The Cowardly Monster (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.