes has been questioned. To Miller, "the problem with the idea of inherent capacity is that usually we do not know what this is until it is manifested in usage and meaning" (2010:112). Bradd Weiss similarly argues that particular forms of subject-object relations "are only realized in the course of specific sociocultural activities" (1997:166). Erving Goffman further explains that people are culturally conditioned to respond to objects as frames for social action. The smooth operation of society demands that people maintain a "veneer of consensus" so as to avoid "an open conflict of definitions of [their] situation" (Goffman 1959:7, 10). A crucial characteristic of these tacit agreements is that they remain invisible until associated behavioral codes are breached. How media work within a specific cultural matrix, however, presents a valuable tool for interrogating artworks' meaning, particularly when, as is the case with Ubi Artist's sculptures, neither the artists or patron's original intention, nor the artworks' initial reception, has been documented.The Middle Cross River region of Nigeria is historically associated with decentralized societies that adamantly defended their egalitarian principles and strove to maintain their autonomy. From the seventeenth century onward, communities developed a strong war ethos, facing the havoc of the transatlantic slave trade, British colonialism (1900–1960) and, after 1960, a series of military dictatorships and corrupt, civilian-led regimes. The Biafra War (1967–1970) was the broader region's unsuccessful attempt to secede from the nation. To this day, communities occasionally defy the modern nation's sovereignty and take up arms against their neighbors (Hannerz 1997, Shaka 2005) or, as was the case in 2001, rise up against the country's imposed Local Government Councils (Cross River State 2002).5Despite their defiant attitude towards the modern nation and their predilection for ephemeral art forms, people in Abi, Biase, Yakurr, and Obubra Local Government Areas (LGA) erected commemorative monuments that are suggestive of centralized representation and monarchy and hence of British colonialism. With the exception of Ubi Artist's monument at Obubra Local Government Council, which was unveiled on October 1, 1960, the day of Nigerian independence, these works all foreground priest-chiefs who guided their people during perilous migrations (e.g., in Igbo-Imabana), defended them during decisive local wars (e.g., in Assiga) or heroically weathered colonialism's assaults on towns' sovereignty (e.g., in Ugep). As indicated on plaques, these men are cast in the role of royal fathers (Fig. 2). Indeed, current incumbents of these offices are conceptualized as monarchs and addressed as "Your Royal Highness" or "Your Majesty," and their residences, replete with thrones, are identified as their "palaces." This monarchical etiquette is particularly pronounced where town leaders have been integrated into the administrative structure of the federal government as paramount rulers of districts, in which case they are afforded an executive model Peugeot, a driver, a palace guard, and a monthly stipend.In most towns, these life-sized figurative representations are situated in the vicinity of the palace. They are mounted on a variety of supports: traffic roundabouts or similar low, tiered platforms; tiered, cone-shaped bases; or tall pedestals set upon high platforms (Fig. 3). Several structures are furbished with molded sofas and enclosed with a wrought iron fence or a balustrade. The elderly chiefs are depicted wearing full-length, wrapper-style waist cloths, shawls folded over their left shoulder or draped around the waist, and a variety of caps and European hats (Fig. 4). Where women are shown, they are semi-nude and wear only a small apron (Fig. 5).The Nigerian crest has been emblazoned on the bases of two sculptures, once as a relief plaque (at Obubra Local Government Council) and once as a painted emblem (in Okorokpana) (Fig. 6); nevertheless, the crest has been juxtaposed with the motif of an ukara cloth, a local power symbol (Thompson 1983, Cole and Aniakor 1984, Fenton 2012). This indigo-dyed textile is sacred and exclusive to Ekpe, the men's leopard society; its graphic motifs constitute one form of nsibidi, the region's well-known semiotic language system (Leib and Romano 1984, Ottenberg and Knudsen 1985, Fenton 2012, Carlson 2007). Shortly after the military handed over the nation to civilian rule in 1999, age grades, who are periodically charged to refurbish these monuments with a new coat of enamel paint, in several cases also embellished the sashes draped over