This Is What Happens When You Build Your World Around a Man

My husband met me when I was young. I was 19. I knew that I loved him, and I believed our love would survive the test of time. And it did. Wherever he went, I went with him. We barely gave each other breathing space. I roamed with him and returned late at night, and no one scolded me. That was the kind of home I was raised in, careless in its own quiet way. My mother never sat me down to speak to me about life, and my father was barely around. He came at night and vanished before sunrise like the moon fading from the sky. The only advice my mother ever drummed into my ears was, “Don’t get pregnant. Otherwise, you will tie one wrapper for the rest of your life.” She said nothing about love, nothing about survival. I learnt it from friends, from the streets.

I was still young when he was about to move. I did not want him to go. I did not think I would survive the distance. I did not think my heart would survive it. So one night, I slipped into the dark, walked to his house, and relocated with him. No one knew my plan. No one knew where I was going. It felt like that declaration in the Bible, wherever you go, I will go. I believed it with everything in me. Wherever he had to be, I would be there.

I became his wife. We had two children. Then one day, he packed his bags and left for abroad in search of greener pastures. This time, I wished I could follow him too, but how? So I held on to the love we had shared for years and trusted that he would not break it.

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For eight years, he stayed there. For eight years, our love stretched across the distance and survived the miles. He called every day, sent money home, and made sure we lacked nothing.

Then he passed away. That call I received will forever remain the saddest call of my life. The voice on the other end said, “We have very sad news to share. We are sorry to announce…” and everything after that dissolved into silence. I groaned in pain.

Because he had no proper documents, we received nothing after his death. Not a single support. He left us with responsibilities, heavy ones that bent my shoulders and made me feel small.

While he was alive, he was the man of the house. He provided for everything, even the smallest things like the underwear I wore, down to my pads. All I had to do was ask, though even that was rare. He would say, “You are the queen of my heart. Do the housekeeping. Let me do the hard work.” Anytime I tried to do something for myself, he refused. He wanted me to stay home and take care of the children. It was important, yes, but I wanted more. I wanted to work. I wanted to have something of my own. I knew, even then, how necessary it is for a woman to stand on her own in case life takes an unexpected turn.

After his death, everything became difficult.

My first son was about to write his WASSCE. It was not easy for him, but by God’s grace, he completed and gained admission to the University of Ghana, Legon.

Our youngest son also completed JHS last year with good grades. He was placed in a village day school, a place I am not familiar with. I tried to change it, but the alternative was still very far from where we live.