A week before I left Ghana, I received a friend request on Facebook. I hardly ever get friend requests, especially from women. I took my time and went through her profile pictures. There weren’t many, just a few she had posted years ago.

She attended KNUST and worked at one of the popular clinics in Ghana. She was beautiful. I accepted her request, and a few minutes later, she sent me a wave. I waved back. Her next message introduced herself and mentioned where she worked. She asked about me, but I didn’t have much to say.

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The following day, she texted, “How’s life treating you today?”

I went through her profile again, this time trying hard to figure out if we’d met before. I replied, “I’m doing well, but I’m wondering, have we met before?”

She asked, “Do I look like someone you know?” When I answered no, she sent laughing emojis and said, “You look like my husband.”

It felt weird. I thought the account might not be real or that someone I knew was catfishing me. So, I stopped texting her. When she sent messages the next day, I didn’t respond. I was busy packing and talking to my agent all day.

The day before I left Ghana, she sent me another batch of messages. She asked, “Do you want to see some pictures?”

A few minutes after I replied, the pictures started coming. “This is my morning face when I don’t sleep well,” she captioned one photo. Later, she sent another saying, “After church face… did you go to church?”

She sent photo after photo without asking for any from me. I was still doubtful, questioning her true identity and intentions. So, I asked, “How about a video call?”

“Sure,” she responded.

A few minutes later, we were on a video call, talking like we’d known each other forever. She was chatty, had an answer for every question, and a question for every statement. One thing I noticed, aside from being feisty, she was intelligent and well-informed. I asked, “So why the friend request? Where did you find me?”

She explained that she’d seen me in the “People You May Know” section. I had been on her feed for so long that she decided to find out why. She was a firm believer that everything happens for a reason and that there are no coincidences.

The next day, as I was boarding the plane, I took a photo and sent it to her without any caption. When she came online, she sent a shocked emoji followed by, “Where are you going? Or is it your job to clean planes?”

I burst out laughing. “I’m leaving the country. Maybe I’ll make it on the other side of the world,” I replied.

“Wow,” she responded, and then she went silent.

When I arrived in Canada, I texted her. The vibe was low; she wasn’t her bubbly self anymore. It felt like she had been hit by a tornado and lost a piece of herself. I asked questions, but all she said was, “I’m fine.”

I gave her some space until one day she texted and said, “They always advise us to be daring and take up an adventure. Me coming to you and everything that happened was my adventure. I’d always lived life in a shell. I hadn’t been in a relationship for four years. I listened to motivational speakers and made a move, not knowing where it would lead. But here I am, with my luck.”

I realized she wanted a boyfriend and saw that in me. I was her project, her story to tell if it succeeded. I told her we could try something, but she declined. She admitted, “I’m not going to lie to you; I hate distance. It won’t work for me.” When I insisted, she said, “We could try, but I doubt it will work.”

She would stay up late in Ghana waiting to talk to me. She’d say, “Do you want to see some pictures?” or “I made a video for you while you were away.”

She sent photos of herself goofing around—lips pouted, one eye closed, peace sign, in a crop top, in a morning coat, under a sheet. I adored them. Even when I said nothing, she kept sending them: “Just so you know how my day went.”

But like she said, distance has a way of making the leaves dry up until they fall. Time didn’t work in our favour, especially for me. She texted, but I often didn’t have the energy to reply until much later. We fell apart slowly until we were no longer talking.

In February 2022, she texted, “I met a great guy. He looks like my husband.”

“You mean he looks like me?” I joked.

In mid-2023, she texted, “We got married,” followed by a photo of her hand in a dazzling wedding ring.

“Oh wow, this is beautiful. Congratulations, dear,” I replied. For some reason, I felt genuinely happy for her. I’d never been this happy for someone I’d never met in person.

She didn’t go looking for this one like she came looking for me. He found her while she was busy searching in empty places for love.

On August 11, 2024, she sent me a photo of herself in a hospital bed with a baby on her chest. She said, “Look what I just cooked. Fresh girl.”

She Left Me To Marry A Man Who Was Ready For Marriage

She looked tired and frail in the photo, but her smile lit up her face with contentment. She was happy, and so was I. The fact that she dared for love and love favoured her showed that there’s a place for everyone.

I haven’t heard from her in a while, but I know that the next time she texts, it’ll be happy news. She deserves it, and I wish her more happiness every day.

— Adolf

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