People

“I must respect the opinions of others even if I disagree with them.”
― Herbert H. Lehman

The mean to an end

Among my siblings, I was the only one who was not physically abused, and I am not sure why. I can assure you, however, that I received the most verbal and perhaps psychological abuse. I was constantly compared to other kids, belittled especially around my friends and when I would shed a tear, my father would say “Cesse tes larmes de crocodile” (stop your crocodile tears). Before life became hellish, when I would ask for transportation money, he would give me around 1,500 cfa for an entire month and would sometimes say “Tu me coûtes trop cher/ tu commences à me coûter trop cher!” (you cost me too much/you are starting to cost me too much). At some point I just stopped asking because it was just ridiculous.  I didn’t try to beg, there was no use in begging. I understood that I wasn’t in his plans and respected his opinions. When it came to us, my father never gave out of love or duties, there always was a high price to pay for everything. He would do something good for one of us, and then turn around and boast to the others as if he did something no other person had ever done.

Healing through forgiveness

I was lucky and blessed with amazing friends, whose parents always regarded me as their own. Many of my dear friends, without ever knowing, stood by me and comforted me. I was never alone. I was never ashamed or afraid to ask for help or to seek counseling, and I received invaluable advice. In the end, I knew I had to forgive my father in order to move on and believe me, had I not done it, my life would have been in shamble.

I have prayed for my father and I am still praying for him. I took a leap of faith a few times, opening up to him and allowing him around me, just for me to be victimized again and again. With my father it has always been his way or the highway; he always wanted us to support him, even when he knew he was wrong. He does not like confrontation or peaceful conversations and as of now, he has refused every form of dialogue. He has blocked all the mediators and those who can rebuke him.

“Claim your loved ones in Jesus name so that their path will be true and safe.” ― Joan Ambu

Be kind to people, especially to your families and your children. Be available to your children and develop unshakeable trust to prevent them from falling into traps or feeling miserable.
My sister had many friends, some of which were bad influences. Had our father not locked her out of the house one afternoon when she returned home, maybe she would have led a different life. It was raining heavily that day, and he locked the gate and left her outside (he did the same thing to my Mother while she was pregnant with my sister and also while my Mother was pregnant with me). That evening, while being rained on and having nowhere to go, my sister met someone whom she ended up loving with every fiber of her being; this person, ended up betraying her in the most despicable way when she needed him most. Everything is detailed in her diary, which I will be publishing too.
Had our father not done that, and many other things, my sister would have been well balanced and she would have not met such individuals. Let’s be kind to others and treat one another as we would like to be treated (Matthew 7:12).

“Knowing others is wisdom, knowing yourself is enlightenment.” ― Lao Tzu

I always tell people to know themselves because if we truly know ourselves, then we can avoid unfortunate situations. I am not without fault, but I didn’t make some of the mistakes that kids do (stealing, sneaking out of the house, sleeping around, smoking, and much more). I never failed a single class and I was obedient. I know I have ‘a big mouth’, and I can’t remain silent in the face of injustice. I only speak of what I have seen, experienced and heard. This is my story, summarized for you. I never pitied myself because I was loved by so many and I am loved still. I am one of the happiest people you will ever meet and I enjoy helping others. I know who I am and I know my worth.

From a very young age, I figured out that my father was not a normal person. He was extremely kind to strangers and extremely wicked towards us. The aim was to act in a way that no one would believe us, should we ever complain about the way he treated us. Sure enough, no one believed us; not because they trusted him, but because he was so good at being bad. Our successes were his and our failures were our Mother’s. We were nothing to him and we are still nothing to him, it was always about controlling to make himself feel important. My father lacks empathy; when we almost lost brother number 1 in 1997, it didn’t matter to our father. Early in 1998, brother number 3 climbed up a mango tree and fell to the ground, barely escaping death. When my Mother told our father about it, he said, “Why didn’t he just die?”

My father is extremely manipulative and his preferred power moves are: Pressure, shaming, blaming, and guilt trips. About four years ago or so he sent us a collective message the second week of December, demanding that we should send him a Mercedes by the end of that year (we had less than two weeks to comply). We just ignored him. If my father wants something that he cannot have, he will make sure that no one else gets it. He has tried for so many years to seize my Mother’s properties and when he couldn’t succeed, he convinced my maternal cousins that one of the properties belonged to their deceased mother (it almost created serious problems within the family). This is how evil my father is; even when he sees tangible proof, he refuses to accept it and distorts the truth. We have always hoped that in time, he will become more caring and honest, but it’s just the opposite.

