I lost three relationships to distance. The enemy, to me, wasn’t the men I dated but the distance. When we were together, these men were the best thing that happened to me. They called, they texted, they took me on dates, and they were very intentional. But once they traveled, after promises of keeping the love intact, everything slowly ground to a halt.

FOLLOW US ON WHATSAPP CHANNEL TO RECEIVE ALL STORIES IN YOUR INBOX

At the dying embers of my last relationship, I remember staying on the phone for several minutes with Alex. I asked, “What happened to us, Alex? We were fine, we were sweet. Did you drink the proverbial water of forgetfulness?” He couldn’t answer immediately. He had to think of what to say so he wouldn’t hurt my already fragile feelings. Finally, he told me, “It’s the distance and the pace of life here. We are always running. Forgive me, but I’ll try.”

He tried, but it felt forced. We both gave up at some point. We didn’t even have closure. I swore it was the last time I would date any man long-distance.

Then, Andrew came along. He lived in the USA. I laughed at his proposal. Maybe when I told him the USA had swallowed something I loved, he didn’t understand me. I was talking about the love I lost when he traveled to the USA. Andrew said he would be different. He put marriage on the table. “A year is too far. We’ll marry very soon so you can come with me. We’ll live together, and the distance won’t matter.”

He had good intentions—I could sense it—but life happens to all of us the same way, good intentions or not. I told him, “You’re everything I need in a man. You look and sound right, but forgive me, the distance won’t work for me.” He still wanted to try, so we became friends. We talked every day at first, until slowly we went three days without talking. When I called, and he picked up, we both burst out laughing. He said, “Life. It’s really funny.”

After Andrew came Tony. Tony seemed deeply rooted where he was planted. He lived in Tema, not too far from Spintex, where I lived. He worked at a bank and told me he had been there for seven years. He was in school and had a dream of establishing his own business someday. It wasn’t hard loving him because he had it all.

After a year of dating, he texted me, “Babe, bad news.”

I met him right after work. I couldn’t wait to hear what the bad news was. “I’ve been transferred,” he told me. I waited for him to say where, but he was also waiting for my reaction. For several seconds, we were both silent. “Ah,” I said. “Yeah,” he responded.

“To where?”
“Tamale. It comes with a huge promotion.”
“So you’re happy, right?”
“I don’t know, but are you okay?”

Three months later, he packed up and left town. He said he would visit twice a month. I nodded. He said nothing could separate us. I nodded. Then he asked me to smile. I gave him a fake grin.

Six months later, we were unrecognizable. He had issues with his apartment, so he kept postponing my visit. He was supposed to visit twice a month, but he only did that once and started telling me it was too far and expensive. We fought every day until I told him, “I knew this would happen. It has déjà vu written all over it.” He answered, “You’re thinking too much.”

We went two days without talking. Then four days. Then six. Soon, a week passed. I texted him, “This is the end, right?” He answered, “What were you doing when you weren’t hearing from me?”

That made me so angry that I wished him well in his next relationship and hung up when he tried to call. I think I blocked him at some point. When he called from another number, I told him he had left me but was finding it difficult to say it. “Don’t waste my time!” I screamed and hung up.

To me, it was over. The distance had won again, just like it always did. I cried a little. I allowed my heart to crack but not break. I sank into grief—grieving all the men I’d buried in the distance.

One morning, I woke up, bought a ticket to Tamale, and decided to go. I hadn’t spoken to him in weeks. I didn’t even know where he lived, but I told myself, “I will find him. We will either rekindle the dim light of our love, or I will at least get closure.”

Early Monday morning, I was in Tamale. After talking to many strangers and asking for directions to his bank branch—only to be led to many wrong places—I got tired and called him. “Where are you?” I asked. He responded, “I’m home. I’m a little sick, so I didn’t go to work.”

“I’m here. We need to talk.”
“Seriously? Here doing what?”
“I came so we could talk.”

Eight years after marriage, I tell myself that distance is always there to test our faith in love. It has never been a problem. The problem has been our will and desire to bend the distance to our way.

He said he had malaria that wasn’t going away after several treatments, but this man saw me, and he was no longer sick. I told him I was there to talk, but guess what we talked about? “So you still love me, and you’re here flexing on me?” I said. He responded, “You’re the one flexing. Why did you come if you’re not the one in love?”

I looked at the state of his apartment and told him, “Let’s fix this. Where do you buy things around here?”

I spent a week there with him. He was living in a house, but I left him a home a week later. Twice a month, I traveled up north. Sometimes three times a month, or even four. I traveled by air when necessary. When we talked about marriage, he said, “I’ll negotiate my way back to Accra even before marriage.”

I Left Him Because He Didn’t Help In The Kitchen

It didn’t work before marriage, but after marriage, he was transferred back to Accra because this time, he had a family to be with, and HR bought into that. We’ve been happy with the kind of family we’ve built. I looked back and asked myself, “What if I hadn’t traveled that day?”

Thank God I did because this is what I’ve always prayed for.

—Mimi

This story you just read was sent to us by someone just like you. We know you have a story too. Email it to us at submissions@silentbeads.com. You can also drop your number and we will call you so you tell us your story.

*****