My Love Story: The Queens Who Fixed My Crown

The remaining days of the conference, we spent all the time we could together, we talked for days, about everything and about nothing. His name was Gatimu, meaning a spear. That should have alerted me to impending pain I was about to experience. But I was on cloud nine, so in love and willing to close my eyes to reality. He was East African, an experienced data scientist who traveled the world and analyzed big data for big organizations. I was a data analyst for a bank in Ghana, I could hold my own. And I should have held my own but I decided to give it all away.

Gatimu lived up to the hype. He took red eyes to visit me quite frequently. We took trips around the world which he sponsored. I was treated like a queen, and he my king. I said yes before he could finish asking me to be his wife. He proposed in the presence of my two best friends; Lily and Andrea. It was like a dream, the diamond ring blinked in agreement. He was my dream, my Gatimu, the man who for some reason finally saw me, and loved me, enough to want to marry me. He. Wanted.To. Marry. Me!

“The engagement day would be an important chapter when we write our love story,” I thought.

I immediately began wedding preparations. Beach Wedding, check. Honeymoon in Maldives, check. Compact guest list, check. Ask family to stop asking questions, check, check, check! I saw some of the red flags, the excuses he made, the elaborate stories about contracts he had under his belt, the finances that didn’t add up, when he couldn’t pick some phone calls in my presence…

Lily and Andrea tried to caution me, I didn’t listen. They didn’t understand. This was my love story, my turn to finally be happy and have a family of my own. They each were married to wonderful men, and had children. At thirty-eight years old, I was single and childless. Isn’t there a counsellor on our airwaves in Accra telling unmarried women thirty years and above that they’re expired goods? I think his exact phrase is, “you’re descending a hill now, with full speed and very little hope for any man to break your speed.”

And then there was my father and his wife, my stepmother. The insinuations and outright insults every time I attended a wedding or naming ceremony for one of my half-sibling. I was poised to show them that I was lovable, after all the abuse they had subjected me to throughout my life, I was capable of finding a good man like my Gatimu.

So yeah, I didn’t listen to my best friends when they pointed out obvious problematic behaviors. I had a fight with them, and told them to support me or go home. I pretended I didn’t notice when he took my diamond ring for resizing and came back with a ring much lighter in weight. I ignored it when he practically persuaded me to fund the wedding. To me it was all worth it, I was writing my love story, marrying my dream. I was so desperate, I set no boundaries, I allowed any and everything to happen.

Except the dream turned out to be a nightmare. Gatimu was my nightmare dressed like a daydream. He was a con artist, an emotional fraudster. By the time he left me, I was bankrupt. And then the bank I worked at was taken over, and upper management was sent home. I was bankrupt and jobless.

My love story turned into a sorrowful dirge.

It was the lowest of my lows. I had rented out the home I built, and taken a two year advance payment. Guess whose brilliant idea that was? You guessed right, the Great Spear that pierced my heart, Gatimu. And we had rented a plush apartment in the heart of Accra. And so there I sat, in a plush rented apartment, broken, jobless, swindled, ashamed and pregnant. I hid in that apartment for weeks, not bathing, not letting in sunlight, I ate and ate and then slept and slept some more. I had always thought myself pride’s gatekeeper, and yet there I was, pride’s prisoner, too ashamed to reach out and ask for help.

I still to this day don’t know who told them, but Lily and Andrea showed up and broke down my door. They didn’t pry, no pointed questions were asked, no judgements were made. They just brought booze and asked one question, “tell us the undercover thunder was good and well worth it.”

“The undercover thunder always, always, brought electrifying lightening,” I joked along.

They clicked glasses and and toasted to thunder and lightening. I couldn’t drink with them, but I jested just as much as they did. The drunker they got, the lewder the jokes and the harder we laughed. Finally I was laughing. Laughing with my clipped wings and egg on my face. Me. Laughing.

They did not judge me. They helped me. Andrea lent me her car. Lily used her legal grammar to wrangle me out of my contract with the costly apartment. They helped me find an affordable place to live, until I could get my house back. And then they drove their husbands nuts until the poor men found my pregnant self a job.

In my labor room they were there. When I didn’t know what to do with the little human I had on my hands, they were there. Through tears and frustrations, these two women, soldiered alongside me. Strangers who become friends, who become family. My two sisters, Lily and Andrea.

So there, Misskorang, if you ask me to tell you my love story, it is the story of two queens who fixed my crown and kept quiet about it. Warriors who pulled me out the sinking sand, dusted me off, handed me my weapon and sent me on my merry way.

Here’s to love that is patient and kind. To women who uplift and heal. To angels who fix clipped wings and teach how to fly again. To the characters who allowed themselves to be used to write a love story. To my sisterhood!

Editor’s Note: Everybody needs somebody sometime. And we all fall down, it is the getting back up that really counts.Your sisters know this concept and have used it well. It is refreshing to know you are able to rewrite your love story and include characters who actually love you. Wishing you and the sisterhood the very best. May you continue to uphold each other.