I was pregnant and didn’t know what to do. I called Emma, the guy responsible for the pregnancy, the one I’d dated for almost two years and told him. His first statement was, “You know we can’t keep it, right?”

For two days, he kept repeating that line, when all I needed was his presence and assurance.

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I called to tell him we needed to talk. I asked him to come over, but he didn’t. Later, he asked me to meet him at his friend’s bar. I was there at 7 p.m., though he’d said 8 p.m. I sat watching the faces of happy people and thought of the days when Emma and I were among them. We used to meet there on Fridays after work. His friend would serve us the best cocktails and meat, play every song we requested, and we owned the floor and the night.

Those were the days when our love was new and bright. We didn’t hold back; we went all out for love. But time slowed us down. Even before the pregnancy, we weren’t in the best shape as lovers. We weren’t meeting often. Our Friday nights were spent alone in our rooms. We had to plan for days just to see each other once a week.

I was seated, waiting for Emma, when a guy walked up and asked me to dance. I looked at his beard and the eyes behind his spectacles and wondered how he could be so bold as to ask a pregnant, confused woman to dance. I shook my head. He insisted. I said I was waiting for my boyfriend. He said my boyfriend would be happy someone kept me engaged while he was on his way.

Since I wouldn’t dance, he said, “Can I at least sit next to you? We can talk if you won’t dance.”

I pulled the chair next to me, placed it properly, and asked him to sit. He asked over fifteen questions. I asked only two: “What’s your name, and why do you want to dance with a stranger?”

His name was Roger. He said he saw me looking lonely and sad, and that drew him to me. I kept checking my watch, wondering why Emma was late. It was 9 p.m. when I picked up my phone to text him. Unbeknownst to me, he had already texted around 7 p.m., saying something had come up and he couldn’t make it. I was angry. Why didn’t he call?

When I got up to leave, Roger followed. He said, “Can I get your number? Maybe today was a bad day for a dance. Who knows? Tomorrow might be better.”

His words were refined, and I liked how he put them together. I gave him my number, and he typed it in. He said thank you, and we parted. I sat in a taxi on the way home, crying and wondering why my boyfriend didn’t see the urgency in what I was going through.

I saw him two days later. He insisted I should let the pregnancy go. I knew I was going to, but with each passing day, I felt more bonded to what was growing inside me. I said, “What’s the worst that could happen if we kept it?”

His answer didn’t just break my heart—it broke my will to keep loving him. He said, “Getting pregnant is the worst that could happen. But if you decide to keep it, I won’t be there.”

I called him wicked. I questioned why he came into my life only to ruin it. I called him the devil. He went home and sent me GHC 1,000 through mobile money. He said, “In case you need more, let me know, but by all means, get rid of it.”

Roger was calling and texting every day. He was getting on my nerves, but it wasn’t his fault. He was just being nice, but he’d found me at the worst possible time. To push him away, I said, “Do you know I’m pregnant? My life is spinning like a carousel, and I don’t have time for this.”

I thought that would push him away, but Roger had words for every occasion. Before I knew it, I was telling him my whole story—from the day I got pregnant to everything my boyfriend had said. He asked what I was going to do, and I said I didn’t know. We met days later at my office. He brought chocolate. “I heard pregnancy comes with cravings. Take this, just in case.”

When I finally decided to end the pregnancy, it was Roger I talked to. I wanted to hear what he would say, since he always had something thoughtful to offer. He said, “If it makes you happy, why not? But don’t do it just because your boyfriend asked you to.”

The next morning, I went to the hospital. While I was there, Emma called to ask if it was done. That was all he cared about. I told him I was waiting for the doctor and was third in line. He said, “Let me know when you’re done.”

Roger called. He asked if I was sure this was what I wanted. He asked if I was happy doing it. He said, “Would you have still done it if he was happy about the pregnancy?” I said no. “That means you’re doing it for him, not for yourself,” he said. “Don’t do it. Tomorrow, you’ll look back and not be happy.”

I thought about his words. I thought about being a single mom and all the struggles that would come with it. The first woman ahead of me went in and came back looking like nothing had happened. The second one went in. I had to decide before she came out. I sat there, still indecisive. “Tomorrow, you’ll look back and not be happy,” Roger’s words echoed. I said, “Thank you, Roger,” and walked away.

While Emma was angry and threatening me with single parenthood, Roger asked if he could be part of this journey. Sorry—Roger, not Emma. I’m even confused. Roger was eager, but Emma was fading fast from my life. He didn’t even tell me it was over; I had to assume from his absence and the fact that he didn’t call or respond.

I was six months pregnant when Roger told me he wanted to stay if I gave him a chance. I asked, “A chance to do what?” He said, “A chance to be in your life and the life of what you’re carrying.”

There was sincerity in his eyes and voice. He looked sober but firm. I told him I couldn’t let him carry another man’s burden. “I know you think it will be hard for me, but watch me. I’ll make you proud. You don’t have to be involved.”

For days, he told me he wasn’t joking and was speaking from his heart. He sent messages every morning, begging me to say yes. I kept saying no. I felt he knew too much to be brought into my life. He told me he had never met a woman as honest and straightforward as me and that he would do everything to be with me.

In the labor ward, he stood outside waiting. He said he was praying for me. When the nurses asked if he was my husband, he nodded. They called him when they needed anything. When they decided I should have a C-section because of the struggle, they asked for his consent, and he told them, “Anything to make things easier for her.”

He drove me home when I was discharged. Just as I was warming up to loving him, he had to travel abroad for a while. He didn’t know when he’d be back, but he said he’d return before the year ended. I prayed he would go and forget about me, but not a single day passed without hearing from him. Video calls were his favorite. He would look at the baby and call him cute.

We talked about us—without emotion, but with truth and honesty. I laid out what I thought could be problems for our future. He laughed and said they weren’t problems to him. I said, “So you mean you haven’t met anyone better than me?” He answered, “I’m not open to meeting anyone while you’re here.”

He ended up spending two years abroad, but not a single day went by without us talking. I was so sure about him that I told him I wanted to marry him. “I don’t want you as a boyfriend. You’re too big for that. If you’re willing, just be my husband.” He looked into the camera and asked, “Are you serious? You want us to do this?”

He came to Ghana in rainy June. Before the harmattan arrived in December, we walked down the aisle, knowing our history yet determined to make our tomorrow even better. At the wedding reception, I told him, “Yeah, the first day we met was a bad day for a dance, but not today.”

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On our wedding night, I held his hands and said thank you. “Thank you for being the truth when I was surrounded by lies.” I don’t know where the tears came from, but they fell, one after another, onto his hands.

It’s our third year of marriage, and we have another child, making two. I look at him and ask what I did right to deserve a man like him, but only God knows the answer.

—Edna

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