My mother walked out of the kitchen very furious about something I could not readily put a finger on. Although, her bouts of arguments and quarrels with me have become a daily affair, I didn’t think anything specific happened that particular Friday evening to warrant angering my ageing mother.

I sat quietly in front of my door and watched her at what I considered a safe distance. And suddenly, she screamed, “there you are!”

I caught a quick glimpse of her, and I could see beads of sweat streaming down her face. I figured out that she was sweating as a result of her fury.

“You are growing old already,” she blurted out, “and no man has showed his face in this house.”

“Oh mummy,” but before I could continue, she hurled a frying pan at me. I jumped out of the way of the flying missile, and that was how I escaped injury by a hair’s breath.

“But why do you want to force me into marriage when I am only 21,” I managed a weak protest.

“Shut up! Shut up!” she retorted. “Look at Auntie Mansah’s daughter, aren’t you older and even more beautiful than she is?” She challenged and continued, “don’t you see the sort of men that visit her? Shame unto you.” My mother spat.

At this point, I ran into my room and shut the door behind me. I buried my head into my pillow and tears began to freely roll down my face. I wept uncontrollably.

“How could my own mother pester my life this way?” I asked. “Doesn’t she care what happens to me?” But somehow, I managed to console my self with the thought that God’s time is the best, and my right time would come.

Unfortunately for me, this Friday night, I simply couldn’t sleep. Sleep evaded me. The thought of getting a man who truly loved me to come and marry me away from this ‘hell’ bothered me.

It was 4:00 am. Early Saturday morning. I had made up my mind. I had resolved to give in to any man at all who comes my way, but as it turned out, this decision was the beginning of my real journey into hell.

Kwame is a handsome young man – at 24 he has recently graduated from University. He majored in Psychology and had great prospects for the future having acquired a Second Class Upper. Kwame had spoken to me a couple of times, about various things, but never spoken about love. However, as if by some design, when I met him on Sunday evening, he “pulled the trigger”. He actually proposed love to me. And contrary to all norms, I accepted his proposal right on the spot! And that night, I broke my virginity!

My relationship with Kwame came as a surprising news to many of my friends, because they knew I was very ‘green’ to such matters.

Two months into our relationship and it happened! I became pregnant!

When I realized it, I became so scared. But after a while I took courage, without informing my mother, I went straight to Kwame and told him about it.

But to my utter shock, his response hit me with a big bang.

“Maa Abena, I am sorry,” he told me, “this is happening too early in our relationship, and the fact is, I can’t have a baby now, and listen to me,” he stared at my gloomy face as he spoke. “You either abort it or I refuse responsibility.”

At these words, my heartbeats rose so high I could hear them and my blood ran hot through my veins. I felt stung and some excruciating pain nudged my heart. It was so painful that I felt numb. I got up to leave his room, but felt as though, I was glued to the seat. My feet felt heavy and I almost became motionless for a while. I wanted to speak, but was lost for words. My mind went blank and I became confused momentarily. My lips tightened and my throat went dry.

I would not abort the pregnancy, because I was too scared to try, and so Kwame rejected me and the unborn baby.

I went home quietly to nurse my wound, and then decide on my next line of action. I decided to leave my mother out of this. I resolved not to tell her, because I felt she was responsible for this in a way.

To support my self and the unborn child, I settled on selling oranges in front of our house. It was all I could do, because after I struggled to complete Secondary School, I couldn’t further my education due to the family’s deteriorating financial status and finding a job had never been easy.

I resolved to make regular savings from my meager sales, so I wouldn’t have to depend on others to look after my self and the baby when it arrived.

Apparently, my mother had noticed the pregnancy. One early morning, she woke me up. She wanted to know who was responsible for the pregnancy.

I looked her straight in the eyes and told her, “you are responsible mum.” And bang! She slapped me in the face. The impact of the slap sent me sprawling onto the floor, and I screamed so loud until my younger brother came to my aid.

I however, vowed never to tell my mother anything about Kwame. I felt so hurt and disappointed that I thought it was of little importance telling her who was responsible for the pregnancy.

On the fourth month of the pregnancy, I remembered my Bible, but could not go to church. I was filled with so much shame and guilt. Self pity and anger made me coil back into my shell. I would talk less to my younger brother, and most often hardly talked to my mother.

One evening after the day’s sales, my mother came asking me for two Ghana Cedis. I refused. But she didn’t understand why I had refused her request. She started raining insults on me. Some of the invectives she poured on me were too offensive to recount here. But one thing she said, which made me feel like dying, was when she called me a prostitute! She said I was a cheap girl and didn’t know who was responsible for my pregnancy. These words cut through my heart like a razor.

After she had left my room, I wept bitterly that night. In my solitary moments so many thoughts flooded my mind. I was depressed and hopeless. It was so hard to see light at the end of the tunnel.

I then thought of one thing. I would give up on life. I would end it all. May be, that would save me from the constant heartaches. I wanted to die. I thought of suicide.

I rushed out of my room and dashed straight to the chemist’s shop which was about some 200 yards from our house. I felt lucky when I got there, because Mr. Pinto the owner wasn’t there, it was his son. He would be easier to deal with. I asked him to give me any drug that was available. I bought antibiotics, analgesics, anti-malarial syrups and some other drug I pointed out to the teenage shop assistant without thinking. He collected all the drugs I wanted and packaged them for me. I could see he was baffled, but speechless, he simply did my bidding.

My intention was to mix all those drugs into a lethal concoction and swallow to my death. I planned to gulp the mixture down in the middle of the night and hopefully die without anyone taking notice.

I frantically took a cup, mixed all the drugs together, covered the mixture and left it on the coffee table by my bed, hoping to get up around 2:00 am to execute my mission.

1:30 am and I was up. Time to go, I told my self. But bang! As I turned to sit on the side of the bed, my left foot it was, hit the coffee table, and everything on it, including my mixture came tumbling down. And the mixture poured onto a rag I had used the previous evening to dry some water that had poured onto the floor. That made the mixture unusable!

As I contemplated what to do next, I heard a still voice warning and admonishing me not to kill myself. I felt so sorry for myself, and I wept for about one hour that late night.

The following evening I went to see my pastor. He was surprised to see me after a long time.

I narrated my story to him. Touched by my plight, he counseled and prayed for me.

I look back six years ago, and I am grateful to God. I am quite certain it was his mysterious intervention that prevented me from killing myself.

I look at my daughter, who is now five years old – Mercy, that’s what I named her and I am filled with gratitude to God for sparing my life.

I have changed my mind, I have accepted my situation and I now go to church regularly because that is where I find some solace and hope for the future.



By Emmanuel K. Dogbevi

Email: edogbevi@hotmail.com