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Nkom explains how religious factors also played their role in riling the anger of an uninformed population against homosexuality. "In 2006 the Archbishop of Yaoundé decided to point his finger at the gay community as the people responsible for issues like unemployment, which is when homophobia became aggressive." She identifies the Archbishop's comments as the turning point that saw national newspapers take it upon themselves to start publishing the names of gay people, which fueled homophobic hysteria. "Before that the population were living comfortably with gay people," Nkom recalls.It's this warped injustice, coupled with a love for a country that was built on the basis of independence from colonialism and on the foundations of a recognized human rights charter, that spurs Nkom to continue her work.I cite the words of fellow Cameroonian human rights activist Joël Gustave Nana Ngongang who said, "As Africans, we feel the vestiges of the long European colonial presence in our continent. We feel them when other—Western, European, 'international'—LGBT organizations speak on our behalf and we are left unheard. Only Africans can speak for Africans."Nkom disapproves of this position. "I don't agree with him at all," she says, sighing heavily at his suggestion that the continent's former colonialist rulers should not interfere in the internal struggles of Africa. "We had independence in 1960. We had no criminalization of homosexuality then, we had no mass media, no television, nothing, and they never put homosexuality as a behavior that can be the cause of prejudice and barbarity to others."She reiterates how colonial laws were rejected for a greater, more accepting human rights charter. "As sexual minorities defenders, we are accused of being agents of the West to exterminate African people so you can come and steal our natural resources. We are [accused of] receiving a lot of money from you to do this 'dirty' job because homosexuality is not African. Which is not true, homosexuality is human."It's easy to view countries like Cameroon and their confused laws with sadness and fear. But people like Nkom prove that there is hope—even if its glimmer is faint. There's hope that, even as the homophobes and fear-mongers shout, there are brave people like her who are allies to the LGBT cause because they believe in justice for all. The question remains: When she could be comfortably retired as she approaches her 70th birthday, why does she continue this seemingly unending, lonely battle? "I knew I would be alone for a while. You cannot ask people to get into such risky work," she says. "They have all to lose. I face a lot of discrimination myself—many doors are locked behind me. This is a full-time job I do today and I cannot work like a normal lawyer who has a paying client. I don't have time for that. This work is huge and I want results before I leave this earth. I'm 70 and I want to reach the stage when I have a definitive decision in the Supreme Court."Due to the situation of non-democracy, the parliament in Nkom's country cannot remove the anti-gay "provision" in the law held in place by President Biya's majority party. So she follows the "judiciary road to fight in the Supreme Court" to challenge the situation. "Somebody has to do this work. I am black, I am a woman, and I am a lawyer, and I speak loud. I am a result of the battle of former generations that engaged to free me today, and it's a very heavy debt I owe to new generations."Follow Cliff on Twitter."Somebody has to do this work. I am black, I am a woman, and I am a lawyer, and I speak loud." – Alice Nkom