traditional rulers' shoulders with green-white-green stripes to suggest the Nigerian flag.This bricolage of indigenous and (post) colonial iconography deserves scrutiny. Regardless of their religious affiliations and of the modern political and economic realities, as I argued elsewhere (Salami 2008, 2009), most people in this region proclaim themselves to be connoisseurs of their indigenous culture. They ceaselessly debate the merit of their "tradition" and are determined to safeguard its integrity. Yet, forced to yield to the modern bureaucracy's demand for centralized representation, they thought it expedient to adopt the imperial pomp of their former colonizer and to utilize imported artistic genres (commemorative monuments) as well as a foreign-introduced medium (cement) to objectify their aim. Layers of ambiguity characterize these monuments. One might ask, for example, if these towering, life-size effigies of traditional rulers are meant to salute or to challenge the federal government's authority. The inadvertent visual homogenization of the feuding communities' townscapes via these conspicuous monuments is baffling. Does it align with Nigeria's promotion of multiculturalism as expressed in the doctrine "unity in diversity," or is it closer in spirit to a the locally often reiterated truism about self-defense, "there is strength in numbers," or both? The contradictions at play—the push and pull between local and foreign-imposed values—are inherent in (post)colonial societies. More broadly speaking, they are typical of the tension between the local and the global or, in reference to posthumanism and the discourse on new materialism, they are thought to be the outcome of interactive global systems and not necessarily in need of resolution (Appadurai 1990, Hall 1997, King 1997, Robertson 1995, Coole and Frost 2010).I contend that from the viewpoint of the people in this region, cement's most salient feature is that it is not wood. Cement permits both Christians and adherents to local African religions to dissociate the modern commemorative monuments from their local shrine architecture, thus allowing these disparate groups to bridge their ideological differences, honor their shared past, and unite behind a utopian vision of the future: their town leaders taking up their rightful position—from an egalitarian perspective—among global leaders. But more fundamentally, I argue, cement's rigidity, fixedness, and durability has helped to create the idea of traditional rulers who are able to stand their ground in the face of Western domination.Despite the indelible mark Ubi Artist6 (Fig. 7) left on the townscapes of the Middle Cross River region, the sculptor received little local recognition. During the unveiling ceremony of his commemorative sculpture in Igbo-Imabana in 2002, for example—an elaborate affair that involved canopies, balloons, and ribbon-cutting—his name was not mentioned. Instead, public speakers foregrounded the sundry achievements of the age grade that had commissioned the artwork.Ubi Artist thought of himself primarily as a self-taught artist. In 1949, a district officer stationed at Obubra took note of his drawing, painting, and metal-casting skills and recommended him to the Teacher Training Center in Uyo in Nigeria's palm belt. There, Ubi Artist briefly apprenticed with A.P. Umana, who had been a student of colonial educator Kenneth C. Murray during the early 1930s (Ogbechie 2008:38). But Ubi Artist fell severely ill and, after three months, returned to his home town of Mkpani. The artist reminisced that he was so talented that "Umana nearly denied" him as an apprentice. People in Uyo referred to him as "another Ben" (a reference to Nigeria's foremost early modern artist Ben Enwonwu—on whom see Ogbechie 2008).While Ubi Artist's daily tasks in Umana's workshop revolved around "clay work; mixing clay for molding," he nevertheless became familiar with the Ibibio town's rich repertoire of cement tombs. The technique he would later employ to create his cement statues in the Middle Cross River region is identical to that used by internationally renowned Uyo artist Sunday Jack Akpan. A negative mold, pressed into a heap of sand, provides the foundation for shaping the cement statues' back half; sand piled on top of the hardened cement shell is then formed into a positive mold to aid in the completion of the statues' front half. Solid limbs, which are sometimes reinforced with wooden sticks or iron rods, are attached using pegs and holes (Nicklin and Salmons 1977:33).From the mid-1970s onward, Ubi Artist received commissions for commemorative sculptures about every four to five years, providing