Bright didn’t strike me as extraordinary when we first met. He was just a regular guy with a friendly smile and a confident tone. We exchanged numbers casually—no sparks, no butterflies, nothing dramatic. He called later, and we sometimes talked through chat. Our conversations were inconsistent, shallow, and sometimes dry enough to make me wonder why I’d even saved his number. But he watched my WhatsApp status every single day. He’d send small comments like, “Nice hair,” “This food dier,” or “You’re glowing,” and I’d just laugh and say thank you.

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Nothing serious. Nothing suggestive. Just vibes.

Then, one day, I traveled to Kumasi and posted a photo on my WhatsApp status with the caption: “Kumasi for the weekend.” Two minutes later, Bright replied: “Which side of Kumasi?” Before I could even type an answer, he said: “I dey Kumasi oo.” That was the beginning of the whirlwind.

We met at a restaurant at Ahodwo, and honestly, that day felt like a movie scene written for soft-life girls. The chemistry wasn’t forced. We talked, laughed, teased each other, and shared stories. I remember thinking, ah, so you’re actually interesting in person? He was in town for a wedding; I was there for a one-week program. But somehow, we met twice before he left, and those two meetings lit something we didn’t even know was there.

When we both returned home, everything intensified. Calls increased. Chats became deeper. Vibes were vibing. Then one evening, he proposed. I wasn’t shocked. I felt it coming but I asked him for a few days to think it through. Love isn’t something I rush into. I wanted to be sure.

When we met the next week, he insisted on knowing my answer, and I said yes.

He gave me a warm look and said thank you in a way that felt hopeful. I was happy that he was happy. It felt like I was entering a new phase of my life.

A week later, he invited me to his place. I hesitated, just a little, but eventually agreed. I used a Yango to get there. When we arrived, I handed the driver a GH₵200 note.

“No change,” he said. I sighed and called Bright. “Please come out. The driver doesn’t have change. Can you come and settle him for me?” He came out, smiled at me, paid the driver, and everything seemed normal.

We spent the day together; cooked, watched movies, talked. One thing led to another. It wasn’t planned, but it wasn’t confusing either. It felt right in the moment. I had already said yes to his proposal because I trusted him and genuinely believed something strong was growing between us.

Afterward, I cleaned up with a roll of tissue I had in my bag, something I always carried. Just a normal habit. Nothing dramatic.

The next morning, I woke up smiling, expecting a sweet text. Instead, I got this from Bright: “Are you a hookup girl?”

My heart dropped. At first, I thought he was joking. But something about the tone, the audacity and disrespect confused me. I called him. “What kind of question is that?” I asked. “Are you trying to insult me?”

Bright replied, “Look at the size of the tissue you brought. And you got here and asked me to pay for your ride. Everything was giving hookup vibes.”

I was so angry, all I felt was cutting the call. But before I did, I told him, “It’s not your fault. It’s my fault for letting you get the wrong impression of me.” I ended the call. My hands were shaking. My eyes were stinging. It felt like I gave a gift to someone who used it to slap me.

Later, he called back saying he was “just joking.”

A joke? Since when did accusing someone of prostitution become humor? Then I asked him the question that hit him hard: “When was the last time you engaged a hookup girl? Because the way you’re profiling me, you seem to know them very well.”

Immediately, his tone changed. He got angry and was very defensively loud. “How can a hookup accuse me of using hookup? Don’t call my line again.”

That was the moment I realized I had slept with a stranger not the man who had been texting me, calling me, laughing with me, promising me a future.

When the call ended, I sat on my bed staring at my phone as if it owed me an apology. I felt foolish. Used, actually. Not because of the intimacy itself, but because of the judgment that followed.

One moment, I was someone’s girlfriend. The next, I was being called a hookup girl because I carried tissue and didn’t have change for a driver.

That was when it hit me: some men don’t deserve even the chance to hold your hand, let alone your body. Bright taught me that.

The calls stopped. The chats ended. The “good morning, my beautiful friend” vanished like it never existed. Everything died just like that.

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I cried. I won’t pretend. Not because I loved him. I didn’t know him long enough but because of the disappointment. Because of the humiliation. Because of the regret. I kept thinking, Why didn’t I wait? Why did I trust so quickly? Why did I let myself be vulnerable with someone who saw me as a hookup girl?

It still hurts sometimes—not deeply, but like a small bruise I press occasionally to remind myself that bodies are precious, and not everyone deserves access to yours.

—Beatrice

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