Forbidden Love After My Sister’s Painful Death

Joyce, my older sister, married Idris just a year after graduating from university. Idris was employed at the same place where Joyce completed her national service. As time went on, they fell deeply in love and wasted no time, tying the knot shortly after a year of dating.

The only time I met Idris was on their wedding day. I traveled to South Africa two months later and lost touch with them. Living abroad often distances you from family conversations, but I heard their marriage was thriving. Joyce was happy to have found a partner like Idris, and they had no complaints.

However, they faced one significant challenge: infertility. Four years into their marriage, Joyce struggled to conceive. From what I gathered, Idris was accepting of the situation, but Joyce was hard on herself for not being able to have children. They sought medical advice, but doctors found nothing wrong. “Everything is fine,” they reassured them, yet conception remained elusive.

This was Joyce's first major concern. She was married to a wonderful man and felt a strong desire to give him a child, but it just wasn’t happening. In their fifth year together, doctors discovered a lump in Joyce’s breast, which was later diagnosed as cancer. The doctors offered hope, stating that it was in the early stages and treatable.

They took action, but unfortunately, the cancer spread and became terminal, leaving Joyce with limited time. During this difficult period, I called her almost daily to provide encouragement. Sometimes, I would talk to her until she fell asleep, and Idris would take the phone to continue our conversation. “Your sister’s health is deteriorating, and the worst part is that she has given up on herself,” Idris confided one day. When I asked how much time she had left, he replied, “Not long.”

In September 2010, Idris called to inform me that Joyce wouldn’t survive to see the next day. I cried all day, knowing it was coming but still struggling to accept that she was leaving us so soon. She was only 33 and had so much life ahead of her.

A week later, I returned to Ghana to prepare for her funeral. Idris and I took on the responsibility of organizing everything, wanting to honor Joyce in the best way possible. The experience brought me closer to Idris, revealing his kind nature and commitment to making things right. After Joyce was laid to rest, Idris found ways to integrate himself into my family.

He would visit after work to greet my parents and engage in long conversations until late at night. Most evenings, I would walk him to his car and say our goodbyes. The next day, he would call to check on everyone, and on weekends, we would enjoy meals at his favorite restaurant or watch movies together.

I sensed a connection developing between us, though I was unsure of its nature. I kept telling myself, “This can’t happen. He’s my sister’s husband.” I was aware of my feelings but tried to suppress them until one night when he made it clear he felt the same way. We were both embarrassed and discussed Joyce, wondering if she would approve of our relationship. Some days we believed she would be happy for us; other days, we were convinced she would be turning in her grave if she knew.

We hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. Our feelings only grew stronger. One evening, while watching a movie at his house, he leaned closer and whispered, “It’s not my fault. You look just like your sister.” He kissed me, and I reciprocated. We spent the night together, and that was our first intimate encounter. We felt no regret; I didn’t see it as betraying Joyce. She was gone, and the living must find a way to move forward.

Idris needed companionship. It had been a year since we buried my sister, and two months since our first kiss. We were uncertain about the future of our relationship. Would we keep it a secret forever?

We devised a plan…

One night, Idris came over to discuss our situation with my mother. We anticipated her response but wanted to give it a shot. I stood outside, listening in. Idris told my mom, “Francisca has been incredibly supportive since she came into my life. She’s been more than a wife to me; is there a way I could officially make her my wife?”

My mother simply shook her head, saying, “No way. Our culture doesn’t allow that.” Then she surprised Idris with a statement: “Whatever is happening between you two should stop before it escalates. People talk around here. Don’t give them the opportunity.”

So she suspected something was going on but said nothing. After Idris left, I picked up the conversation. I told my mom there had to be a way, expressing how much I wanted to be with Idris and how good he was. My mother focused on tradition and the importance of maintaining it, more concerned about public opinion than my happiness with the man I wanted to be with.

My sister may be at peace, but I can’t find peace in my life because Idris was once married to her. Who made these rules?

Idris approached his family about our relationship, but they reacted poorly. His father simply told him, “Look elsewhere. Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice.” We were heartbroken, but there was little we could do. His family wouldn’t accept us, and mine wouldn’t go against cultural norms.

The sensible choice would have been for us to part ways. We tried, but we couldn’t stay apart for long. We separated for a while but eventually found our way back to each other. We could have loved openly, but society disapproved. For all the years we’ve been in love, we’ve had to keep it hidden.

–Story by Francisca Enin. 

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