him with an income sufficient to sustain him. During the 1980s, he took on several apprentices: his eldest son Eteng Ubi Obong, the architect Archibong of Ekori, and Ben Arikpo of Ugep (all now deceased). But he "was never really satisfied" when he had to rely on others for help. The younger men were often charged with the creation of the sculptures' bases. Where they fulfilled independent commissions, they followed Ubi Artist's design schemes.By the time I first met the sculptor in 1999, he was working with his younger son, John Ubi. Advanced in age and ill of health, he found it difficult to recall many of the details of his long career and frequently contradicted himself. He had a mythopoetic conception of artistic genius and saw himself as a divinely inspired artist. He died in Mkpani in 2005.The use of cement as a sculptural medium in expressions of postcolonial modernity in southeastern Nigeria has obvious connotations of cosmopolitanism, given that it was introduced by foreigners. Like bitumen (in the case of asphalt), cement is a binder used to create a particular form of concrete. Cement is therefore closely linked to the emergence of a colonial landscape of paved roads, bridges, multistoried houses, schools, churches, office buildings, and government complexes.That cement constituted part of an innovative technology and bore connotations of progress is easily deduced from a handwritten manuscript assembled by amateur historian Ibor Esu Oden. Under the heading of "Important Dates and Events in Ugep," the author recorded,These milestones were deemed of such distinction as to mingle with references to Queen Elizabeth II's 1956 visit to Nigeria and an eclipse of the sun, which Oden recorded on May 20, 1947.More precisely, Ubi Artist's adoption of cement as a sculptural medium in 1960 corresponds to plans for dramatic improvements to the region's infrastructure. At the time, Louis Berger, Inc., an engineering firm based in Pennsylvania and working on behalf of the Agency for International Development in Washington, DC, trained forty-five local personnel to conduct an extensive geological survey of the Middle Cross River region. The company drew up plans for the Ikom-Calabar Highway and a bridge that was to span the Cross River at Ekuri-Adadama. These projects were meant to link Ikom, Obubra, and Ugep to the port city of Calabar (today the state's capital) and, via Abakaliki, to the region's then administrative capital, Enugu. According to the firm's 1962 report, "this isolated corner of the Eastern Province" was economically depressed and people "worked in lackadaisical fashion"; they had no incentive to produce a surplus, because the cost associated with its transport made farming beyond the subsistence level unfeasible (Berger 1962:5, 11). The new international border between Nigeria and Cameroon had put a stop to commerce along the Mamfe-Calalar Road to the east (Berger 1962:23) and preexisting but discontinuous stretches of roads to the north, south, and west were not accessible. Conditions were such that surveyors' ground exploration had to be conducted on foot, along local trails.One imagines the elation the prospect of eased interregional connectivity would have sparked in the local population. When the Ikom-Calabar Highway was finally completed more than a decade later, on February 28, 1974, the New York Times reported, quoting Mrs. Efik, "girls no longer want to work but 'they talk all the time about going to the city,'" and Mr. Okum "talked of a change in his own grandson. The youth used to pretend that he was a farmer or a fisherman […] but now he play[ed] at driving a truck 'and he want[ed] a motorcycle'" (Johnson 1974). Thus, while Ubi Artist's 1960 cement sculpture at Obubra Local Government Council may only be linked to the blueprints for future developments, his sculptures of town leaders, the earliest of which date to the mid-1970s, relate directly to an emerging cosmopolitan identity. Ubi Artist's early works would have dazzled their viewers and sparked diverse global imaginings.To my knowledge, there is no documentation of the unveiling of Ubi Artist's monument at Obubra Local Government Council on October 1, 1960, but the date, recorded on the monument's platform, evokes the euphoria associated with independence celebrations elsewhere and immediately places all of Ubi Artist's works in a postcolonial context.The near life-size, naturalistically rendered figure, situated at the center of a sizable plaza surrounded by administrative buildings, stands on a round pedestal on top of a massive, stepped, cone-shaped base that raises the structure's overall height to about