“Love doesn’t die a natural death. Love has to be killed, either by neglect or narcissism.” — Frank Salvato.

When my father spoke of 17 years of crimes I committed against him, I was speechless.
I forgave him, totally and completely. I had to, in order to survive. Forgiving someone doesn’t mean submitting to the same wrong and hurt. I am not looking back because there is nothing left there for me. The Bible commands us to obey our parents in the Lord and for our fathers not to exasperate us (Ephesians 6:1-4). We should obey our parents in the Lord (only), meaning obedience in all things that are right, unless it violates God’s words.

To my father, I urge you to change your ways for your sake. You want to see your own children fail at all cost, you want us to be miserable because you cannot find happiness. Do you think any of my brothers trust you or support you in your delusions? Have any of them agreed yet to have my blood on their hands? Do you think they have forgotten what you did to them? You drove my sister from the house, kicked me out of my room and asked me to move into her room, then the next day you kicked my Mother from your room and asked her to move into mine. Was your plan to come and kill me quietly, without anyone witnessing, and then act surprised?  What you did early that morning, sir, is referred to as a “crime” and exposing your evil deeds to your bosses and anyone who could help us is referred to as “complaints.”

For the past twenty-four years, you have been unable to list just one crime I committed against you; even when the Pastor asked you, you said ‘She did nothing wrong’. Were my crimes perhaps surviving? Knowing too many of your dark secrets? You not being promoted to the rank of General because the wrong daughter died? Isn’t it enough that you emptied my sister bank account after hating her so much and not wanting to release her birth certificate? This is my last act of kindness to you; all manipulation and intimidation end here. You have no rights over my life; it doesn’t belong to you, and it doesn’t even belong to me. The following is part of what you wrote and sent to my Mother: “I will from this day, July 5th 2021, alive or dead, perform my paternal rights and Joan will pay for her seventeen years crimes against me.” If you still believe that you, a sinner, can or have the right to curse me, then once again, I dare you to try. I do not answer to the devil and I do not fear you. I am a child of God and I stand behind Psalm 7. Do what you must, and my God will do what He must.

There is a monster in all of us, however, we can tame it by choosing to love …

Click here for Part 1 and here for Part 2.

“The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable.”
― James A. Garfield

Hated alive. Hated dead

I must have fainted because I overheard a nurse calling out to my Mother and saying: “Madam, that one is already gone, let’s save this one.” Prior to my sister’s body being transported to the mortuary, my Mother told me to return home and contact everyone to let them know about my sister’s death. It was Communion Day on that Saturday and I remember that almost everyone showed up in disbelief. I didn’t cry, I was numb, and dead inside. I saw it coming, but I saw myself, not her. It was not supposed to be her. I was helpless. I was unprepared.
Once home, and realizing that she would never hold her daughter in her arms again, my Mother fainted twice. The first time lasted just a couple of minutes and the second time she remained unconscious for over fifteen minutes. We were scared for her life. I couldn’t imagine losing my Mother on the same day I lost my sister. I realized at that moment what it meant to be alone in the World.

My senior brother who was away that morning rushed to the mortuary to see his sister, and then traveled to Pouma a few days later to collect her belongings as well as to inform the school principal and fellow students of her passing. Most of her classmates came home and camped in the yard for a chance to say goodbye. Because we were in a place where the eyes couldn’t see, we didn’t tend to those students basic needs; I have always regretted it.

Everything was rushed. The viewing date was set I believe the following week, on a week day. Knowing well that a crowd was waiting at home and everything was ready for the viewing, my father instructed the drivers after the body was moved and put in the casket, not to take the body to the house. They disobeyed him and took the body home. When my father arrived, and to everyone’s surprise, he called my deceased sister’s name three times: Jacqueline, Jacqueline, Jacqueline and then he quickly said he meant to call Joan. Hmm …

It was a sad day, emotionally wrecking. She was dressed in a gorgeous gown sewn by aunt Elizabeth E. and she looked beautiful. The amazing wreaths were handmade with love by aunt Dorothy F.. After the viewing and prayers (led by uncle Peter E.) were over, the casket was loaded onto a military truck and we left for the village. We all traveled in different cars, and by the time the car in which us children rode in arrived, I saw that my sister’s casket was placed in the mud house (deserted building), rather than the main house, which was close by.
The Divisional Officer of Momo, who was in the village at the time, discovered the casket in that filthy building and asked that it should be taken to the main house. When my parents’ car arrived and my Mother was told that the casket was first placed in the mud house, she wept.
My sister was laid to rest the following day. As if losing her was not painful enough, the choice of her final resting place, to me, was insulting and disrespectful: by a dirt cliff.

