Marie Anch’s Story

I knew from a young age that I wanted to be a midwife. Growing up, I had my future planned out: I’d finish primary school, my parents would send me to secondary school, and from there I’d qualify as a midwife. 

When I was around sixteen or seventeen, my dad told me he didn’t have enough money for me to stay in school. Instead, I had to get married. 

Women back home are rarely afforded the same treatment as men. We can’t do the things that men can, we’re expected to get married and have a family. I was devastated: what about what I wanted? That same night, I was told my future husband would be coming to our house in the morning. My tears barely seemed to register with my dad.  

The next morning, the first thing I remember thinking was how old this man was! I’d never seen him before and had no idea who he was but somehow, he knew about me. Was he one of my father’s friends? After he left, I told my dad I couldn’t marry him. My mum tried to persuade him when she saw how distraught I was. She asked why I couldn’t just stay in school – I was their firstborn child; our family could manage. My dad remained unconvinced. 

At first, the man would come to visit our home in the village. After some time, I went to live with him in the city. I had no say in the matter. Getting married meant I had to leave my family – my home. I forgot what it felt like to be happy, until solace came in the form of our children.  

We had four, two boys and two girls, over a period of ten years. By the time our youngest was born he was already getting too old to work, and there wasn’t anything in place to support us when he retired. We rented our house, and I was worried about our children. I urged him to think about it – I understood the consequences of not having enough money and didn’t want them to go without – but he admonished me for telling him what to do. I remembered when my own mother tried to fight for me. 

Three months after he retired, my husband told me we had to leave the city. We moved from our house to his family’s home in a village. There was only one floor, and there were already three other families living there. 

I was miserable. It would have been fine if it were just me, but I had my children to consider. They weren’t used to sleeping on the floor, to the six of us sharing one room. The children would cry and ask why we couldn’t be in a house of our own, but I couldn’t provide that for them. The other women in the house bullied me; they believed I thought myself better than them having moved from the city. 

My late husband fell ill not long after we moved back to the village. It was a normal day for us: he’d gone out and I’d gone to the bush to collect firewood. I heard the sudden shouting and saw his brother leaving in a hurry. I overheard people saying something about a fall, but no one told me anything. They returned with my husband, who complained that his stomach was hurting. He’d been drinking. 

He kept repeating, “I drank palm wine, I drank palm wine!” between groans of pain.  I could only cry as they struggled with him. They did everything they could, but he died later that day. 

We buried him with the help of a lady who we knew from the city, and who’d helped us with the move. I couldn’t manage it alone. He was barely in the ground when his brother told me I had to marry him in his stead and become his fourth wife. He insisted that it was tradition and that I couldn’t refuse. I would’ve sooner dropped dead instead of marrying him, but I was forced to despite my wishes.  

We had to move again at this man’s behest. He was incredibly violent towards us: he’d throw hot pans at me while I was cooking and dragged my children off their beds onto the floor when they were sleeping. He wouldn’t hesitate to hit me in front of them. There were times where he’d drug me, then take me to a separate room to beat and rape me. In the brief moments of lucidity, I prayed that my children wouldn’t know what he was doing to me. 

They begged me to leave, but again, we had nowhere to go. Once you’re married, tradition dictates that your family has ‘given’ you to your husband, so his home is where you ‘belong’. We would never be accepted in my parents’ village despite how we were being treated. 

Sometime later, an acquaintance from the city came to our village. She’d heard of my late husband’s passing and was shocked when I mentioned the abuse we were suffering. She said she could help. I told her I didn’t have any money, but I’d do anything to take us away from him. She said money didn’t matter but asked if I had any education. I replied that I had some, which seemed to satisfy her. She said she could take me not just out of the village, but out of the country. I would have to leave my children, but it was a chance to make things better for us. Anything had to be better than what we were enduring. 

A part of me still hesitated, wondering why she was being so kind. We hadn’t known each other that well, but here she was insisting that she could help me. Eventually, I agreed. She said she’d come back as we both needed time to prepare. That night, I told my children there was a kind auntie who wanted to help us, but I couldn’t explain how just yet. 

When she returned two weeks later, she said we’d be leaving the village that same night. I packed my small bag and told my children it was time. Before we left, I took my eldest son aside. 