fifteen feet (Fig. 8). The work represents a humble farmer dressed in a green polo shirt and a light blue, ankle-length cloth draped around the waist. His raised right arm wields a cutlass. Ubi Artist recalled in 2002 that its now missing left hand once held a hoe: "It was boys playing football who broke it."The sculpture is overwhelmed by its setting; the statue competes visually with an inscription that cascades down the steps below the farmer's feet. The message, "To all who have died and who will die in the cause of human freedom," allows one to think of this compatriot as a martyr and of the monument as a tomb of an unknown soldier. The connotations of patriotism implied by this genre (Anderson 1991:9) are underscored by the Nigerian crest on the pedestal's backside and the monument's green-white-green color scheme. Men's conscription into the British army during World War II aside, surely, this work was meant to shake off the experience of six decades of British colonialism.The monument's inscription implies many more deaths to come. Was the artist suggesting the cause of freedom was far from complete? Did the sculpture at Obubra anticipate the Biafra War? Given the current state of the work, which shows a figure wielding a cutlass, it is tempting to see in this sculpture not the docile, nation-building farmer that was likely intended, but a warrior determined to defend his autonomy, land, and family against foreign intruders. Raised cutlasses have a specific connotation in the region. In Yakurr culture, lifting one's hand and bringing down to the ground the hand of an imaginary enemy, incapacitating him in the process, is built into the ubiquitous ritual of pouring libations to ancestors. It conveys that a stranger intent on spoiling the culture will never subjugate the people. "I want you to know our gods will never allow it," explained the Okpebili of Ugep, Cornelius Ikpi Edet.7A sculpture commissioned from Ubi Artist by the people of Mkpani in 1994, thirty-four years after the erection of the Obubra work, thus shows a far more ferocious culture hero (Fig. 9). A ritually charged priest—the shawl draped around the figure's waist implies ritual activation—raises a machete in one hand, holding in the other a decapitated enemy's skull. Mosaics on the pedestal—one shows a cutlass and a hoe, the other an open book—emphasize the importance of agriculture and education. The monument suggests compatibility between modernity and indigenous rule, rendering the modern state's political apparatus superfluous. Considering the frequency with which people in this region have engaged in local wars since the 1960s, including the Biafra War, this work underscores local sentiments regarding the state's illegitimacy (cf. Hannerz 1997).The local discourse on cement as a sculptural medium only rarely comments on its modernity. Instead, people explicitly link cement's efficacy to its solidity and durability, i.e., to its capacity to withstand thieves and to resist fire. The Oja Onen sculpture at Bikobiko town hall in Ugep illustrates this (Fig. 10). Its name means "the gossiper." A four-foot-tall, abstracted, nude, male figure with pronounced genitalia is flanked by his daughter. The statues overlook a performance arena and, since the early 1980s, a small market. Oja Onen's custodian, Ubi Eteng Eno, explained,Neither this work's exact date nor the identity of the artist is known. Keith Nicklin reports,Nicklin may have been unaware that the sculpture's articulation in cement was itself an extreme measure taken to prevent its loss. The cement sculpture was modeled over a 1930s wooden carving, which it retained as its armature. A photograph by Daryll Forde in the collection of the Rhodes House Library (University of Oxford) shows the original sculpture (Fig. 11), which is locally remembered to be the work of Eteng Nsot of Ikpakapit ward.Reports of theft of artworks by strangers abound and locally are vaguely assigned to the period just before, during, or shortly after the Biafra War. The Obol Atewa, Ubi Okoi, recalled a visitor who "collected some of the juju."9 In keeping with the region's proclivity to trick strangers, he claimed to have promised this man antiquities from a shrine in the forest—unbeknownst to the visitor the place of execution—and to have killed him. Nicklin, who held a position in the Nigerian Federal Department of Antiquities throughout the 1970s, relates that the illicit trade in artworks was extensive; it involved the smuggling of even difficult-to-transport objects across the border to Cameroon and their occasional resurfacing in European collections (Nicklin 1975:87). In 1974, for example, Hélène