In 2012, I met a man. It was at my great-grandmother’s funeral, back in the village. We barely spoke, just a quick introduction and a handshake, and then he asked for my number. At the time, I was nursing one of the worst heartbreaks of my life. The last thing I wanted or needed was to be friends with another man.

Three years later, I married him.

Life has a funny way of rewriting your plans.

Right after our marriage ceremony, the plan was for us to start our life together in his town. But there was a problem waiting for us there: his ex-girlfriend. Just knowing she was in the same vicinity, that she was a presence in the world we were supposed to build, made my skin crawl. It felt impossible to breathe. So, I used the only connection I had. My grandfather is an executive at the church head office, and I asked him for a transfer. A fresh start, somewhere far from the ghost of his past.

We were posted to Assin Fosu. A new town, a new church to grow, a new life to be happy in. I truly believed that.

The hope that a change in environment would cause a change in him was the first lie I told myself.

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In our new neighbourhood, there was a woman. From the moment we moved in, her eyes were on my husband. She’d find reasons to come over, to greet him, to do ‘this’ and ‘that’. I saw the whole performance. I also saw my husband’s clumsy attempts to hide it – the way he’d get nervous when she was around, the small lies about where he’d been. I knew, deep down, that they were seeing each other. But I played blind. That’s what I did. I didn’t fight. I just prayed and hoped he would change.

For the two whole years we stayed in Assin Fosu, my husband, this man of God, slept with about three different women. The entire town seemed to know what he was. The church he was supposed to be shepherding was falling apart. And I was just… suffering. Suffering from the humiliation, from the loneliness, and from the fear of what infections he might bring home. The church elders were restless. They reported his behaviour time and time again, but nothing ever happened. It was his word against theirs, and his word, as the pastor, always seemed to weigh more.

One day, I just packed my bags and left for Accra. I had to save my own life.

The elders kept reporting him. My grandfather even made an unannounced visit to Fosu, and other church members added their voices. The pressure finally built. Later that year, he was transferred again. I didn’t even know until someone called to inform me. When I asked him why he hadn’t told his own wife, his excuse was that he didn’t have money for me to come to his send-off service. I went anyway. And that’s how I knew, for sure, that there was another woman. He was just trying to play his cards right, keeping his options open, not wanting to be caught.

Even his own sisters supported him in this. They let the narrative become that I was the problem because I hadn’t had a child yet, even though they knew their brother couldn’t father one. They knew. One of his younger sisters, the kindest of them, privately told me the truth. She said he’d had several operations that had affected his ability to have children. His other sisters knew this, she said, but they were pretending I was barren so they could later accuse me of cheating and use that as the reason to reveal the secret. She told me because she said I was a good person.

Eventually, the news reached the church head office that we were no longer together. They told him he could remarry the woman he wanted and then be posted to his new station.

But for six months, he stayed at home, begging me to forgive him. Elderly relatives called, pleading his case, swearing he had changed, that he was filled with regret. And sadly, foolishly, I believed them. I agreed to take him back and even spoke to my grandfather on his behalf.

It was the biggest mistake I ever made.

We were posted to Wassa Danmeng. He went ahead of me to see the new mission house and, wouldn’t you know it, he immediately met another woman and started flirting with her. A few weeks later, I left my family home in Accra to join him.

Soon after I arrived, I noticed that whenever a particular call came in, he became uncomfortable. Scratching his head, looking elsewhere apart from my stare and the phone. I knew that attitude too well. When I asked, he said it was nothing. I did not push because we had just moved and I did not want to assume he was cheating again.

At 4 a.m., he woke me up and insisted I leave immediately. Told me not to even bathe, that I could sleep and shower when I got to Accra. So I left.

Not long after, the young girl who stayed with us called me. She said a woman had slept in my room with my husband. She was even wearing my morning coat. When I confronted him, he dismissed my question as silly and unnecessary. For about a week, this woman came and slept in my house, in my bed, every night. Then, finally, he called to tell me to come get my things. We were over, and he wanted to start a new life.

I told my family, and we decided I would go that evening, unannounced. When I got there, another woman had just left, minutes before I arrived. As I packed my things, he knelt down, begging. But my mind was made up. That was it.

A few months later, wedding flyers were everywhere. He had married the woman from Danmeng.

Ironically, his sisters now complain that he doesn’t support anyone in the family. One of his cousins even called to tell me that my former sisters-in-law often talk about how good I was to them and how they failed to appreciate me.

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And just recently, he started calling. Begging for my forgiveness. “I was stupid and foolish,” he says. “It was the devil. Please come back.” Every day I wake up to new messages from him. Apparently, the new wife is an abusive woman. He said it himself. I don’t know the details, but I’m guessing he’s now being served the same dish he served me. He is now in an abusive marriage.

Life has a funny way of rewriting your plans. And sometimes, the best thing you can do is just watch.

—Ex. Asafo Maame

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