“It’s only you now,” I told him. “I will leave your sisters and brother with you. I don’t know where I’m going. Trust me, God will take control of everything, but I can’t continue living like this. You see the way they are treating me here.” 

“Yes Mom, let’s give it to God,” he said. “Go where you are going. I will take care of my sisters.”  

We fled under the cover of the night sky – my heart pounded with a mix of anxiety, fear and sorrow. The lady had everything organised – I’d only lived in villages and the small city with my late husband, so I didn’t realise we were in the capital until I saw signs for ‘Douala’. When we got to the airport, she told me we were going to Canada. Because there were no direct flights from Cameroon, we’d be making a stop along the way to catch a second plane. 

We made the first journey with no problems. While waiting for the flight to Canada, the lady told me to wait for her while she went to buy some water. She assured me she wouldn’t be long. Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty. One hour became two. I started to worry. 

I saw a man who was wearing an unfamiliar uniform. I went up to him and explained my situation. He asked to see my passport, but I wasn’t sure what he meant. His face was stern when he told me to follow him. He led me to a small room, where we were joined by more in the same uniform. They said they were police officers, which explained why I didn’t recognise them – Cameroonian police are dressed differently after all. 

I told them I was worried about where the lady had gone. They searched my bag – the only thing I had on me – before taking everything out; they didn’t let me have anything back. Then they told me I’d be staying with them, in custody, until they could take me to court. I didn’t have a passport; I didn’t have a visa, so I wasn’t supposed to be in the UK. 

The UK? I said this was the first time I’d heard anything about coming to the UK! I said they needed to find the lady; she’d be able to explain everything to them better than I could. 

I went to court the following Monday. I answered everything they asked to the best of my knowledge. I told the judge why I’d fled Cameroon. They asked me if I was guilty or not guilty, and I said, ‘not guilty’. The judge declared I’d be in prison until a second hearing could be held. 

I was taken to a women’s prison. I was there for three or four months before the court summoned me. I didn’t have a lawyer, so they assigned me one. I explained everything to her and pleaded not guilty in court. They sent me back to prison.  

Another six months passed before I was summoned again. I saw the same lawyer. She told me I that should plead guilty this time. What was I guilty of? The lady promised I’d be taken away from my abuser so I could try and make a better life for me and my children. Then she’d disappeared. 

I remember looking directly at the judge when he asked for my plea. “I’m not guilty,” I said. I was sentenced to eighteen months in prison, charged with entering the country with possession of false documents.  

The first few months in prison went by. It was all I could do but hope and pray my children were okay, that maybe I’d see them soon. Partway through my sentence, the chaplain came to visit our building. He wanted to speak with me. 

From one look at his face, I knew that something was very wrong. I’d seen expressions like his before and good news never followed. He insisted I sat down on the bench and had some water before we spoke. I wasn’t thirsty; I implored him to just tell me.  

He said he had very bad news. I thought about my children. My voice quavered as I asked what was wrong, even if the answer would destroy me. The chaplain explained they had received a phone call from Cameroon.  

That man, my abuser, was looking for me. He’d gone to ask my eldest where I was. My boy said he didn’t know, but he didn’t believe him. That man insisted that, if anyone knew where I was, it would be him; my son reiterated that he didn’t know anything. He started beating him, not caring that his children were present. The chaplain’s face remained stony as he explained that they hadn’t been spared from his wrath, either. 

The beating continued until my son collapsed. He was rushed to hospital, but nothing could be done. My son was dead. 

The pain was greater than any of the physical pain I’d endured before. I broke down, sobbing. My children were thousands of miles away without me, without their big brother, and I was powerless to do anything. I remembered our conversation from the night I left. The only words I had left in me were to swear to the chaplain that I would find a way to kill myself. 

They put me under suicide watch, but I found ways around it. On my first attempt, I took a curtain and tied it around my neck. My roommate caught me before I could go further and called for help. I was distraught when the officers came in to restrain me, I didn’t want to be stopped.  

Another time, I found some toilet cleaner lying around. It was simple enough to find a glass and take a drink. I started feeling sick, so went to lie down on my bed. I told my roommate not to worry if I fell asleep and didn’t respond, because I’d finally managed it. She went to get help, and I was taken to hospital. They watched me closely for the rest of my time there. 