Stolen Birth Certificate

When my sister returned home for the last time on April 30th, 1998, she came with two documents, one of which was her birth certificate and the other was an important document uncle Peter E. helped her fill out (I will talk about the second document in the book). She put those two documents inside a Bible and placed the Bible on the first shelf of a portable wardrobe in my room. Before going to the clinic after receiving a call from Mrs. Grace E., my father stopped at the house and took those documents. I thought that he took the birth certificate to establish the death certificate, which he did, but a few months later when my Mother asked him to return the birth certificate, he said he didn’t have it.

• Early 2000’s. Life was tough for my Mother and younger brothers as my father was doing the bare minimum for them. My Mother had opened a bank account for my sister just a couple of months prior to her death (she didn’t even get a chance to use her money). Now, my Mother thought she could really use that money to help herself and her sons. She had a copy of the death certificate, but she really needed that birth certificate in order to access the funds in that account.
  A few years went by and one afternoon of 2002, as I was resting on the couch, my sister came to me in a dream and told me to send a message to our father. She said our Mother was unwell because she didn’t have her birth certificate, as if she never existed. She described the exact location of the certificate in our father’s briefcase and asked me to tell him that he had two weeks to return it to our Mother or else! My father who denied having it for years finally released it to my Mother after reading the message I sent. Once she took the birth and death certificates to the bank, she was given the option to either withdraw the whole amount and close the account or to change ownership and maintain the account; she chose the latter. Guess who ended up taking money out of that account! Yes, my father! He gladly took the money of the ‘hated child.’

  

Due to continuing instability and our father’s unwillingness to provide for his children, my younger brothers began stealing. My second brother went above and beyond. My father always knew which of his kids stole what amount, but he would always physically abuse my Mother. One time, my second brother, whom our Mother put in the dormitory because our father kicked him out of the house for bad behavior, went home and stole a huge amount. This time our father almost broke our Mother’s neck with his foot. Brother number two, seeing his Mother’s face almost turned to the back, rushed to the nearest pharmacy to get her some medicine. My father went as far as stating that I was the one instructing my younger brothers to steal from him. He knew exactly who stole his money, yet he took his rage on our Mother.

“Everyone sees what you appear to be, few experience what you really are.”
― Niccolò Machiavelli

Money not meant to be spent on us

My paternal grandmother was a good woman, with a good heart. I have always wondered why God gave her evil children. She had 6 children (not counting the one who died by her father’s hand). Among those children only two loved and fought for us, one of which is now deceased (uncle Paul). The rest were, and still are against us, including some of their children. Some of those children too, suffered at the hands of their own father and had no choice but to turn to their uncle, who went all out for them even when they insulted him. I remember one time while going to the village, our father stopped at one of his brother’s house to give them money for the upcoming school year. He opened his briefcase and handed huge sums of money for each child to their respective mothers. Some of them would come to our house just to collect money and then leave.

In the early 1990’s my Mother had a prior engagement and could not attend the village meeting,which was taking place in Etoudi, Yaounde, so she sent my sister to represent her. My sister returned home in tears because one of the boys from that family insulted her. My father encouraged such destructive behavior by not letting his nephews and nieces know their place! They didn’t care about us as long as they got what they needed. My father would openly give them money just to hurt us, as if to tell us that his money was not meant to be spent on us. We understood their situation and never hated them. At least they had someone to rely on, while we had none.
My father also had two half sisters (aunt Esther and aunt Elizabeth, now both deceased). Those aunties were wonderful and loved us so much. Their children, and the children of those who loved us are the only family I have left from my father’s side.

Hates the in-laws, but demands respect

My Mother had three siblings, all of which are now deceased. She was the last child and she’s all we have left. Those siblings loved and cared for one another so much. My father didn’t like or appreciate any of them. My father hated my uncle Thaddeus the most, every single time he would visit (with gifts), my father would give him the cold shoulder and belittle him. However, my father came to my uncle’s aid in 2006 by taking him to the hospital for a surgery, but he died a short time later.
Aunt Rahel was a fearless woman, and when it came to the well being of her sister, there was nothing that woman couldn’t do. She spoke her mind in my father’s face and he feared her. Aunt Mary was the peacemaker; she  realized that there was no gain in talking to my father, so she became an invisible source of strength to my Mother, her baby sister.

