Opting for Love Instead of Tribal Limits

My dad is the sort of person who sees culture as being as important as life-support. If our tribe had oxygen tanks, he would be the one to carry one at all times. The most cherished day at the church for him is the Cultural Day, and on that day he comes in a kingly manner as if he is a contestant for a local film and demonstrating his tribal pride from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. He even goes so far as to speak our language to those who do not understand a single word.

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His principle was loud and clear: "If it is not from my tribe, it is not for my house." We heard it more often than "Goodnight." So you can imagine this strict, culture-driven man and his little girl who only cared about food and peace of mind, me. I am not from the tribe; I do not even know how to do our traditional dance. The very few times I tried it my father treated me with such a look that one could presume he wished he could take me back to the maternity ward.

I met Oppong at church, but not in a romantic "our eyes met across the sanctuary" manner. Quite the opposite; I encountered him when my wig fell off during worship and he courteously tapped my shoulder whispering: "Sister, adjust before the trumpet blows." That marked the beginning.

We started to talk which then led to smiles, long conversations, and eventually, I found myself forgetting all the horrible tribal things I was brought up with. However, Oppong was not from my father's tribe, in fact, he was from the tribe my father considered as a rival. My father's view of it being a fiery combination was perfectly right. But I did not care; Oppong was my only concern. He was nice, quiet, gentle, and had a soft voice that made me feel like a princess. 

Our bond grew under the veil of secrecy, akin to a concealed drum that we were too timid to beat. Keeping it under the radar was our way till it got to the point of being serious—marriage serious. The day I finally took the step to let him meet my dad was when he came to my mind as the brave one.

We were in the house when my father’s countenance changed immediately as soon as he cast his eyes on Oppong. He had seen him at church. My father was the one to cut off his son’s words, and He raised his hand like Moses who was parting the Red Sea. “Oppong, I’m sorry, but my daughter cannot marry a man from your tribe.”

Just like that, he made the decision. No discussion. No bargaining. His treatment of Oppong was like that of a buzzing mosquito: he just swatted it away. Then addressing me he said, “If you ever introduce a man not up to my standards to this house again, you will go to his place and leave yours here.”

I did not protest, not that I was in agreement, but because I was already working on my Plan B. Sometimes silence is not agreement; it is just a tactic.

Only after a few months I learned about my pregnancy. Yes, it was a planned one. Oppong was very scared, he looked like a leaf tossed in a storm. “Jessica, what are the pastors going to say? What if they take my position away? What if…” I held his face and inquired, “Do you love me or not? What is more important, me or the rumors in the church? Just relax and let me do my magic.”

My self-assurance opposite to mother's gave me. Dad was in the entrance hall, as usual, reading his Bible. I then put the question to him, “What would be Matthew’s thoughts if his daughter got pregnant with a Jewish teacher?” He was baffled by my intention, so I took my stand in front of him and dropped the bombshell: “I am pregnant. The father is Oppong.”

The very moment my father heard my confession, he became another person. He started to rant in our language very fast, and I thought he was speaking in tongues. He got so furious that he literally became a foamed beer bottle. “Are you out to put me to shame? What would be the church’s opinion? That an elder could not guide his daughter to righteousness? What a scandal is this?”

I did not hasten to move to the other side of the room but rather strolled there leisurely, taking groundnuts, and eating while he was shouting. The truth is, I was not bothered at all. I had gone too far to get scared. When he finally took a pause to replenish the breath, I sent the last information: “Dad, the worst scenario has occurred. It is upon you to either consent to our getting married… or to wait till I give you the second and third child from Oppong.”

He did not say a word. He took a deep breath and then subjected me to a glare that a supreme being had mistakenly given him the wrong daughter. And that was the day he lost it. Not for the sake of culture, but because he had pictured how the elders would really tease him if my pregnancy was made visible before marriage. He had the pride of his tribe to defend, and thus he consented, though reluctantly.

The wedding was a bright event, but there was a lot of tension, he was making silent insults and I was doing joyful dancing. After that, we moved to a small apartment, Oppong and I. My dad really hated him. But I did not mind. I said to Oppong, "Daddy's hatred is not a concern. What matters is that we love each other; the rest is just noise."

And I was sincere. Time flew. A life was made by us. Laughter, quarrels, and growing together were all part of it. Children were born to us. Now, we happen to be one of the most joyous couples in the world. Who do you think loves Oppong the most now? My dad. The same man who once claimed he would never allow supporting as his friend into our family home, now calls him "my son," and asks for his help, invites him to socializing, and even talks about the guy in a good light to his fellows from the same tribe.

There are times when I observe them and start to chuckle. Men are funny. The firmness of principles can be bent when grandchildren are involved. So, here’s my story’s moral: Sometimes, righteous defiance is a must, especially when opting for love over tribal nonsense. And if you’re asking me about my regrets? Certainly not. I would break tribal laws again and again if it meant picking a man who is also choosing me. After all, tribe doesn’t keep you warm at night.

—Jessica

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