 Once I’d served my sentence, they said I’d be taken somewhere with other people I could talk to, that I’d get to have a normal life with no fences. When we arrived at the new place, I realised they’d lied: this was just another building with oppressive fences and high walls under a different name – a detention centre. I started crying, I didn’t understand what was happening. I shut down completely and refused to eat or drink for several days. 

After a short time there, they gave me a phone number for a befriender scheme where I could arrange for a volunteer to come talk to me. I slowly built up the courage to call, and I was matched with a lady from the local area. She came in regularly and we’d talk about how I was feeling. Over time, I felt comfortable enough to share my story with her. 

Three months into my stay, I was handcuffed and taken to the airport in the early hours of the morning. They told me I was going back to Cameroon. Two police officers boarded the plane with me; I was in hysterics before we took off, terrified of what awaited me when we landed. 

My outburst caused the pilot to come to the cabin. I explained as much as I could through tears. I told him I’d rather die than go home. He refused to carry me onboard, so I went back to the detention centre. 

The second time I was allowed to wear a traditional Cameroon dress, and there were no handcuffs – perhaps they thought it would make me feel more at ease. As the plane began its taxi the anxiety swelled in my stomach and spread to the rest of my body like fire. I had to get out; I couldn’t go back! In my desperation, I left my seat, stood in the aisle and threw off my dress – I was naked underneath – and sobbed violently. People were shouting, calling me a madwoman, but I didn’t care. They stopped the plane and I went back. 

Another time we left the detention centre, but no one told me where we were going. On the drive they offered me something to drink. I was thirsty, so thought nothing more of it. The next thing I remembered was being in an airport. 

I knew it wasn’t the UK. I could hear my mother tongue – French – being spoken around me. As my senses returned fully, I learned that I’d been taken to Brussels.  

I asked my escorts what was happening, but I already knew the answer. I could feel the familiar dread surging through me, hot tears spilling down my face. I cursed and shouted at them in French, begging them not to take me to Cameroon.  

Two strangers approached me. No uniforms, just ordinary men who spoke to me in French, asking whether I was okay and if there was anything they could do to help. I told them as much as I was able to in that moment, and they were outraged. They said I wouldn’t be going anywhere if they had anything to do with it. When I tried to board the plane to Cameroon I was denied. I don’t know what miracle they pulled, but I am so grateful to them. 

After that, there were no further attempts to take me back to Cameroon. I spent eleven months in detention until I was suddenly released. 

The lady I’d confided in – my befriender – had paid for my bail. She brought me to her home, where I had my own room, my own space and where there were no high fences and imposing walls. This newfound peace would be short-lived, as two months later the police came to the house and arrested me. She bailed me out again and I came home, only for the police to take me back to detention. We repeated this cycle over the course of five years, during which I was diagnosed with PTSD. 

Living became unbearable, even in the times where I was safe with her. I would leave the house and end up hiding behind the garden fence, intrusive thoughts wracking my mind and paralysing me. Was I truly free, this time? How long did I have before they’d drag me back to the detention centre – or worse, to Cameroon?  

It took five years of fighting, but I was finally granted asylum status. Upon receiving my papers, I felt a huge sense of relief. I didn’t have to live in perpetual fear anymore. I could finally study; I could get a job to support myself – it was so liberating! I told my befriender that I wanted to move out and have my own space. She encouraged me to consider moving to London, given its diversity. 

I liaised with my mental health team, who helped me find temporary accommodation. I moved a few times before settling into a flat, where I’ve lived ever since. The flat was empty when I first moved in, my befriender and her family bought everything I needed: the bed, the fridge, the sofa. She once told me that she isn’t my befriender, she’s my sister, regardless of our skin colour. She can tell how I’m feeling from the tone of my voice whenever she calls me. I could just show up unannounced at her house, and she would make room for me. We’re family, and nothing will change that.  

Once I was settled, I sought to see my children as soon as I could. They’d fled to Nigeria with one of their cousins not long after their brother passed. There was a lot of violence back home beyond what had happened to him, and it wasn’t safe anymore. 

I needed a passport to travel, but the Cameroonian Embassy refused to help. They wouldn’t even meet with me – in asking for asylum they said I’d insulted the name of the country. My lawyer was only able to procure a temporary travel document because of my mental health nurse at the time, who wrote a letter explaining my situation. I went to Nigeria and saw my children for the first time in over ten years. 