Kamer, a gallery owner in Paris, exhibited figures that had originally been part of monumental Mbembe slit gongs and carved wooden pillars. Her Malian supplier informed her that after his 1973 reconnaissance journeys in Obubra "nothing remained in situ" (LaGamma 2013:146).Well-founded fear of conflagrations is another overt reason why Yakurr turned to cement. In 1975, military officers stationed in Ugep, seeking revenge for the death of comrades, committed arson. "They had that prejudice that Ugep people are cannibals," explained Steven Obeten.10 They set out to destroy shrines so as to render them impotent. The Oja Onen shrine was particularly subject to their wrath. According to its custodian, the soldiers "tried to cut the figure's 'prick,' but cutting it down was not possible," because it was made of cement.11 The fire engulfed numerous compact neighborhoods. Six hundred houses burnt to the ground, 7000 people were left homeless, and thirteen people were killed (Ugep 1975). The Legomi society, a men's association, lost its shrine and Okowa masquerades and thereafter ceased to perform boy's initiations. During an earlier blaze in 1918, remembered as the "Great Fire of Omini Egom" (Oden 2002), all of the patriclans in the inner core of the town lost their carved oliphants, henceforth forcing them to borrow paraphernalia from patriclans in outlying areas, an act that was frowned upon. Thus, the anxiety about the safety of artifacts ultimately extends to and is about the preservation of the cultural practices these objects sustain.The link between cement and wood is also evident in Ubi Artist's use of earlier wooden shrines as prototypes for his cement monuments. Two monumental, carved, wooden pillars, about twelve feet in height—the Epete shrine in Ijom ward and the Ogbagbo shrine in Ikpakapit ward—were also damaged during the 1918 fire. Photographs by Daryll Forde show their remains were still standing in the late 1930s. Ubi Artist replaced the badly deteriorated Ogbagbo pillar (Fig. 12) with a new wooden sculpture in the early 1960s, reworking its iconography in the process. Later commissioned to replace a similar wooden pillar in Assiga, he turned to cement and worked out the theme of his mature works.Ikpi Ubi Ofem explained12 that the original wooden pillars had themselves been replacements for sacred trees that had been lost during a drought; their installation purportedly required a human sacrifice. They were set up amidst boulders said to have been brought from Akpa, Yakurr's homeland near the Cameroonian border. Although individual rocks functioned as indices of the spatiotemporal presence of families' ancestors, the ward shrines were not dedicated to ancestral spirits per se. The amalgamation of rocks merely signified cooperation between various families. The shrines' purpose was to unify people behind war efforts and to garner the support of war deities. Men gathered there to empower themselves the night before they moved to the warfront, returning to these sites for purification after battle. Clay pots that sat at the bases of these pillars also received libations during various phases of the agricultural cycle (Resident 1936), indicating a conceptual link between power in warfare, peace, fertility, and abundance. The shrines still constitute stops along a processional route that is regularly traversed by priest-chiefs, masquerades, and newly inaugurated title holders.The pillars' deeply undercut relief carvings consisted of discrete motifs, primarily of reptiles, which were spread fairly evenly across surfaces. A colonial officer recorded in 1936 that the sculpture in Ikpakapit featured crocodiles, iguana, a dog, and a woman with a child (Resident 1936). Elders in Ijom ward remembered similar motifs. The dog was charged to remove the infant's feces. Reptiles, particularly lizards and geckos, had a medicinal function. Lizards were used as an antidote to witchcraft and geckos as a countermeasure to coughs and tuberculosis.Ubi Artist's early 1960s rendition in wood of the Ogbagbo sculpture (Fig. 13) consolidates the overall conceptual underpinnings of the earlier work in a single, frontally oriented image. He shows a successful farmer and proven warrior, machete in hand and human skulls at his feet, standing above a woman who nurses an infant. The implication is that agricultural abundance can only be achieved during times of peace and that farming the land and defending it require a large, healthy family and cooperation between the sexes. "A man alone cannot succeed," explained Patricia Ujong Oden, Ugep's "first lady."13 This cultu
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