CAMEROON: I Broke Into the Man’s Field and Wear the Robe

Enoh’s childhood promise made in grief became her lifelong fight against gender bias. Now, in Cameroon’s courtrooms, she wears that robe for herself and for every woman who breaks barriers.

"They were dismissing my brain, my spirit, and my mission just because of my skirt."

My desire to become a lawyer started with the worst day of our lives. I was only in secondary school, Form 2, a twelve-year-old not thinking about careers or grown-up things. Then the news came: my elder brother, who had left home to study law, had died in South Africa. He was on the verge of being called to the Bar as a lawyer, ready to practice.

My father was completely broken. He had poured all his pride and dreams into my brother’s future. Seeing him that way, I walked up to him and, in a moment of childish impulse and love, I whispered: "Don't worry, Papa. I will finish what he never got to finish. I will be the lawyer." It was a joke to dry his tears, but that promise settled deep inside me. As I grew up, it wasn’t just about the legacy; it was about a fierce desire to help and fight for the helpless.

A few years later, my father died just before I graduated from high school. I was completely broken. Later that year, I got admitted to the university. My choice was still law. I wanted to become a lawyer not just for my father, my brother, or the promise, but for myself and the desire to help and fight for the helpless

And that’s when the noise began.

It felt like everyone around me thought it was a terrible idea. Law, they said, was not for me. My Auntie Marie was the first to corner me.

She looked at me and said, "Law is not for a woman! You’re not going to succeed. It’s a man’s field."

My cousin chimed in with that knowing, condescending tone: "You’re not brave enough to handle those tough cases and send people to prison. Choose something softer, dear. Something that suits you, a teacher maybe?” I just nodded, smiled, and left.

They were dismissing my brain, my spirit, and my mission just because of my skirt. They wanted me to pick a gentle path, but my brother’s memory and my own hunger for justice wouldn't let me. I went to the university and started my studies anyway.

After I finished my first degree, the battle escalated. My decision to go to law school, get enrolled at the Bar, and fully become a barrister brought on a new kind of fear. This time, the concern wasn't about my success; it was about my future as a wife.

I remember one evening as I walked home after a busy day, Mama Elodi, an elder in our compound, sat me down, her expression genuinely worried.

"You, this girl, you’re serious with this your lawyer work?" she asked, sighing. "Too much education is not good for women oo! You will scare suitors. No one will want to marry you!"

The pressure was immense. I was told I had to choose: my career or my chance at a home. That my professional worth somehow threatened my worth as a woman. It felt like a profound injustice. But I was not going to let the fear of being single derail my dreams. I went anyway.

The true struggle began after I was called to the Bar. Now I was facing the "Man's Field" syndrome every single day, from all sides.

The most constant sting comes from the clients—the very people I want to help. They look at my female face, my female hands, and doubt creeps in.

A potential client, a businessman with a sensitive case, once asked me directly: "Barrister, are you sure you can handle the case? It’s a serious matter. I need someone strong." By strong, he meant he needed a man.

That line—"I need someone strong"—is a gut punch every time. It means I have to spend the first part of every consultation proving I am as competent and capable as the imaginary man they wished was sitting in my chair.

And then there are the male colleagues. Their discouragement is more systemic, a constant drip of doubt designed to wear us down. They’ll tell us openly at gatherings, “Women don’t last long in this profession. They always start with seriousness, but they will get tired."

They try to push us into a corner, saying, "Litigation is not for women. It’s too brutal. Go in-house; that’s where women belong."

They want to relegate our ambition to a nice, safe corporate job, away from the frontline of the courtroom. They want us to believe that the core work of fighting and arguing is too much for our spirits.

I haven't gotten tired. I am not running to a quiet office.

The courage they said I lacked is fueled by the very things they tried to use against me: the pain of loss, my hunger for justice, and the sting of every sexist word.

My resilience is not just personal; it's an act of resistance against "The Man's Field" Syndrome.

I stand here today, not just completing my brother’s journey but proving that a woman’s power is fierce, enduring, and absolutely necessary in the fight for justice. I am here to stay, and I will hold the door open for every girl who follows.

If you are a woman facing that same wall, whether it's in law, in engineering, in medicine, or in business or any other field, let my journey be your fuel.

When they tell you you'll get tired, or that you're not strong enough, remember this: The pressure they apply is proof of the power you possess. Your commitment to your craft is not a temporary ambition; it is your permanent purpose. Do not let their fear of your strength become your fear.

The discouragements did not stop, nor did the doubts, but I’m here making every day count. I finished the robe, and I wear it for all of us. Now, go claim your space. You are not leaving. You are here to stay.

Let my story remind you that change begins when we refuse to be silent. Whether in law, engineering, medicine, or business, lift another woman as you rise. Stand beside her, speak her name, and open the doors they said were not meant for us—because together, we redefine strength and rewrite the rules.

STORY AWARDS

This story was published as part of World Pulse's Story Awards program. We believe every woman has a story to share, and that the world will be a better place when women are heard.