I don’t think this pregnancy is mine. From where I’m standing, she cooked the whole thing somewhere else and has now brought the finished product for me to warm. And because I didn’t know any better, I fell straight into her trap like a goat following plantain peels. Now she’s serving me a pregnancy I didn’t order, and I’m expected to smile and eat it.

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The day I started suspecting something was off was the day she told me she didn’t like condoms so I shouldn’t try to put it on. Not that she reacted to latex. She just didn’t like them. She said it casually, like someone rejecting onions in salad. That should have been my sign to abort mission immediately. If my senses were functioning, I would have stopped. My conscience even whispered, “What if she’s sick and wants to give it to you?” But at that point, I was already too far inside temptation to walk back with dignity.

And let me be honest, I didn’t even go fully in. I brushed at the tip like someone testing hot water with a finger. She was the one who tried to push it in deeper, and me too, like a fool, I allowed it. I came out to spill, thinking I had escaped clean. Today she says, “It’s still possible because you came out late.” Late from what? From brushing? From hovering? How?

I told her straight, “This thing is not mine. I won’t accept it.” She didn’t argue. She didn’t cry. She didn’t shout. She just said calmly, “That’s fine. After I give birth, you can come and do a DNA test.”

Me? A man who is struggling to feed himself? The same man whose salary finishes the moment it hits mobile money? A DNA test that costs proper money? But I also knew I couldn’t run away from my own mouth, so I started making calls. I begged friends for loans, explained myself like a politician before elections, and managed to put together GHC1,000. I tied the money with a rubber band and hid it under my pillow like treasure. I was ready. Fully armed to get rid of what she’s carrying

But suddenly, madam is unreachable.

My calls don’t go through. My messages hang like smoke with no fire. I have gone to her house twice, each time they say she has traveled.

Agyeiwaa, wherever you are, I’m begging you, come back. Don’t let this thing turn into a national disaster. I don’t have DNA money. I don’t have money for cerelac and I don’t even have money for pampers. If you look at me well, really look at me, you’ll know I’m not qualified to be anybody’s father right now. Even the condom I tried to use that day, I borrowed from a friend. Borrowed. Is that the man you want to point at when someone asks, “Who got you pregnant?”

Have you no sense of shame? Even me, I’m ashamed of myself. You want to bring a child into this world with a man who is ashamed of himself? A man who can’t keep data on his phone for more than three days? A man whose slippers cry on the ground as he walks? Agyeiwaa, you know me. I’m a hustler. Hustling is my full-time work, my part-time work, my evening work, and my weekend shift. Nothing about me screams “responsible father.” So why am I the one being cast for this role?

I’m not running. I’m not dodging. I’m not refusing responsibility if the truth proves I am the father, which I know I am not. All I’m asking is: come back so we can settle this. Before any of us ends up with a future we didn’t budget for. Before you bring a child into this world and point at me unfairly. Before people start calling me a deadbeat dad for a child that isn’t even mine.

I have the money under my pillow, my hard-earned GHC1,000 tied with a rubber band. Come let’s  flash it and end this chapter. Peacefully. Maturely. Quietly. I wasn’t trying to disgrace you when I said it wasn’t mine. I’m only trying to protect myself from a lifetime of responsibilities I didn’t sign up for.

Is There A Perfect One Out There For Everyone?

It’s not mine, I know it. But I’m still a peaceful man. And peaceful men try to resolve issues before they explode. So Agyeiwaa, wherever you have traveled to, return. Come home. Let’s finish what we started. Before this thing grows legs and runs ahead of us. Before destiny writes a story we cannot edit.

—Adam

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