I travelled to see my boyfriend on Friday evening after work and woke up the next day in the hospital. We had dated long-distance for six months. He lived in Accra, and I lived in Takoradi. When we started talking on Facebook, it was just friendship until we carried the conversation to WhatsApp.

He came to Takoradi one day and insisted on seeing me. I asked what brought him to Takoradi, and he told me it was work and he was going to stay for three days. That very day, I met him at his hotel, and we talked all night. The next day too, I was with him. By the time he was leaving, he had proposed to me, and I had told him to give me time to think about it.

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When he got to Accra, he called and told me he had a confession to make. He said, “I came to Takoradi because of you. It’s not any work that brought me. I wanted to see you and do a face-to-face proposal.”

I felt loved. I felt chosen. I asked why he would go through all that for me, but deep down, I was telling myself that he went through all that for me because he loved me. I accepted his proposal, and our love story began.

The first time I visited him in Accra, he took me to eat fufu at his parents’ house so he could introduce me to them. His mom called me “Name” because we both had the same name. His dad said he loved my Fante. He had never met anyone who spoke Fante in its purest form like I did.

On my first visit, he was talking about marriage. He asked when I intended to get married, and I told him he should tell me when he was ready.

He said, “Babe, I’m ready. I’m doing all this because you’re the one.”

He visited Takoradi a few weeks later, and I took him to meet my dad. My mom is late. My dad is my only surviving parent. He told my dad if everything went according to plan, we should be married the next year. My dad gave his blessing, and from there, I saw him as my husband. He introduced me to friends as his “wifee.”

On Saturdays, I would travel from Takoradi to see him, or he would be the one to make the trip. Sometimes, it became an argument. He wanted to come over. I also wanted to be the one to travel. We would use a task to determine who travelled.

Our love had this calming effect on me. Every trouble I went through at my workplace and outside of it didn’t matter once I knew the weekend was coming and I would travel to Accra.

On that Friday, I got to Accra very late. The bus was very slow, the traffic was very thick, and everything seemed determined to slow me down. I got to Accra around 11 p.m. I ate, bathed, watched TV for a while, and we went to bed.

I remember him kissing me and taking my nightie off. That was where my memory ended.

According to him, sometime during the night while we were being intimate, I passed out. He didn’t notice immediately, so he kept going until he realised I was unresponsive and started calling my name.

He said he panicked because he thought I had died. Since I was naked, he first had to put clothes on me before he could call anyone in to help. I’m very thick and tall. He said he didn’t know I was that heavy.

He eventually knocked on doors for help, and some men helped him take me to the hospital that same night. While we were in the car on the way there, one of them said I was not breathing. Another said I was a dead case.

My boyfriend said he died inside on the way to the hospital, asking himself what he was going to tell my dad and what explanation he was going to give the police.

I remained unconscious for hours.

The next thing I knew, it was the following day, and I was waking up in the hospital asking the nurse what I was doing there. I woke up with no pain or anything, so I was wondering what might have happened. She asked me to relax and rest my head.

My boyfriend walked in, looking shaken. I asked what happened. He also asked me to relax.

“Ah, why is everyone asking me to relax? I woke up in this situation, and you’re telling me to relax. How?”

He narrated everything that had happened from the time I passed out until they got me to the hospital.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or be sad.

“Thank God the worst didn’t happen,” I said.

He asked if this was the first time, and I answered honestly, “I’ve never fainted in my life. I don’t even know what that means.”

The doctor said it had something to do with my blood sugar, so I should be monitored for a while. He advised me to continue visiting the hospital once I was back home.

Everything was well again until I left Accra. I called to tell him I was home, and that was the last peaceful conversation we had.

He refused to pick up my calls for four days straight until he texted to tell me what happened had shaken him and he needed some time to recover. I was the one who had been unconscious for hours, but he was the one doing the recovery.

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I asked how long it was going to last, and he said he was going to call me.

That call never came until I travelled to Accra to ask what was going on. He didn’t let me in. He said I didn’t tell him I was coming, so he wouldn’t let me in. And then he asked, “What if the worst happens this time? Please, no.”

My tears and my pleas didn’t work. I told him I was fine and it wasn’t a chronic thing. He said I could sleep in a hotel and he would see me the next day.

I left to sleep in a guest house. I went back to his place the next day, and he was not there.

The journey to healing has been longer than I thought. It’s been two months, and I still mourn the relationship.

I didn’t do anything wrong, but it ended.

It ended because I collapsed.

Hmmm.

—Nadia

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