Five years ago, I got on a bus and sat down like gracefully like everyone else. There was this man a few seats ahead, just another passenger minding his business. Then the driver turned around and asked him to help collect fares. So he got up and started taking money from the passengers. He spoke Twi, and I couldn’t help but smile. It was clear he wasn’t fluent—his words sounded like a mix of chaos and celebration all at once.

When he got to me, I handed him my fare. Then I pulled out my sanitiser, poured some into my palm, and started rubbing my hands together. He watched me for a second and laughed.

“Ei, share it with some of us,” he said. “Or you’re the only one who didn’t want COVID-19?”

I chuckled behind my nose mask and handed him the bottle. He squeezed some into his hands, rubbed them together, and smiled at me.

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Then out of nowhere, he passed me his phone and his bags to hold while he finished collecting the money.

When he was done, he came back, took his things, and asked for my number. I gave it to him. We went our separate ways.

I didn’t think much of it after that.

Months later, I was at work, doing my usual thing, when someone walked into my office. The moment he stepped through the door, I felt it. This energy. This presence. You couldn’t miss him even if you tried. He was wearing this sharp outfit and carried himself like he owned the room.

It took me a second to realize it was him. The bus man.

And he was more handsome than I remembered. Way more.

We started talking. First as friends, catching up, laughing about how we met. Months passed and we became lovers. I called him Miguel sometimes, just between us. Well, because he said he was Brazilian..

The days that followed were bittersweet. We had our arguments like every couple. But here’s the thing about Kobby. We could fight about something in the morning, and by night we would talk it through. Really talk. No silent treatment. No walking away. He would listen. I would listen. We would find our way back to each other.

That was one of the many things that made me believe he was my soulmate. A man who stays and works it out with you.

From the very beginning, Kobby was clear about certain things. Money. Responsibilities. Gender equality. He had opinions and he shared them freely. But one topic he never stopped talking about was children.

“I don’t want to have kids,” he would say. “I have three kids with three different women and I don’t want more.”

It became his anthem. Every time the conversation came up, there it was. I have two children of my own, so at that time, bearing more children was the least of my worries. I wasn’t thinking about it. I wasn’t planning for it. So I bought what he was selling and held onto it. We agreed. We moved on.

Two years passed. Two years of building something real. Then his sister and mother returned to Ghana from Ivory Coast.

The marriage talks stopped first. We used to talk about it, dream about it, plan little details. Suddenly, nothing. Then he stopped spending time with me. Weekends that used to be ours became his alone and his family. When I asked what was going on, he said his family had a tradition of praying together into the new year. We were entering a new year around the time I asked.

It sounded sweet. It sounded convincing. So I let it go and took a trip with my friends instead on the 31st of December.

The first time they arrived, he picked me up and drove me to a guest house. Not his place. A guest house. He said it would be better if I stayed there for a while, rested, recharged my energy for when I finally met them.

I looked at him for a long time.

“Are you shy of me?” I asked. “Is that why you won’t introduce me to your family?”

He shook his head. He looked at me. “I can’t. For the life of me, I can’t. I just want you to rest.”

The next time they came, he tried the same thing. But I fought it like I was fighting the spirit of death itself. And I won.

That first meeting was something else. We sat in a room together, his mother, his sister, him, and me. They started speaking Ewe. Not a word of English. Not a single translation. Just back and forth, back and forth, laughing at things I couldn’t understand, making comments I couldn’t catch.

I sat there like an ornament. Smiling when they smiled. Looking down when they looked away. I felt like an outcast in my own relationship. I blamed Kobby. He knew I didn’t speak Ewe. He knew I was foreign to the language. But he didn’t help. Didn’t include me. Didn’t even try.

All I heard was sounds that might as well have been tongues. And I sat there, paranoid, wondering what they were saying about me.

After that, Kobby grew distant in ways I couldn’t ignore.

This was a man who couldn’t go a day without me. Calling me first thing in the morning. Texting throughout the day. Needing to know I was okay. Suddenly, he was very much alive without me. Going out. Living his life like I wasn’t part of it.

When we did talk, he was formal. Quiet. Cold.

“Please, get the cup of water.”

“Please, take it there.”

“Please, are you ready?”

I blinked hard when he added “miss” to my name. Miss. Like I was a stranger. Like we hadn’t spent two years together. When did this start? That was when I began to read the cues. That was when I started drawing lines.

One Sunday, I was still at his place. He was supposed to go out with his sister somewhere. They had planned it early, so I thought I could carpool with them. Share a ride. Spend time together. I wasn’t taking them off their route. And even if I was, I am his girlfriend.

The next morning, before I could say Jack Robinson, I heard the car start. I ran to the window and watched them drive out of the house. He didn’t wake me. Didn’t tell me. Didn’t even say goodbye. I stood there, looking through the glass, frozen. Like a third party. Like someone who had been caught doing something wrong.

And still, I hadn’t drawn my conclusion. Still, I wanted to believe.

I texted him later, trying to hide the crack in my voice. He responded with a question. Why was I angry? The car wasn’t his. I should be bothered about how he got the car, not about being left behind.

I stared at my phone for a long time.

I wanted us to work so badly. So badly.

I gave him grace I would never give anyone else on this earth. The grace lasted four whole years. He was ten years older than me. A grown man. Before his sister and mother came, he showed me so much mercy. So much peace. So much love. He held me when I cried. He stayed when I pushed. He made me believe that love could be gentle.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

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Maybe I should have let go in that third year, when it became clear he was ignoring me and there was nothing I could do about it. But I stayed. I kept showing up. I kept hoping.

We have had our wars before. We have fought and moved past it. But this one? This path we are walking now?

It is sending me off the edge.

I am still here. Still writing. Still trying to make sense of a love that once felt like home but now feels like a door closing slowly.

I wanted him more than anything, but it’s clear now that we don’t want the same things. And love alone is not enough when two people are walking in different directions.

Again, I wish him well. I release him with all my heart.

I miss him.

Till now, I still cannot tell if she is truly his sister.

The way they moved, the way they spoke in coded tones when I walked in, the way I was suddenly treated like an outsider in a place I once felt at home. It never sat right with me.

Maybe I am overthinking. Maybe I am not. But confusion like this does not grow in a healthy space.

—Gladys

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