Because of what I’ve been through at the hands of people who claimed they loved me, I now view love with suspicion. When you tell me you love me, I ask myself, “For how long before you begin to break me into pieces?” I once looked at love with wide-eyed wonder, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped falling in love. I simply choose more carefully now. I look out for everything—everything that crawls, hums, or shouts like cheating.

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When Nana Kwame came along, I put him through hell before saying yes to him. I asked all the questions. I spoke to his friends. I met two of his siblings. I even checked his phone and looked behind his earlobe to see if he was hiding a girl there, the way some women hide their chewing gum. When I didn’t find anything suspicious, I accepted his proposal. We kissed the day I said yes. He wanted to go all the way, but I pulled away. He said he loved me so much he couldn’t control himself. I told him true love waits. It waits for the appointed time and is patient.

Because of his eagerness, I didn’t visit him. Instead, he came around often. We sat outside. I live with my younger sister, so on the occasions he was inside with me, my sister was also there. Nana is romantic. He sweeps you off your feet with words, takes you on strolls, and looks into your eyes while saying sweet things. He’s done all that. I fell deeply, but my hazard lights were still on.

A couple of months later, I agreed to spend a Saturday with him at his place. I was going to be with him all day and return home in the evening. While there, he did all the right things—he cooked, served me, poured me a drink, and even brought the glass to my lips, saying, “Take a sip. Do you like it?”

When he stepped into the shower, I started looking around his room. I opened his drawers and found female watches—two of them. I checked bags and went through dresses. I looked under his bed and saw a small black polythene bag. I reached for it and opened it. Inside were panties of many colours and sizes. I didn’t count them, but there could have been more than a dozen. They didn’t look washed. Some had feminine stains.

I quickly tied the bag and placed it back, but I took a photo. When he came out, he was all over me, showering me with affection to melt the butter in me. I pushed him away, blocked his touches, and told him I was on my period.

When I got home and was about to sleep, he texted me about how disappointed he was and all that. I started with the watches. He brushed it off, saying they belonged to his sisters. Then I sent him the photo of the panties. He asked, “How did you see that?” He started calling, but I preferred to text. He sent long voice notes, claiming he didn’t know the panties were there until recently when his sister called to tell him she’d left them behind. He said he didn’t want to keep them around for anyone to see, so he put them under the bed.

I told him, “You’re not being truthful, but that’s alright. I’m not fighting you, and I’m not angry. I only want the truth. Whenever you’re ready to tell the truth, I’ll be here.”

Days later, his sister called. She laughed and downplayed the issue. “They’re mine,” she said. “Please don’t let this cause problems. I’d feel very bad if this ended your relationship. Nana loves you. I don’t want to be the reason for a breakup.”

I listened to her as if I were listening to the radio. She was trying hard to convince me, but the panties I saw were not all the same size. I’m a woman. I know women’s things. When Nana came back, I told him about the different sizes and the fact that some had stains. “Be honest. They’re not your sister’s.”

He swore on heaven and earth that he was telling the truth. I saw a man fighting to convince me. His effort was admirable. Men usually do this when they have something to lose, but I wasn’t sure what he had to lose. I spoke calmly. Even when he switched to fighting mode, I remained calm. It took over a week, but he finally admitted the truth: “They belong to my exes. I collected them.”

I responded, “For what? To sew a Ghana flag?”
“Don’t do this,” he said.

That Is The Craziest Thing I’ve Ever Done In The Name Of Love

I thanked him for telling me the truth, but I wasn’t going to be one of the girls who left their belongings behind. I thanked him and told him I couldn’t continue. “I’m a very insecure person. Knowing what I know, I can’t keep up. I’m sorry.”

He says I’m the only one he truly loves. He keeps calling and coming around. I talk to him as a friend. He’s not a bad person, from what I know, but a man who keeps over a dozen unwashed panties from his exes as relics of his past affairs? No. They are too many and too scary. It’s over.

—Philo

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