“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.
By JM Perez
