In the quiet, often unyielding embrace of tradition, Lum-Limunga’s life was meticulously charted, not by her own dreams, but by the aspirations of her devoted foster parents. When they announced her impending marriage to Atangana, a stern security officer hailing from the distant town of Freca, Lum-Limunga could not have fathomed the tumultuous drama that would irrevocably shape their union. Atangana was a formidable presence, his physique robust, his countenance perpetually unsmiling. He exuded an air of indifference, as if her presence, or indeed any woman’s, was entirely superfluous to his existence. There was no courtship, no gestures of affection like the roses and sweet nothings she’d devoured in countless romantic novels. He was, unequivocally, not the romantic hero of her literary fantasies, nor was he her ideal man. Every step he took seemed to declare, with a silent, resolute authority: “I am self-sufficient. I need no woman.”
The concept of an “ideal man” itself felt like a distant, almost mythical construct to Lum-Limunga. At seventeen, she was barely past adolescence, her heart brimming with personal ambitions far removed from the confines of matrimony. Her world revolved around the simple, yet profound, desire to explore new hairstyles, a stark contrast to the severe, low-cut hair mandated during her secondary school years. More significantly, she harbored a fierce ambition to pursue higher education, dreaming of attending a professional school to become a lawyer – a vocation that promised independence and a voice. Marriage, at this nascent stage of her life, was not merely an undesirable prospect; it was an unwelcome detour from the vibrant path she envisioned for herself.
Sir Williams Copperfield and his wife, Anne, her loving foster parents, held a different vision. They had rescued Lum-Limunga from a German orphanage, nurturing her from infancy into a young woman now living under their protective roof in Brisouca. To them, she remained their cherished baby girl, and their dreams for her were rooted in security and familial stability. They wished to shield her from the perceived perils of navigating the world alone, believing a suitable husband was her ultimate safeguard. If Atangana did not appeal to her, they presented an alternative: Emeka.
Emeka was shorter than Atangana, with a perpetual, almost disconcerting smile that failed to reach his eyes. He was a wealthy businessman, burdened with the responsibility of a son born out of wedlock. Emeka’s interest in Lum-Limunga seemed more overt, more insistent than Atangana’s detached demeanor. Yet, she found him equally unappealing, perceiving him as overly preoccupied with his paternal duties. She feared that in his life, she would be relegated to the most insignificant of roles, an afterthought in a story already half-written.
One quiet evening, as the family gathered for dinner, Lum-Limunga, her voice barely a whisper, posed the question that had weighed heavily on her heart: “Do I really have to get married now?” Her mother, Anne, reached out, lightly stroking her hair, a gesture meant to reassure but which only amplified Lum-Limunga’s unease. “Baby,” Anne began softly, “We are your parents. We know what is best for you. Just trust us with this. We have carefully chosen two of the finest men for you. Simply tell us which of them you prefer, and we will send you to him. Trust us, you will be fine.” Lum-Limunga met her mother’s gaze, her eyes clouded with uncertainty, before managing a resigned, almost inaudible “okay.” The word felt like a surrender, a quiet capitulation to a destiny not of her making.
February 11, 1961. This date would forever be etched in Lum-Limunga’s memory, the day she was compelled to select a husband as casually as a child might pick a toy from a shop. The bitter irony, however, was that in this metaphorical toy shop, she found no joy in the surroundings, nor any delight in the choices presented. Her heart yearned for a life of independence, a stark contrast to the traditional path laid out for her. She was keenly aware of the chilling narratives that circulated amongst women, stories of relationships that soured, of lives suffocated by control, of spirits broken by abuse. These were not mere fables; they were vivid accounts of men who “whipped life out of their women,” denying them individuality, dictating every decision, assimilating their very beings like colonial masters conquering new territories. These women, she knew, merely existed rather than truly lived, their identities swallowed whole by the men they had married. Lum-Limunga had heard these tragic tales, and she witnessed their grim reality in the fading eyes of two close friends, who, though they still breathed, seemed to die a little more each day. Her heart bled for them, a silent testament to her resolve to avoid becoming another statistic in this bleak ledger of subjugation.
Her deepest desire was to forge her own path, to live life on her own terms, to exercise agency over her choices. If marriage were ever to enter her life, it would be a decision born of her own free will, not an arranged transaction where she felt like a commodity, “zoomed off to a man’s house like a well-priced good in the market.” Her parents, however, staunchly maintained that her future marriage would defy these grim narratives. They promised a husband who would be her protector, a partner who would offer stability and prosperity. They reiterated their selfless desire for only the “best” for her, a pronouncement that felt increasingly hollow in the face of her burgeoning fears.
