In the name of love

I married John when I was 25. He was the love of my life. Our wedding was on September 11th. He was John, I was 25, and our wedding was on the 11th. That gave us John 25:11:

“Jesus said to her, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die.’

It didn’t make sense to others, but to us, it meant a lot. The most important numbers in our lives gave us a beautiful Bible verse, and it held deep significance for us.

We were married for two years and had a boy, James. When James was one, we decided to take him to visit my husband’s parents. It was Christmas, so in a way, we were celebrating the holiday and also introducing James to his dad’s hometown for the first time.

We arrived in Asankragua at 11 a.m. and took a taxi home. At one point, the taxi had to turn around and make a U-turn to join the main road. Just as the driver negotiated the curve and was about to merge onto the main road, a speeding vehicle came out of nowhere and crashed into the side of the taxi.

I blacked out and didn’t see anything after that. The only thing I recall was someone shouting “Jesus!” just before the crash. I don’t remember who shouted.

I regained consciousness in the hospital. My left arm was bandaged, and I had stitches below my right jaw. I couldn’t speak clearly. My husband’s parents were called in when I woke up. His mother didn’t look well—her eyes were swollen, as if she had cried a river.

I asked where my husband and son were. My husband’s father told me they were in good shape and in another ward. Something felt off. A lot of things, actually.

As soon as I asked about my husband and son, my husband’s mother started crying. Her husband tried to calm her, but she couldn’t help it.

The truth was that my husband and son didn’t make it.

Everything became blurry. In that moment, I wished I had been the one to die so that John and James could have survived. I asked God, “But you said if we believe, we’ll live even if we die. So why are they gone when they believed in you with all their hearts?”

No answer came. Obviously.

Soon, a year passed. Another year went by, and I still carried the pain with me. Time heals, but it doesn’t erase the scars, I guess.

At 31, I married again—this time to Martin. Martin was kind to me from the start. He was sympathetic to my story and even offered to take me to the graveside of my husband and son.

Seven months after marriage, I was pregnant. The joy was boundless—even greater than what I felt when I conceived James.

I was eight or nine months pregnant when Martin had to travel to Prestea for his usual contract work. He told me, “It’s nothing major. We’ll be done in two or three days.”

I responded, “I hope you don’t have to travel again when you return. From the look of things, if we’re not careful, you’ll be away when I deliver.”

He smiled and said, “By all means, I’ll be home when it happens. You don’t have to worry.”

When he arrived in Prestea, he called me. We talked all night until there was nothing left to say.

He said, “Say hi to the baby for me.” I ran my hand over my belly and replied, “Dad says hi.” We said goodnight and hung up.

The next morning, I saw his missed call. I tried calling back, but he didn’t pick up. A few hours later, I called again, but he still didn’t answer. “That’s so unlike him,” I thought.

By noon, he still hadn’t called back. I figured his schedule might have been tight, so I called again. Still no answer.

Around 4 p.m., my phone rang. It was Martin. I picked up and immediately started ranting, “I’ve been calling you all day! Has work been so busy that you couldn’t even pick up to say hi? Anyway, I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

“I’m sorry, this isn’t Martin. I presume you’re his wife?” the voice on the other end said.

I was embarrassed. I laughed and said, “Oh, sorry about that. I thought it was Martin. Yes, this is his wife. Has he misplaced his phone?”

There was silence. “Hello, are you there?” I asked. Still, no response. “Hello, talk to me. I’m his wife. Why are you calling from Martin’s phone?”

After a few seconds, the voice sighed heavily and said, “I’m sorry to be the one to break this news to you. Martin died. He was electrocuted by overhead lines. We tried but he didn’t survive.”

“Hello? What? What did you say? Martin did what?” I was losing my breath. I wasn’t sure if I had heard correctly. I kept asking, “Hello? Could you repeat that? I didn’t get it the first time. What happened to Martin?”

Calmly, the voice repeated, “I understand your shock. We’re all devastated and don’t know how to move forward. He’s gone. He died from the electrocution.”

I dropped the phone, sat on the floor, and rested my head on the bed next to me. I was in denial. “No, no, not again. Martin didn’t die. No… someone needs to call me and tell me something different. They need to tell me this is a lie.”

I screamed at the top of my lungs, “Nooooooo!”

Neighbors rushed in, asking what was wrong. All I could say was, “No, no, no, this can’t be happening. Martin didn’t die.”

They started screaming, and those who could cry began crying too.

I called Martin’s number again, but the line was dead. “Sorry, the number you’re trying to call…” They had turned off his phone.

My parents heard the news and came for me. Martin’s parents also heard and called to confirm. I told them I already knew.

Two men. Both buried. Two marriages that ended in heartbreak. What could I have done to save the lives of these two important men in my life?

John left with our one-year-old son. Martin left me with an unborn baby—a son I named Martin. In a way, he’s a piece of his father, so I gave him his father’s name.

I won’t talk about the cruel names people called me after these events. No, I won’t discuss the mistreatment I received from Martin’s family. To them, I was a witch who had killed their son.

To society and the small world around me, I am a witch who devours husbands. Men are afraid to get close to me, not that I care. I’m done with love and have no desire to marry again, but the stigma I endure sometimes gets to me.

I’m a strong-willed woman. I know this too shall pass, but for how long, I don’t know.

I’ve loved two men to death, but all I get in return is abuse and stigma from the very people who should offer me love. But as it is written, “Those who believe in him shall live, even if they die.” Physically, I feel dead, but I’m alive through Christ, who strengthens me.

-Dede Acheampong, Dunkwa-Ghana.

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