Even though my father disliked his in-laws; he would attend family gatherings and behave like he is better or knows better than everyone else. He never helped any of them, but he wanted (and still wants) to be treated like a king, demanding of them what he can’t demand of his own family. Right now he is playing a dangerous game by writing to my cousins and describing me as an evil person, while portraying himself as a saint. They all know how manipulative he is and they understand that his aim is to sow hatred and discord upon us. Thankfully, my maternal cousins are no pushovers. Respect is earned, not demanded.

“If you must; judge not Men by rumors, but by their repeated actions.”
― Joan Ambu

Special Thanks to:

• Aunt Geneviève K., my first rescuer and mentor. For saving Jacky too, during the first months of her life. I love and appreciate you.
• Our Pastor (uncle Emmanuel) and aunt Susan, for reaching out and helping with my healing.
• Aunt Elizabeth E., for those gorgeous matching outfits you sew for all of us, including the gorgeous gown and pillow for Jacky. We would have been lost without you.
• Aunt Dorothy F., for keeping us grounded, for the gorgeous handmade wreaths and going all the way to the village.
• Aunt Suzan A., for going all the way to the village. For embracing me, constantly praying for me, loving me, and loving me still.
• Aunt Grace E., you gave Jacky one last good memory. Believe me, she needed it.
• Uncle Peter E., for everything and for saving the day.
• The children of aunt Mary F. (now deceased), who was a great support to me, my siblings and Mother. Thank you, my brothers and sisters for your constant support and advice.
• Uncle John, for accompanying my elder brother to Pouma to collect my sister’s belongings.
• Titus, for being our eye witness and for revealing the truth to the community.

Click here for Part 3.

“Every word has consequences. Every silence, too.” ― Jean-Paul Sartre

Who Am I?

Many years ago, I stumbled upon a letter from my father to my Mother in which while referring to me, he said that only a woman knows the father of her child. From that point on, I began questioning everything about my existence.  I thought about my senseless painful childhood, the constant psychological, verbal and physical abuse. I thought about the two murder attempts on my life as well as the circumstances surrounding the mysterious death of my elder sister.

I am a Child of God. I am not perfect, I am not a saint and I am not without fault.
I am the voice of a silent person. I fight and speak up for those who can’t and I do not discriminate. I call evil, evil and I call goodness, goodness. I am all for peace and I enjoy bringing people together. I believe that in some situations, the absence of communication is another form of love and peace. Something surreal happened to me recently and I realized that it was time to share my story; a story that would shake many, if not everyone, to the core. This is my story: painful, beautiful and bizarre.

The reason I decided to come forward today and speak up is because my father openly declared war against me, citing unknown crimes I committed against him for the past seventeen years. “I will from this day, July 5th 2021, alive or dead, perform my paternal rights and Joan will pay for her seventeen years crimes against me.”

The person I love and respect the most in my life is my Mother and the person who gives me the most heartache is still my Mother as I worry about her wellbeing. If we lived in a perfect world, I wouldn’t wish to change a single thing about her. She is my Mother and Father at the same time; she birthed me, cleared a path for me and raised me with the help of my older siblings, one of which is now deceased. My strength comes from the Lord and from the inexhaustible love of my senior brother.

Never in my wildest dreams and/or in my darkest nightmares would have I imagined that such an awful thing could have happened to me, to us. I had to live it and live through it to believe and understand that they are evil forces well hidden in the universe, preying on innocent souls. There are many fathers out there, mothers too, just like my father (and many worse than him). There are children out there living and going through hell without anyone knowing and without anyone caring. My sister was one of those children and I was one of those children, the only difference is that I am alive to tell my story.

We were and we are still unlucky to be the offspring of my father. He was extremely abusive and was never involved in any aspect of our lives. He was more interested in painting a good picture to the outside world, while he built a hellish environment for us at home. Him and I are similar opposites: while I bring together for peace, he brings together to divide, conquer and destroy. My father is a machiavellist. He doesn’t tolerate truth and cannot stand people who oppose him. He feeds on other’s suffering.

What turned this man into a monster? A mixture of childhood trauma and a bloodline of violence and hatred. He never got along with his own siblings, some of which where similar (if not worse) than him. He attempted to instill that same toxic behavior in our minds. We were siblings living as strangers under the same roof.

