I’m 41 years old, and for some reason, life thinks it’s funny to turn my love life into a practical joke. People say at my age I should be thinking about marriage, kids, cars, and all those “grown man” responsibilities. But me, I just want someone to love who will love me back with the same intensity. But somehow, every young woman I meet treats my heart like it doesn’t matter.

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I like younger women—women in their twenties. Not because I want to control anybody or because I’m afraid of mature women. No. I just feel young at heart. I like energy, adventure, the way they see life with spark and possibilities. A woman in her twenties laughs freely, loves boldly, and dreams loudly. It draws me in. Maybe it’s my weakness, but it’s mine.

The problem isn’t the age. The problem is… the girls who choose me aren’t choosing me because of me, but because of what they can get from me. They’re choosing my wallet.

I’ve always been the type who gives. I was raised to be responsible, to provide, to protect. So when I’m dating a woman, I’m naturally generous. If she needs airtime, I send it. If she’s stuck somewhere, I sort it out. If she’s hungry, I send food. It feels good to care for someone.

But the first time I dated a 22-year-old lady, she showed me pepper.

Her name was Serwaa. She had that kind of smile that made you forget your name. In the beginning, she acted like she adored me. Talking to me every morning, texting me at night, asking how my day went. I thought I’d finally found a good one.

But two months in, she started dropping “needs.”

“Oh babe, I want to take a short course.”
“Baby, my rent is due.”
“Sweetheart, my mother is sick.”

All of them genuine-sounding. All of them urgent-sounding.

And because I cared for her, I helped in the best way I could. And do you know what happened next? The very week her rent got sorted, she told me, “You’re a good man, but the age gap isn’t working for me.”

It came out of nowhere. No remorse. No hesitation. Like she was reading a script. By the time I blinked, she was gone.

The next one, Adwoa, disappeared immediately after I bought her a new phone.

Another one, a final-year student at Legon. She used to cry about how she didn’t have enough money to buy handouts and how her roommates looked down on her because she didn’t belong. I gave her money. I gave her nice things. I tried my best to raise her standard. I even became friends with her roommate so she would know she had somebody behind her. The day she got what she wanted, she told her roommate, the same person she said was looking down on her, “He’s sweet oo, but I can’t be with him long term. His age.” Her roommate snitched.

Ei, life.

After these experiences, I decided to take a break and take a critical look at my life and assess my options very well. Just when all was set and I was enjoying my break, Mabel came along. She’s 25. Everything feels different with her. She’s mature. She listens. She talks to me like she genuinely values my existence. She doesn’t randomly disappear; she doesn’t ask for money every minute; she doesn’t act like my pocket is her destiny helper.

We laugh a lot. She’s met my mother, and she even checks up on her from time to time. When I’m stressed, she notices. When I’m quiet, she asks why. She is just refreshing.

For the first time in a long time, I feel seen. But now there’s something hanging over my head. Two weeks ago, she told me she wants to go back to school to finish her degree. But the way life has beaten her up a little, she can’t pay the fees herself. She asked, gently, respectfully, whether I could help her.

Suddenly my brain was flashing memories like a slideshow of trauma; Serwaa, Adwoa, Legon girl. Women coming, taking, disappearing. I’m scared. I don’t want to lose her. I don’t want to misjudge her. But I also don’t want to fund someone’s life only for them to leave me the minute they stand on their feet. I’ve been there too many times; I’ve learned my lessons. So I told her, “Let me think about it.”

And now I’m here, thinking. Part of me believes she’s real. There’s a softness in her spirit that the others didn’t have. She doesn’t rush me. She doesn’t pressure me. She just asked and said I should only help if I truly want to. But another part of me is screaming, “Kwaku, don’t be a fool again!” Now here’s where things get funny. I spoke to a friend to ask for his opinion and he said, “Bro, if she wants you to sponsor her education, sign a contract with her. Make it legal. If she leaves you, she pays back the money.”

A contract? For love?

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At first I laughed. Then I paused. Then I asked myself, “If I write a contract with someone I’m dating, will it even hold in court?” Love isn’t business. But in this country, if you’re not careful, love turns into investment without returns. So here I am, confused, scared, and tired. Tired of repeating the same cycle. Tired of giving my best and getting heartbreak in return. I want to help her. But I want to protect myself too. So I’m asking you, should I help her? Should I sign some form of contract with her and ensure I’m not taken for granted again? Or should I simply walk away and keep my wallet and heart safe? Because honestly, at 41, I don’t think my heart can take another break.

—K.B.N

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