My elder sister fell seriously sick, so I was called to help. She has a two-year-old son and a husband whose work often takes him out of the house, so when she asked me to come, I didn’t hesitate.

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I knew her husband when they were dating. My dad was very strict then, so whenever my sister wanted to go out, she would take me as a cover. When I was with her, my dad wouldn’t suspect she was going out with a man.

That was how I developed a rapport with Aboagye. We would go out, they would buy something for me, and I would sit far away and enjoy my meal while they enjoyed their date. When we got home, I would get out of the car first to give them a few minutes of privacy.

He called me “Small Wife” and was very kind to me. When they finally got married and shared their story, I got my share of the praise for being the one who kept them going when times were hard.

When they moved in together, I moved in with them to help them settle. I stayed for a year or so before I went to school. In school, Aboagye was there for me. He helped pay my fees and got me a hostel. Whenever I needed something and told my sister, she would say, “Speak to Aboagye, he’s your buddy-buddy.”

I wouldn’t speak to him, but days later he would call and say, “Your sister told me this and that. Why didn’t you tell me?” And then he would provide the assistance I needed. When I prayed, I asked God to bless him with more. When I hoped for a man, I hoped for a man like him: kind, sweet, and ever-present.

My sister was in the hospital for weeks. I took care of the house, their child, and Aboagye. In the evening, he would take us to visit my sister at the hospital, where we would stay for a while before coming back home. I was doing my best to keep the house in shape and the home running in my sister’s absence.

One evening after returning from the hospital, Aboagye came with a drink and a burger. He told me, “Put Joe to sleep before he comes to snatch everything away.” I did as he requested while he took his bath and got the food ready. When I came back, the drink had already been poured into a glass and the burger was set. I took a heavy sip and started eating my share.

A few minutes later, I felt drowsy and couldn’t control myself. I remember asking him if the drink was alcoholic. I have the image of him laughing and asking me if I was tipsy. I answered, “I don’t know how tipsy feels, but I don’t like how I’m feeling.” He asked if he should help me inside, and I said no.

I don’t remember what happened next. Maybe I slept or passed out. By the time I regained some sort of consciousness, I was in my bed and Aboagye was on top of me. I remember trying to shout but not having the strength. I was so weak I couldn’t raise my hands to push him off. He looked into my helpless eyes and whispered words I’ve forgotten. Maybe I passed out again because I don’t remember the rest until I woke up at dawn feeling used and sore.

I tried to recollect what happened, and the images started playing out. They were not clear, but I remembered seeing him on top of me, going up and down. That explained the soreness I felt, but I wasn’t sure. I kept replaying the memory and asking myself if what I saw was real. I cried. I was still weak, but I had to wake up and get the child ready for school.

When he woke up, he came to the kitchen, greeted me gleefully, and asked how my night was. He behaved as if nothing had happened and carried on as if life was normal. He made me ask myself if I was sane. “Did it happen? Was it a dream? Am I hallucinating?”

When we were together again that evening, I started asking questions about the drink and burger. “Was I able to finish my burger last night?” He laughed and asked, “Oh, you don’t remember? You ate everything and even took some of mine.” I asked, “And then what happened?” He answered, “Nothing. You felt sleepy and went inside to sleep.” I asked, “Was the drink alcoholic?”

He pointed at the fridge and said, “The rest is in the fridge. You can go and check the alcoholic percentage. It’s only fruit.”

I went quiet for a while. He asked why I was asking all those questions, and I told him I wasn’t feeling well after taking the drink. He apologized and called it an allergy. The gaslighting was so pure and seamless I thought I was going mad. Had it not been for the soreness I felt, I would have concluded it was just a dream.

I went to the clinic to see a gynecologist, but they asked me to book an appointment. I pressed, “Something happened to me last night, and I need confirmation.” The nurse looked at me sternly as if she understood. She said, “Let me call a friend at another facility for you. She’s always there.”

After she examined me, she asked, “Did you fight with him?” I burst into tears. She asked, “Have you already spoken to the police?” I continued crying. She was helpful. She calmed my raging heart and gave me her contact in case I needed her help.

I walked around with pain in my heart, knowing the weight of what happened. I needed to talk to someone, but who would believe me? I coiled into myself. I didn’t laugh or spend time with him again. I was avoiding him, and he must have noticed because he asked questions. I would look deep into his eyes and see the shadows of that night. A week later, my sister was brought back home.

I packed my things and told her I was leaving. She implored, “No, not so quickly. Wait until I’m fully back on my feet.” I grudgingly agreed, but you know what? Anytime I see Aboagye around my sister, acting like an angel who loves her purely, I get angry. The fact that he pretends nothing happened gets on my last nerve. Currently, I don’t talk to him. I just want my sister to get well so I can leave.

My only prayer is that she gets better as soon as possible because every minute I last in this house pushes me closer to murder. I have the name of the poison already, and I know where to get it. I have the money to buy it, and each passing day, anytime I’m in the market, the voice in my head tells me, “Buy it. You might need it tonight.”

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He loves putting things in people’s drinks, so I want to do the same to him and see how he would feel if he woke up dead one day. Even if I don’t get the courage to do it, I would get the courage to talk to someone—maybe my mom or my dad.

I don’t know how they’ll take it, but one thing I know for sure is that telling them will ease my wandering mind. Depending on how they handle it, the thought of murder in my head might fade. I only need to leave here as quickly as I can before the worst happens.

—Aboagyewaa

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