So, on that cold February day in the early 1960s, a profound choice awaited her. She stood before her parents, her chest heaving, a lone tear escaping her left eye. Anne, her mother, rose swiftly, enveloping her in a comforting embrace. “Honey, you will be okay,” she murmured, her voice a soft balm against the storm raging within Lum-Limunga. More tears welled up, a cascade of emotion she could no longer contain. She looked at her foster mother, a silent plea in her eyes, then nodded in reluctant approval. Reaching for a napkin from the nearby cupboard, she meticulously wiped the tears from her eyes and the watery discharge from her nose, a small gesture of regaining composure before facing the inevitable. “It is Atangana. I will go live with Atangana.”
Her choice was made. Atangana over Emeka. Emeka, with his unsettling smile and the undeniable “baggage” of a son, represented a complexity she felt utterly unprepared to navigate. Atangana, despite his unappealing demeanor, seemed like the lesser of two evils. It was, she mused, a choice between the devil and the deep blue sea. And she, Lum-Limunga, chose the vast, unpredictable expanse of the ocean. The devil, she felt, was a battle she couldn’t win, but in the sea, perhaps, she could at least learn to swim.
Marrate oh, marrate oh
Oh marrate!
Marrate fine, marrate sweet
Oh marrate
(Marriage oh, marriage oh! Oh marriage! Marriage is fine, marriage is sweet. Oh marriage!)
The women of Lum-Limunga’s hometown, their voices rising in joyful ululations, sang and swayed their waists in spirited celebration of her decision to marry Atangana. This communal outpouring of joy felt deeply ironic to Lum-Limunga, a stark contrast to the quiet dread that gnawed at her. Her parents, in their unwavering adherence to tradition, informed her that she would begin living with Atangana immediately, a swift transition that allowed no time for further reflection or ceremony. Without a marriage certificate, without a church blessing, Lum-Limunga obediently packed her meager belongings, her heart a fragile thing, and moved into his home. It was a step into the unknown, a journey she embarked upon with a mixture of apprehension and a faint, flickering hope.
Remarkably, the initial days of their cohabitation unfolded with an unexpected serenity, almost a blissful calm. Lum-Limunga discovered a surprising degree of autonomy. She could manage her own affairs, making decisions that only required consultation with Atangana for joint planning, a semblance of partnership. She reveled in this newfound, albeit limited, independence. She styled her hair as she pleased, a small but significant act of self-expression. Most exhilaratingly, she began attending law school, embarking on the lifelong dream she had feared would be forever postponed. A quiet optimism began to bloom within her; perhaps, she mused, her parents had been right all along. Perhaps Atangana, beneath his unyielding exterior, possessed a gentle soul. She found herself growing accustomed to him, even beginning to develop a tentative fondness for the man who was now her husband.
Then, one day, the illusion shattered. Lum-Limunga, with the innocent candor of someone who believed in shared finances, inquired about the considerable sum of money missing from her account – funds specifically allocated for her tuition, earnings from the oil business her parents had entrusted to her care. Atangana’s response was swift, brutal, and utterly devoid of tenderness. His open hand connected with her cheek, a sharp, stinging slap that reverberated through her very being. The physical pain was immediate, but the emotional wound was deeper, a searing betrayal. She fled to the kitchen, tears streaming down her face, her body trembling with a potent mix of shock and incandescent rage. How could a man who supposedly loved her inflict such profound hurt? That single slap was not an isolated incident; it was the chilling prelude, the first discordant note in a symphony of cruelty that would come to define their arranged union.
In the harrowing years that followed, Atangana’s control became absolute, an insidious web that entangled every facet of Lum-Limunga’s existence. He dictated how she wore her hair, a symbol of her earlier freedom now weaponized against her. He prescribed her friendships, her visits, even the meals she was permitted to cook. His dominion extended to her finances; the money she earned as a burgeoning lawyer was not hers to command but became another instrument of his power. He mercilessly forced her to abandon her native tongue, Silgne, demanding she speak Cerf, his traditional language, stripping away a fundamental aspect of her identity. He seized control of the oil business, the legacy her parents had carefully cultivated for her, dismantling her economic independence. His methods were not merely controlling; they were despicable, a calculated campaign of subjugation.
Any whisper of defiance, any attempt to assert her will, was met with swift and calculated torture. He would systematically withdraw privileges, like confiscating her car keys, forcing her to rely on public taxis for work, a daily reminder of her diminished status. More cruelly, he withdrew every iota of compassion he had ever feigned, leaving her emotionally bereft and isolated. In a perverse cycle of abuse, he would occasionally appear contrite, returning from an expensive store with lavish gifts – jewelry, elegant clothes, trinkets meant to pacify. These gifts, momentarily, would elicit a fleeting smile, a brief reprieve from her torment. But the smile was always short-lived, for in no time, Atangana would unleash another episode of his calculated cruelty, plunging her back into the abyss of fear and despair.
