AfriPulse
My father is the kind of man who treats culture like life support. If our tribe had oxygen cylinders, he’d carry one around. His favorite day in church is Cultural Day, a day he dresses like he’s auditioning to play the chief in a local movie. Head to toe, everything dripping tribal pride. On that day, he only speaks our language, even to people who don’t understand a single word.
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His motto is simple: “If it’s not from my tribe, it’s not for my house.” We grew up hearing this more than “Goodnight.” So imagine this strict, culturally possessed man raising me, a girl whose only loyalty is to food and peace of mind. I’m not tribal. I don’t even know how to do our traditional dance. The few times I tried, my father looked at me like he wanted to return me to the labor ward I was born in.
I met Oppong in church. Not in a romantic “our eyes met across the sanctuary” way. No. I met him when my wig shifted during worship, and he politely tapped my shoulder and whispered, “Sister, adjust before trumpet blows.” That was the beginning.
We started talking. Then talking turned into smiles. Then smiles into long conversations. Then long conversations into me forgetting all the tribe nonsense I was raised with. But Oppong wasn’t from my father’s tribe. In fact, he was from the tribe my father considered his rival. According to my father, that tribal combination was like mixing kerosene and fire. But me? I didn’t care. I only cared about Oppong. He was kind, quiet, gentle, and had this soft voice that made me feel like a princess.
Our relationship grew in silence, hidden like a stolen drum; we dared not play it. We kept it low-key until it became something serious. I mean marriage kind of serious. Then came the day I made the courageous decision to introduce him to my father.
We entered the house. My father saw Oppong and his face changed immediately. He knew him from church. Before Oppong could even explain his purpose, my father raised his hand like Moses parting the Red Sea. “Oppong, I’m sorry, but my daughter cannot marry from your tribe.”
Just like that. No consultation. No negotiation. He dismissed the man as if he were a mosquito. Then he turned to me and said, “If you bring any bogus man into this house again, you will follow him to his house and leave mine.”
I didn’t argue, not because I agreed, but because I already had Plan B. Sometimes silence is not agreement. It is strategy.
A few months later, I got pregnant. Yes, I intentionally did. As in, purposefully. Oppong panicked like a leaf in a stormy night. “Jessica, what will the pastors say? What if they revoke my position? What if…” I held his face and asked: “Do you love me or not? What’s important, me or church rantings? Relax and watch me work.”
I marched home with confidence my mother didn’t give birth to me with. My father was in the hall, reading his Bible as usual. I asked him, “Dad, what do you think Matthew would have said if his daughter got pregnant with a Pharisee?” He didn’t get the drift, so I stood in front of him and dropped the bomb: “I’m pregnant. Oppong is the father.”
The second the words left my mouth, this man transformed. He started ranting in our language so fast I thought he was speaking in tongues. He foamed at the corners of his lips like a club beer bottle that had been shaken. “Do you want to embarrass me? What will the church say? That an elder couldn’t raise his own daughter in the path of righteousness? What kind of disgrace is this?”
I walked around the room gently, picking groundnuts and eating as he shouted. I didn’t care. I had come too far to tremble. When he finally paused to inhale oxygen, I delivered my final message: “Dad, the worst has happened. You either allow us to marry… or wait until I bring you a second and third child from Oppong.”
He blinked. He inhaled again. He stared at me like the Lord had mistakenly given him the wrong daughter. And that day, he broke.
Not because of culture, but because he could already imagine how the elders would roast him if my belly started showing before marriage. He had his tribal pride to protect, so he reluctantly agreed.
The wedding happened. With force, tension, silent insults from him, and joyful dancing from me. Oppong and I moved into our small apartment after. My father hated him passionately. But me? I didn’t care. I told Oppong, “Forget about Daddy’s hatred. As long as we love each other, everything else is background noise.”
And I meant it. Years passed. We built a life. We laughed. We fought. We grew. We had kids. And today, we are one of the happiest couples alive. Guess who now adores Oppong? My father. The same man who once said he wouldn’t allow him to enter our family house. He now calls Oppong “my son,” asks him for help, invites him for programs, and even brags about him to his tribal friends.
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Sometimes I look at them and laugh. Men are funny. Principles can melt when grandchildren enter the picture. So here’s the moral of my story: Sometimes, righteous defiance is necessary, especially when you’re choosing love over tribal nonsense. And if you’re asking whether I regret anything? Absolutely not. I’d break the tribe law again and again if it means choosing a man who chooses me back. After all, tribe warms nobody at night.
—Jessica
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