He came to my inbox that day and said, “Please, can we be friends?” I rolled my eyes as I typed, yes sure. It was one of those replies you give just so someone will get off your back. Then I went to check his profile. It didn’t say much about him, so I left it there.

Another day he sent a message again, just checking up on me. I scrolled up through our thread and one thing was noticeable. He didn’t use shorthand. The sentences he constructed were proper and thoughtful. For some reason that caught my attention, so I changed my mind and gave him a little more of it.

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That was how one small “how are you doing” conversation turned into a truth or dare game and then somehow moved to “let’s do a FaceTime call.” The feeling I got when he said that was out of this world. It felt like I was a teenager again whose boyfriend had scored a goal and dedicated it to her.

After that conversation I learned his name, his age, where he was, and what he did for a living. His name is Leslie. He lived abroad and said he was surviving on God’s grace.

Two weeks later I was saying yes to becoming his girlfriend. He was funny and had a huge sense of humour that I admired.

Our days together were wonderful for a while. A while after that, three months later he changed colours. He started giving me attitude. He would ghost me and come back with some mundane apology, and I took it with open arms. Sometimes I even begged him to talk to me. I was addicted to him the way some people are addicted to hard drugs. I needed him to survive and when he disappeared, I lost my sanity a little. Some days he was a boyfriend. Other days he was just an stranger to me.

He later came up with a plan for us to meet in Ghana since both of us were outside the country. “Ghana is the best place to enjoy as lovers and celebrate the birth of Christ,” he said. I couldn’t agree more.

But he arrived later than expected. He said he needed to be in Europe for some business. I urged him to go. Whatever happened, he was still scheduled to come to Ghana, so I said okay.

Around that same time, I met Jay.

The first time I spoke to him he sounded like a genuinely nice man. Our conversations flowed effortlessly. We spoke about the traffic, the endless events in Accra, life abroad, and at some point we started talking about feelings. During that period, Leslie had quietly taken the backseat in my mind. My heart didn’t dance to the sound of his name anymore.

Leslie acted like I had lost my magic on him. He didn’t say much about it, but I could feel it. I talked a lot at first, trying to revive what we had, but when it yielded no fruit I decided to focus on having my own fun.

I only had seven days to share with Jay, and he was willing to have fun with me. We visited restaurants and malls, went on road trips, and visited friends and family. In one week we did more than I ever thought we could.

Separating from him at the end of that week was harder than the withdrawal I had once felt from Leslie. It hurt, but it was totally worth it.

Now to the problem of the day.

I am in big trouble, and sometimes I fear that if I go through with this I may become a murderer. No, I’m not trying to kill Leslie. I’m about to kill his baby. Or his foetus. Or maybe not. That is the dilemma.

I found out I was three weeks pregnant after I returned to my base. The first seconds I jumped for joy. I was going to be a mother. I was going to nurture life.

Then the second thought came.

I was about to do exactly what I swore I would never do. Pass on generational trauma.

I grew up without a father and it damaged me in ways I still carry. I looked for his love in the men I dated. I grew up with attachment issues that came from the absence of a father. I was teased for not having one. I even hated my mother for a long time for having anything to do with an irresponsible man.

Leslie doesn’t want anything to do with the baby.

He said it casually, like it didn’t matter. “You’re old enough to decide what you want. Choose it and make the decision. I really don’t care like that.”

That moment took me years back to the day I told myself I would never repeat my mother’s mistake. Now here I am doing exactly that.

I’m 35 years old. I have what it takes to take care of a child. Oh, what if it’s a girl? I think about that sometimes. Maybe I can do it. After all my mother did it.

But I keep wondering if it is worth it. Will I regret having a child for a man who no longer loves me? And when men stop loving you, they can become terrible people to you. That is Leslie now.

I’m afraid. Afraid of a lot of things.

Afraid of how I got pregnant so carelessly.

Afraid of how I will manage motherhood if I decide to keep it.

Afraid of how I will live with myself if I go about my day knowing I ended a life.

And then there is Jay.

He is still in my life, adding light and warmth to my days, sunny or rainy. I once said the same thing about Leslie. But Jay looks like he could actually be the one.

Can he deal with being a stepfather? Or will he shun me when he finds out?

These are the two battles I’m fighting.

It’s Not God’s Law For A Man To Apologize To A Woman

If I terminate this pregnancy, am I wrong? Is it selfish? Or is the selfish choice sometimes the honest one?

And if I terminate it, will I ever have another chance to have a child? Or is this the last one my body will ever give me?

I am scheduled for a D&C procedure this month. I haven’t been sleeping. I am desperate for clarity.

So tell me honestly.

What would you do if you were me?

 

—Diva

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