I was a few months pregnant with our child when he got the opportunity to travel abroad. I was happy for him, but that single door opening released a flood of complications into our lives. It tested us in every facet—financially, emotionally, and spiritually. We agonized over the “hows.” How were we going to do this? What would happen to our child? We sat and talked, answering what we could and leaving the rest to faith. We concluded with the one thing we knew for sure: “God will take care of us. He always does.”

We scraped the bottom of the food chain, breaking into every account we owned, until he finally made the trip.

With him gone, life became an uphill climb for me and our daughter. When I reached out to him for support, he rebuked me. He asked if I had no sympathy for him, claiming that things were hard because he had just arrived. I understood that, and I told him so. My only request was for “seed money” to start a small business—something I could build and hand over to him when he returned after his two-year visa expired.

Two years later, he did return home. He returned wearing flashy clothes and heavy chains. He spent money on every woman he crossed paths with, but when it came to paying his daughter’s school fees or buying her clothes, anything concerning her turned to war. He accused me of trying to run him broke.

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Some days, I let him bask in his borga days. Some days, I didn’t. I wasn’t going to let him shirk his responsibilities, so I fought back. In response, he resorts to breaking my spirit. They say when the devil can’t get to you, he sends a distraction to destroy you from within. He began to attack my body.

“You don’t even look worthy of being a wife,” he would sneer. “Look at your stomach. Your fat arms. Your stretch marks.”

I looked at them, and in his eyes, he was right. But they were only there because I had given up my body to carry his child. If he couldn’t see the sacrifice in the scars, nothing could be done. When I called for a family intervention, he insulted them. That was the final straw. I picked up my daughter and walked away. As punishment for leaving him, he washed his hands of us entirely.

I accepted it. After all, I had already been doing it alone for years.

That was seven years ago. That day, I swore an oath of singleness. I told myself to run from men, to see one coming and walk the other way. I felt that being a mother was already a “red mark” in the dating world, so I closed that chapter of my life.

And then I met someone on social media. He was very much available. He listened to every word I said, and slowly, carefully, I began to believe that maybe God was giving me something to hold onto after taking so much away. I thought I had found someone who could replace what I had lost, or at least help me rebuild what had been broken. He became my boyfriend. All of it happened over screens and texts, but it felt real.

Despite my fear, I took a leap of faith and travelled to see him in person. I came back feeling like a different woman. A few days later, he called. He needed help with car maintenance. Could I send him a thousand cedis? He would refund it as soon as he got home.

I scrape together what I can, from here and there, and every coin has a name on it before it even lands in my hand. That thousand cedis already had somewhere to be. It was earmarked for a bill. But I gave it anyway, out of love, because that is what you do when you believe in someone.

Few days later, I started asking for the money back.

On day one, it was a Spider-Man story. The next day it was a cat-and-dog story.  By day 3, It didn’t take long to realize I had been scammed.

He saw a single mother who worked hard. He saw an independent woman and wanted to syphon away the little I had saved. It all makes sense now—the way he praised my resilience and mocked the man who was “fool enough” to leave a woman like me. He spoke of marriage because he knew it was the easiest bait to dangle.

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To leave one scene of betrayal only to return to this folly is something I am still processing. These days, I find myself standing in front of the mirror asking questions I never thought I’d ask. Is it because I’ve gained weight? Is a flat tummy the only requirement for beauty?

Deep down, I know the truth.

I am hardworking. I am beautiful, even without a flat tummy. I have a good heart, and the people who truly matter see it and appreciate it.

I still wonder why it feels so hard to find true love. It often feels like the good people suffer while the wrong ones live happily. But this is my story, and I am still learning how to write the next chapter.

—Gina

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