Sometimes, I wonder why society only talks about female hormones—how women act when they’re ovulating. They talk about mood swings, and why a woman might want love today and space tomorrow. But nobody talks about male hormones. Nobody admits that men, too, have days when something inside us shifts, and we start craving things that will destroy us.

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Because honestly, what else explains why a full-grown man like me, with sense and a degree, would miss Joyce? The same Joyce who sent me to Korle-Bu in shame.

Joyce and I dated for a little over a year. A beautiful girl with a smile that could melt concrete, but as unfaithful as the word itself. The first time she cheated and I caught her, she cried, apologized, and later blamed the devil. I loved her, so I forgave her, believing she would learn from her mistake.

But no.

She cheated again. And when I caught her, she blamed me. She stood there with all the confidence and said, “Maybe if you treated me better and took care of me, I wouldn’t have cheated.”

Out of anger and frustration, I ended it.

Then, a few days later, I started feeling a burning sensation. I told myself it was probably pepper from the waakye I ate. But it continued, so I went to the hospital. After a series of tests, the doctor looked at me with that expression they save for when they know you won’t like the results.

“You’ve contracted gonorrhea,” he said.

The only woman I’d been with was Joyce. So when the doctor told me, “Bring your partner so you can both be treated,” I called her. She screamed on the phone, “God forbid! Me? You better figure out where you got it from, because I don’t have anything like that.” And she hung up.

It took a while, but I got treated. While going through the pain and shame, I vowed never to even greet anyone named Joyce again. I swore that if Joyce and I ever met in heaven, I would change direction.

But recently, I don’t know if my hormones are sabotaging me or if the moon is aligning wrong. Because all of a sudden, I miss Joyce sometimes. Often, actually. Yes, that Joyce.

I find myself going to her Facebook page, zooming in on her pictures, staring at her smile. Some nights, the feeling gets so strong I video-call her. And she acts all nice and soft, as if she didn’t almost finish me two years ago.

Other days, the feeling disappears, and I laugh at myself: “Ei, Nana, have you no shame?”

One night, as the craving hit me again like hunger at 11 PM, I asked myself: “What exactly is wrong with me? Why do I miss someone who gave me gonorrhea?”

And that’s when it hit me, I might be going through ovulation. Yeah, men ovulate too. Because what else explains this emotional madness? Maybe every month, our hormones rise and fall. Maybe every few weeks, our brains malfunction, and we remember only the soft parts of toxic relationships. Maybe male ovulation is real cos I can’t explain this foolishness any other way.

All I know is that when the “male ovulation” passes, I regain my senses. I look at Joyce’s pictures and wonder why I was crying over someone who nearly turned my medical record into a tragedy script.

Is There A Perfect One Out There For Everyone?

Right now, I’m fine. I’m not missing her. This is the time I should block her but I won’t. I’m waiting to miss her again so I can call.

If you’ve ever asked why men always go back to their exes, this is the explanation: We go back when we ovulate. That’s why we disappear quickly after a few weeks, only to come back again when ovulation calls.

—Nana

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