This agonizing pattern persisted for years, stretching into decades. Lum-Limunga endured relentless beatings, scorn, mockery, sexual assault, and physical maiming. So profound was the physical and emotional trauma that she walked with her head perpetually bowed, a physical manifestation of her shattered self-confidence. She lived like a stranger within the very walls of her own home, a prisoner in a place that should have offered sanctuary. Yet, with a chilling lack of irony, Atangana would annually commemorate that day in the second month of the year – the anniversary of their coerced union. It was a grotesque paradox, a celebration of her enslavement.
One day, after enduring an eternity of suffering, a profound shift occurred within Lum-Limunga. She reached her breaking point. A quiet resolve hardened within her, pushing her to take a desperate, hopeful step. She decided to write a note to Atangana. “My dear husband,” it began, a poignant echo of a relationship that never truly was, “I would like us to talk. These years with you have been pure hell for me. I want us to go back to the way it used to be. To how I could make my own decisions, speak my own language, and keep my own friends. Please let’s talk about this. I want this union to work. I love you.”
She slipped the carefully folded note into Atangana’s pocket as he departed for work that morning, a fragile plea for reconciliation. It was the first thing he read upon settling at his desk. He read it, and then, a chilling, guttural laugh erupted from him. He laughed so boisterously, so unrestrainedly, that a nearby coworker leapt from his desk, concerned for Atangana’s well-being. “I am not done with you yet!” Atangana declared, his words aimed at the innocent piece of paper clutched in his hand, as if it were the woman he tormented at home.
When he returned home that evening, he uttered not a single word about the note. He resumed his routine, continuing to violate the very essence of Lum-Limunga’s existence, as if her plea had never been made. Lum-Limunga watched him daily, a flicker of hope stubbornly refusing to die, hoping he might eventually acknowledge the message she had poured her heart into. He remained silent. Undeterred, she dispatched a second, then a third note, identical in their heartfelt message, desperate to provoke a conversation. But he made no effort, his indifference a cruel, unyielding wall.
Then, one fateful day, as he walked through the door after work, he found her waiting. Lum-Limunga, her eyes blazing with fifty years of pent-up rage and anguish, seized him by his most vulnerable point. “You must talk today!” she exclaimed, her voice raw with years of suppressed pain. Atangana stared at her, feigning shock, his face a mask of wounded innocence. “What is it with you, this woman? What do you want this time?” he demanded, his tone laced with feigned exasperation. Lum-Limunga’s response was a primal scream, a wailing sound that echoed the depths of her suffering: “Wulilililililililililili!”
The sheer volume of her cry, coupled with Atangana’s indignant outburst, drew the immediate attention of neighbors, who quickly converged on the scene, drawn by the escalating drama. “Lum-Limunga, what is it?” an elderly woman, revered in the community, asked from the periphery of the rapidly gathering crowd. “Mama, ask her oo,” Atangana interjected, his face adopting an expression of bewildered innocence, a stark and chilling contrast to the villainous reality of his life with Lum-Limunga. Lum-Limunga released her grip, her face a canvas of shock and raw emotion. For a moment, she felt the overwhelming urge to dissolve into tears before the assembled crowd. But from the deepest wellspring of her heart, a powerful current of resilience surged forth.
“Wulilililililililililili! Whooosh!” she shrieked, running in frantic circles, embodying the image of a woman who had finally, spectacularly, lost her sanity. Then, pausing, she fixed her gaze on the astonished faces of the crowd, her eyes wide with a newfound, fierce determination. “Make we tok di tori as e be!” she declared in Pidgin, her lingua franca, a language of common understanding that transcended cultural divides. “Fifty years ago, my parents forced me into a relationship with this man!” she proclaimed, her finger jabbing accusingly at Atangana, whose face now contorted into an unreadable mix of laughter and tears.
“This man was supposed to love and cherish me. He was supposed to protect me,” she continued, her voice gaining strength with each accusation. “But what did he do? He beat me up. He broke my bones. He raped me. Yes, he raped me. He took away my car keys. He controlled the money I made as though it were his. He made fun of me. He laughed at me. He treated me like trash. And when I begged him to talk with me, he ignored me!” Her voice rose again, a deafening crescendo of pain and fury: “Wulilililililililili!!!”
“Look Atangana, your end is here,” she declared, her voice ringing with newfound authority. “I will not allow you to treat me as a lesser person any longer. Give me back my life! Give me back my peace! Give me back my money! Give me back my everything!” Her declaration was absolute, a final severing of ties. “I am done with you. I do not want this union anymore. We do not even have a marriage certificate in the first place. I’m going to move out of your house and live my life free from your wicked claws. A caged woman needs to liberate herself!” She turned to the crowd, her eyes pleading for their understanding, for their affirmation: “No be so?” The crowd, moved by her raw courage and the undeniable truth of her words, responded with a resounding chorus: “Na so!” With that collective affirmation, Lum-Limunga stepped into a future of her own making, leaving behind decades of silence and suffering, finally embracing the boundless freedom she had always yearned for.