I started working as a security guard for a supermarket in south London. The job was manageable, and I could study around it. Part of me still hadn’t given up on my dream, despite how distant the memory of my old self seemed. 

My peaceful life changed four years into working there. I was approached by a group of boys in broad daylight; I had a sense that they were up to no good. I went to stop them from going in; one opened his bag to show me a large knife. I froze, unable to do anything. 

They went to the spirits aisle with their bags. My manager came out from his office, berating me for doing nothing. He announced he’d called the police, and the boys turned on him. I had visions of my son; it was all too much to bear. I handed my notice in not long after that. 

I went into care work next. While it wasn’t midwifery, it involved helping others. I’d cook and serve the patients their meals, help them get washed and dressed, and take them to any routine appointments they had at the hospital. I took pride in my work. It gave me so much joy. 

One day, I had just gotten back from the hospital with a patient. There were three of us working that morning, all women. One held the door for the patient, and I stood behind them to make sure they got in safely. None of us realised there was someone else standing behind me until it was too late. 

I screamed as arms wrapped around my body, restraining me. I couldn’t move. Then came the punches, someone was hitting me. Suddenly I was back in that room in the village, not knowing when it would stop, how far it’d go. I begged the others to help, but they were petrified. 

Luckily, our driver was still nearby. He heard my cries and ran to us, throwing the attacker off me. It was a man, someone who used the very service I worked for. We called the police, but he’d vanished by the time they got there. 

I went to hospital for x-rays where they found damage all the way up to my shoulder. The incident left one of my hands permanently twisted – I still can’t bring it all the way up. It broke my heart when I realised I wouldn’t be able to continue working in care, there was no way I’d be able to carry out my duties. I’m still waiting for an operation on it, and I haven’t been able to work since then. 

I’ve not been able to go back to Nigeria either; the embassy still refuses to see me. I speak to my children and grandchildren on the phone, but it’s so confusing for the littlest ones. Every time I call, they say, “Grandma, why are you not coming?”, but I can’t explain it to them in a way they’d understand.  

I didn’t hear from them last Mother’s Day. When I called them a few days after my daughter replied, “Do we have a mother?”. They only get to see little glimpses of my life, and I never want them to see me upset when we talk. It’s hard for them to understand how complicated my situation is or how devastated I am every time I’m told I can’t travel. I’m 62 now, it kills me to not be with them. 

Being unable to work or travel, despite my best efforts, took a toll on me. A few years ago, I couldn’t cope anymore; my suicidal thoughts became overwhelming. I spoke to my doctor, who referred me to a charity that provides therapy to displaced people like me called Waterloo Community Counselling. 

I remember sitting nervously in the waiting room. I was worried about talking to someone about what I’d been though, but after meeting my counsellor she assured me that everything would stay between us. 

I started telling her my story, and I felt something lift within me. With each session I realised that there were people out there who would listen without judgement or telling me my voice wasn’t important. My counsellor helped me sort through my racing thoughts and make sense of them. I felt relieved after my sessions, and thinking about the next day or so didn’t feel as daunting.  

I had therapy for a year. The charity also runs groups for current and previous clients, so I’ve tried to join those too – though I sometimes struggle to engage with others. 

These days I don’t feel like myself. My memory’s fuzzy, and it’s hard for me to sleep. I’m plagued with nightmares when I do find rest. I find myself ruminating on my life in Cameroon a lot, but this time I know I can ask for help and get support. I found counselling helpful before, so I’m considering returning to therapy at WCC for more sessions. 

Therapy has helped me to gradually build up the confidence to express myself however I want to. It’s opened my eyes as to how resilient I truly am, and that I can share as much or as little of my experiences as I want to. It’s never easy talking about my life, and I doubt that will ever change, but I’m not afraid of holding back anymore – nor does my past completely consume me like it used to. 

I can’t promise that my story has or will ever have a happy ending. Life is still difficult. I’m still fighting to get my permanent residence while waiting for the operation on my hand so I can work again – I’d love to work with children, but I don’t know how, and I’m worried that I might be too old. I want to get another travel document so I can see my children. As hard as things get, I have never and will never give up when it comes to my family. I will always fight for them.