• 1980 (Nkongsamba, CM). A few weeks before my birth, it is still unknown if my father wanted to kill my Mother and I in her belly or if he just wanted to get rid of me as he placed her on the footboard to break her spinal cord during a heated argument.
• In 1983 (Douala, CM). At the tender age of 3, I witnessed a horrific scene in my parents chamber. I believe my presence at the moment saved my Mother’s life.
• 1986-1988 (Bertoua, CM). While our Mother was studying in San Jose, CA, we were severely beaten, almost daily by our father, who in the end requested that we apologize in writing (my older siblings and I). We were victimized for things like going to the neighbor’s house or simply talking to them, playing in the yard and because he had a bad day. We were pretty much his punching bag. These abuses were one of the reasons why my Mother had to quickly return home. She almost lost her life then, due to extreme violence and our father abandoned us, on the pretext of going ahead to find a good house for us.
• 1988-1990 (Bamenda, CM). We were lucky to move in with relatives (uncle Jerry and aunt Susan A., now deceased). A year later, my Mother was able to find a house for us. It was a struggle for the following two years until we were finally able to move in with our father. Thinking back now, maybe we should have never moved in with him.
• 1990-1992 (Tsinga Yaounde, CM). My sister was the first to travel. By the time we got there (a few months later), I noticed a difference in my sister’s behavior as well as a hatred of our father towards her. She was constantly beaten to the point where her entire body would swell up and then he would ask her to spend the night alone in the basement. Two years prior to her death, I figured what she discovered that infuriated him so much. My elder brother was also a victim, he went through hell and he is still being victimized to this day.
• 1992-1997 (Bastos Yaounde, CM). It was hell, especially for my Mother, sister and I. My sister spent most of her days with friends/family friends because she was not allowed in the house. He would belittle her and treat her like an animal. She made a few mistakes which had nothing to do with him and he used it to hurt her. My Mother had no choice but to send her to a dormitory (Lycée de Pouma). By that time, my senior brother was renting a studio next to the University he was attending, scared to come home because of violence and instability.
  My paternal grandmother, who was visiting with us around May or June of 1997, witnessed her son, slap my sister, as soon as she returned home from school for no reason (we were all seated at the table for lunch). After telling him not to lay a finger on her granddaughter, she lost her mind. Around 5:30 AM the following morning, the neighborhood baker rang the bell  and told my Mother that our grandmother was walking naked in the neighborhood (she was found naked not too far from the house). We do not know how she exited the house; however, we believe that witnessing her own son abuse her grandchild reminded her of the day her own husband killed one of her infant daughters. From that day until her death on May 2nd 1999 (exactly a year after my sister’s death), my grandmother was not the same.
• During those years, I attended Catholic Schools (Middle and High School), quite pricey and paid only by my Mother. She would drop me off in the mornings and I would walk back home (2 to 3 hours walk), all because our father would not provide for us. Around my friends he would accuse me of sleeping around with men. I joined my Church choir and even then he still accused me of doing wrong.
• 1997, first failed murder attempt on my life, by strangulation. He was caught by my now deceased cousin, Ernest, my Mother’s nephew. Then a few minutes later, he placed a gun on my head (my younger brothers are witnesses). My Mother and I were locked out of the house and once the sun rose up, I made my way to aunt Mary F. (now deceased), who gave me invaluable advice. From there, I crossed the street and went to aunt Geneviève K.’s house. She gave me time to cry as I needed it, and she talked for a long time; she thought me a short, powerful prayer of protection. I returned home from there, just to be driven for the first time that night. Our Pastor took me in and I stayed with his family for a while.
• 1998, sometime in January my Pastor took me home (by then my family had moved into a different house). My father told his driver not to drive me to school, but the driver pitied me and would let me in sometimes, until one unfortunate morning when my father followed us and forcefully removed me from the car.
• 1998. Friday, February 6th. My sister came home for the weekend, despite knowing she was banned from the house. Around 1 or 2 AM on February 7th, our parents returned home from a gathering and we could hear them arguing in the hallway. I don’t know how it started but here is what I heard:
  Father: “You keep bringing animals and people’s children to this house .”
  Mother: “What are you talking about? We’ve had that dog for a very long time. And which child did I bring to this house that doesn’t belong to you?”
  At that moment, our father forcefully entered my room and said, “That one!” pointing at me before realizing that my sister was there too. He then said, “And what is this one doing here?” referring to my sister, who quickly jumped off the bed in tears. I told her not to worry because he was after me, not her.
  That morning was the second failed murder attempt on my life, by jumping on and breaking my neck (all my siblings witnessed it).
  As my Mother watched him stand on the side rail trim next to my neck, she exited the room after telling my senior brother: “Let me know when she’s dead and we can take her body to the mortuary.” My sister was crying and screaming, “Get up Joan, get up!”  And I replied, “I don’t know what I have done, and I am tired of running, let him kill me.” He positioned himself, and as he jumped (with the intention of breaking my neck), one of his feet got caught in between the bed slats and he fell off. He got up, went towards my sister and began hitting her. I got up and warned him to stop hitting her; I told him that if he continued I would grab anything in sight and hit him too. He hit her again, and I grabbed one of my handbags with chunky chains and hit him on the head. It wounded him and he started bleeding. Upon seeing his own blood, he stepped out of the room, walked towards my Mother, who was still in the hallway awaiting news of my death, rubbed his blood on her chest and said: “You, this woman, I have tried for so long to harm you, but you are too strong for me. I will use your children to destroy you.”  He turned around and asked my senior brother to take him to the hospital. In the mean time, my sister, who was in the yard by then, placed a curse on him:

