Eleven Years Later I Still Feel Responsible For Her Death

I met a girl while working at a private security company, right before I started college. She was a new recruit, posted to my station, and she was the first person from the north I had ever spoken to at length. Despite being strangers, we clicked instantly.

During slow shifts, most of our conversations revolved around her hometown. She spoke of the festivals, the customs, and the people with such warmth that I found myself imagining the scenes she described, even though I had never been there.

The way she talked about her home made me promise her that one day, I would visit.

A year after I left the job for college, she called me. She was going home for a festival and asked if I wanted to join her. As luck would have it, I was on vacation, so I said yes.

When we arrived, her family and the entire community welcomed me like I was one of their own, from the children to the elders. The language barrier didn’t matter at all; the reception I received made me feel at home instantly. She introduced me to her brothers and relatives, and we bonded right away.

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It was on that trip that I discovered what I now believe to be true: people from the north are some of the most loving people I have ever met. They open their hearts to strangers with such ease.

The very next day was market day, and the place was even more special than she had described. It was a display of colours with noise and energy. While she and her brothers were busy bargaining, I stood apart from them, simply taking everything in and watching how life looked in the North.

Then I saw her. From a distance, walking toward me, was the most beautiful girl I have ever laid eyes on. Her brown skin, slender frame, and delicate features seemed almost unreal.

In that moment, it felt like we had stepped into a Bollywood scene. The noise of the market slowly faded, and the world seemed to pause just for her. Goosebumps prickled my skin, butterflies jumped in my stomach, and I swear I saw stars dancing around my head like in a cartoon.

She moved in slow motion, and I just stood there, smiling to myself, my heart felt an overwhelming sense of contentment.

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I finally gathered my courage and walked over to her, but she didn’t even glance my way, she just completely ignored me.

Still, I was determined. You know how it is; I was so focused on getting her to say something, anything. When she finished her shopping, I followed her, trying to start a conversation, but she walked in complete silence. I tried all the little tricks, threw in casual comments, even joked a bit, but nothing worked.

Just as we were nearing the edge of town, she finally spoke. She asked me what I wanted, and her voice caught me completely off guard. Not just because she finally spoke, but because she spoke Twi, my native language. I was stunned. Hardly anyone in that town spoke Twi, and she had no way of knowing where I was from

I asked her how she knew, and she told me that was exactly the reason I should stay away from her.

Imagine that meeting someone for the first time, and they already know a piece of you that no one else around them should.

I brushed it off, at that moment, I thought she was just being dramatic, you know, playing one of those hard-to-get games girls sometimes play.

I kept pressing, kept trying and when she realized I wasn’t going to back down anytime soon, she gave in. I told her I only wanted to be her friend, nothing more. She looked at me, nodded slightly, and agreed to be my friend

I asked for her number, but she said she didn’t have one. At first, I thought she was lying, but looking at her closely the way she dressed, the way she carried herself it was possible she really didn’t.

I asked how I could see her again, and she told me she only came to the market on market days.

The problem was, the next market day was a week away, and I was scheduled to leave in just two days. When I got back to the guys and told them what had happened, they cheered for me like I’d just won an award.

They said she never spoke to anyone, especially not to boys, so to them, it was a huge deal. I stayed longer in town just so I could see her again on the next market day. I felt like a teen boy with his first crush, restless and excited at the same time.

I went to the market too early, waiting, watching every face that passed, worried I might somehow miss her. When she finally came, right on time, I couldn’t stop myself.

I reached for her hand, and instead of shaking it, I kissed it. The way she looked at me told me no one had ever done that to her before. People around us stared. She looked shy and a little embarrassed, but she didn’t pull away.

We walked through the stalls together, talking and laughing while she bought her vegetables.

When she was done, we sat under a tree. I wanted to know everything about her where she lived, her family, her story.

But she stopped me said if we were to stay friends, I shouldn’t ask her anything about herself or her family. Then she added that I was the first person she had ever really spoken to apart from the sellers she bought things from.

Later, I offered to walk her part of the way home. When we reached the edge of the village, one of the boys with me whispered that we should follow her, saying maybe her family would like me.

Another boy quickly agreed. I was still thinking about it when an old man who had been listening stepped forward. He spoke in the local language, and the boys had to translate for me.

The old man claimed the girl was not human at all, but a deer. He told us he had known her since she was a fawn and had seen her transform into human form many times.

The only reason he had spared her, he said, was because she helped feed her family when times were hard. He added that the reason she avoided speaking to people was the very condition on which he had let her live.

If she had spoken freely, he would have killed her long ago, afraid she might deceive men. Everything sounded unreal to me, like something out of a folktale. So when the boys pressed him for more, he simply told us to wait.

Not long after, he returned. In one hand, he carried a blood-soaked sack, the legs of a deer sticking out from the top. In his other hand, he held the very dress she had worn that day and the cowrie beads from her ankle.

The boys stood frozen in shock, but I felt it more deeply than any of them. My heart pounded, my chest tightened with terror and regret.

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Without another word, the old man dropped the clothes and beads at our feet and walked away, selling the venison to a buyer as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

That night, I could not sleep. I could not stop crying. In my heart, I felt I had signed her death sentence by forcing her into a friendship she never wanted.

Even after 11 years, I still think about her and how I betrayed her

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