Flight To Freedom

Despite the trauma of being forced into a loveless marriage, the experience taught me to never compromise on my freedom and happiness to please others.

I ascended the stairs of the airplane at the Kotoka International Airport of Accra, Ghana. As I glanced one last time over my shoulder, I saw no familiar faces.

Good!

I took my designated seat, let out a deep breath I had no idea I was holding. I leaned back and closed my eyes, trying to stop my tears from flowing.

Keep it together girl. It is almost over.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking …krrgh… has been delayed… krrgh…as possible. Thank you.”

“What? I am not sure I heard everything.” I turned to the passenger next to me. “The flight has been delayed?”

She nodded.

“No! No! No!” I groaned under my breath.

Not today! Not right now! Please! Why do these things keep happening to me? Whatever did I do wrong that the punishment never seems to end? When will I ever catch a break?

As I held my face in my hands, my whole body began to tremble, and my stomach churned. My head throbbed so intensely that everything around me became blurry. My hands became numb and tingly, my chest was so tight I nearly threw up. I needed a comfort blanket. I wanted to yell, to say something, but nothing would come out.

“Oh blimey! You are as white as a sheet. Are you okay?” said the lady, who was obviously British, next to me.

“No. Do you have an aspirin please?”

“Yes, here take two. That should calm you down. I used to be petrified of flying also, but it subsided after my third time. Yours will, too. Don’t worry.”

Well, I am glad someone thinks it is a fear of flying. I took the pills and settled down quite a bit. The lady was nice. She looked happy, kept adjusting her dress, reapplied her makeup every so often, and smiled a lot.

I observed a woman ahead of me that was trying to get her husband’s attention. Then I noticed her husband, sitting next to her, intently reading his newspaper, rudely ignoring his wife.

I know this type of man, all too well…

My wedding day; was all very formal, not much laughter was shared between my groom-to-be and myself. When the preacher asked, “Do you take this man as your lawfully wedded husband?” my first instinct was to loudly yell, “Absolutely not!” I had no idea I would spend the next three years regretting not having said exactly that.

Why did I allow myself to be so manipulated?

Why couldn’t I find my voice that day?

But I knew why. I turned around and saw him… my father, his lips pressed tightly together, his eyes glaring, bearing into my soul, shooting daggers at me. If looks could kill, I would be dead this instant. I had to marry this man to save my father, his business, my brother’s education. They were all counting on me. I could not be selfish. The words my father said to me that morning, still rang in my ear. I could not disappoint him.

“Yes, I do,” I answered.

Something hit me on my shoulder, snapping me out of my melancholy. I jumped out of my seat, startling the British lady and her husband, who at that point suspected something was not right with me. A sharply dressed businessman, had nudged my shoulder as he pulled his laptop from the overhead bin. For an instant, I thought it was him, my husband, he had caught up to me.

Many people thought of my husband as a handsome man. With custom-tailored suits, he knew how to dress to impress. An account auditor at his father’s bank, he would never shut up about how rich he was. How miserable my life would be without him. Reminding me every day throughout the three years we lived together, how I could never leave.

“This marriage is legally binding, and I will never grant you a divorce.”

It was the night of my wedding; I was petrified to enter the bedroom. He began to pull me towards him, instantly I was in tears, begging him, pleading with him not to touch me. But he did not listen, he was too strong. I could not fight it, I had to obey.

Time stood still as he had his way with me.

Later, deep in the night, from the corner of my eye, I could see him as he slept on the opposite side of the bed, snoring rather loudly. The night light bounced off his radiantly dark skin. Ever so slowly I inched my left leg to the ground, then the right, trying my best not to wake him. I needed to bathe, to wash his revolting hands off my skin. I hated his touch, I hated his kisses, I hated the stale odor of alcohol and cigarette smoke that lingered on my lip after he kissed me. Tears rolled down my cheek as I run the shower to wash his filth off me.

“Sweetheart, are you sure you’re feeling alright? Why are you crying?” the British lady asked, concern written all over her face.

Crying? Who is crying? I touched my face; it was damp with tears. Oh no!

“I will feel better once we’re in the air. I’m worried the flight might be canceled,” I said.

“Oh, I’m sure it won’t be long, it happens quite often. But they always take off in the end.”

“Thank you, you’re very kind,” I said, smiling through my tears.

Suddenly, the couple to the left of my seat caught my attention. They were trying to hide a heated argument about something and in exasperation, the wife got up to leave but the man held her back.

And I remembered…

One night I had had enough, I packed my bag and was about to leave, I remember a sudden jerk of my hair, and pain shot through me. I turned around and to my horror, there he stood, holding a fist full of my hair. He dragged me back and locked the door, pinned me to the bed, and took what he needed from me. I remember crying and promising myself that I would get away no matter what.

That day came three months later.

The rage in my heart that night, was rage I had never experienced. I threw my bags out the window and jumped for my life. I jumped for the future I knew I deserved. I jumped for the future that was so harshly ripped from my hands. I jumped for the future without violence, for how dare he lay his hands on me? I took all the constant abuse, threats, and insults.

But to hit me? That I could never stand for.

As I hit the ground, the pain that shot through my knee was like the slap from a scolding father. My tears were a river flowing down my cheeks. Instantly I saw the car, its engine coughing, and spluttering as it got closer. It was my friend, Kelly, she stopped, and the passenger door opened, I took flight from underneath the window like a native fleeing the eruption of Vesuvius, into the car.

We never once looked back.

The three months spent in Kelly’s basement awaiting my student visa were not easy months. At times, I got so scared he would find me, that I thought of going back. At times, I thought about how my family was going to fare financially. My father’s business, the mortgage on the house, and my brother’s school. But most of the time, I was just sad and upset at how they literally sold me for money. They did not love me. But I loved me. And I deserved to be with a man who cared, respected, and loved me.

Finally, after many delays, my visa arrived.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain…krrrgh…we have been cleared for takeoff…krrrgh…we should arrive in Heathrow in nine hours. Sit back and enjoy the ride.”

The plane began to vibrate as it picked up speed, my heart thundered with it. I looked out the window and noticed the plane lift in the air. Adrenaline shot through my body. The grin on my face, as the new reality sunk in, could not be extinguished.

The British lady beside me lightly nudged my shoulder and gave me her nicest smile, yet.

“See? I told you. There was nothing to worry about.”

And below me, Ghana became smaller and a soon-to-be distant past.