“You are an evil man and you will pay for your sins.
Starting from this day, all your children will die. Some will die physically, beginning with me and others will detach themselves from you. You will have a miserable life and die alone.”

Together, with my brother, they drove away and returned within 10 minutes, as my father was itching to harm us. Again, he went for the gun, but couldn’t find it as my Mother took it to a neighbor for safe keeping. My father would have killed us otherwise that morning. My sister and I were both driven from the house on that Saturday morning and were taken in by our good neighbor (uncle Peter and aunt Elizabeth E.). Two weeks later I moved in with one of the greatest men I have ever known (uncle Paul A., now deceased). He was a good man. He took me in twice (my Mother, once) and went as far as filling out adoption papers, in case my father refused to take me back. He was also the person who organized my sister’s funeral.

• 1998. Thursday, April 30th. My sister returned home for the last time, telling her classmates that “I am returning into my Mother’s arms.” She died on Saturday, May 2nd 1998, five days after she turned 21. She was in so much pain, so much excruciating pain. My Mother who had gone out that morning, was unable to start her car to take her dying child to the hospital, as the car would not start. I called my father, who immediately hung up on me after hearing my voice. The house boy, Titus, called our father and begged him to rush home and take his dying daughter to the hospital and my father told him that, “elle n’a qu’à mourir” (let her die). The house boy repeated those words in the presence of my sister. A family friend (Mrs. Grace E.) came to our aid and took my sister to the nearest clinic, but it was too late. What most people don’t know is that my sister was pregnant and because of that the doctor was reluctant to give her a shot of valium to calm her down, as it would have affected the fetus. I begged him to give her the shot and then he told me that she was too far gone, so much that she couldn’t have been saved either way.
  Our father arrived at the clinic after receiving a call from Mrs. Grace E., requesting his presence. As he was about to step into the room, my sister screamed and she was gone. The first and only thing he said was, “let’s take her to the Military Hospital for an autopsy.” Details of the mysteries surrounding my sister’s death will be revealed in the book. Patiently wait for it.

On Friday, May 1st, my sister narrated one of her many strange dreams to our Mother (below is part 2 of 3, all of which are connected):

I saw myself in a dream giving flowers to my father, who was being promoted to the rank of General. After the insignia was pinned on his uniform, he refused to take the flowers I presented to him. A tall, black figure who was standing behind us came closer to assist us with a good pose for the portrait. However, when the picture was taken, I was surprised that my father, who was standing next to me, did not appear in it.

In an effort to conceal this heinous crime, those involved (including my father and one of my brothers) have tainted her legacy by suggesting that she either committed abortion, that she committed suicide, or worse, that she was in a secret society.
You would think my father learned a lesson from my sister’s death, right? Think again! Now it  has gotten to the point where he has asked my three (3) brothers to join hands with him and support his decision to exercise his parental rights in cursing me. He used to be self-controlled, now he doesn’t even hide his intentions. I don’t know about anyone else, but I find this behavior abnormal.

“We turn evil when we lose our capacity for compassion.” ― Joan Ambu

Thank you to all of you, who stood by me and who are standing still. Thank you for your constant prayers and words of encouragement. My life is beautiful and peaceful today because of you.

If any of you have been a victim of my father, I am truly sorry. Please comment below or send me a private message at joan@joanambu.com with your own stories and let me know if I can include those stories in my upcoming book. I may be his child, but I can assure all of you that we are not birds of a feather.

Not all monsters are made, some are born that way …

This is part of my upcoming Biography. I will go into details in the book while providing documentations, photos as well as witness testimonies.

Click here for Part 2.