THE ARCHITECTURE OF LOSING YOURSELF – Denoo Edinam Yawo

He sat on the cold tile floor, fingers moving rapidly across the keypads. On the screen, his player ducked behind a bush, rifle in hand, waiting to snuff the enemy out. He held his breath, then clicked. A gunshot echoed through the quiet room. He smiled.

Sinnerman, you whispered to yourself. 

The mornings after the affair—after he knelt before you, hands delicately placed on your three-month-old pregnancy, sobbing into your favorite black satin nightdress, confessing his sins with such details that a priest would blush —you stopped. You stopped waking up at the crack of dawn to prepare breakfast, you stopped kneeling on the bathroom floor to get rid of the brown and green stains that clung to the tiles, you stopped wearing your favorite lipstick, and you stopped doing your hair. 

You just stopped.

You met him a year and a half ago. Barely a month into your housemanship, you had applied for a Women in Tech program to equip you with digital skills. Your aim was to make a career transition. Your current job was a thing you did for your parents. Your passion lay elsewhere and you were going to find it, one program at a time.

Your application was successful, but after receiving your offer letter, you were sent another email exactly twenty minutes later. The program had been canceled, but you could choose something else. When you didn’t respond. You were devastated. He called the next day to follow up on the offer. What had started purely as a professional relationship blossomed into an online romance for two weeks. Balancing work and love (at first call) was second skin.

On his birthday, you were on your way to see him for the first time. During those two weeks, he was never too busy for you, and you, him. You exchanged gifts, letters, and playlists. You asked him questions to figure out if he was the kind of man that needed fresh meals every day or regulated the movements of his partner. You asked him questions to figure out if he was the kind of man that thought women were just objects. 

“I think women are better than men.” 

“my wife comes first. I just met those kids.” 

“my wife is part of my family.” 

“my wife comes before my mother.”

You liked everything you were hearing until—the day you visited him. There was a debate on gender roles and he said, “I don’t like feminists. As a traditional man…” You sat there, uncertain. There was nothing traditional about his answers, about his love for you. When you probed further he said, “I just don’t like how they behave. They have this herd mentality.” You did not know how but you had begun to avoid certain topics around him. You stopped saying certain words and stopped giving certain opinions. You did not know it yet, but you had begun twisting yourself into shapes because you wanted to keep this one. 

No one had loved you like him. No one listened to you like he did. You liked the version of you that existed when you were around him. But instead of leaving, you convinced yourself that he was just confused. There was no way he was a traditional man. But he was and you should have listened.

During those two weeks of talking, you made it clear—you remain celibate until marriage. He said he didn’t have a problem with it, so long as you were married within a year. Finally, a man who was interested in more than just your body. But, on the night of the first day you met, the weight of his body pressed into you. It felt like pain was the sweetest honey your body could taste. He achingly entered into your being and dug and dug and dug, as though you were an earthen vessel hiding the treasures of God, and finding it was the only means of his survival. His forehead was slick with sweat and your palms dug into his back, hoping to be anchored to him eternally.

He paused to rest his forehead on yours, whispering words that felt like an end to a prayer and the beginning of its answer. In that moment, there was breath in your lungs and you revelled in the magic of it all. But later that night, while he snored dreamlessly beside you, a panic gnawed in the center of your being. You wrapped your hands around his tightly, asking God to not break you apart.

His cheering brought you back to reality. He turned at you, smiling, controller in hand, victorious. Sinnerman, you whispered again, closing your eyes and picking apart the memory all over again.

Your mother always said that when you were born, the sky opened as though God was crying. Your father agreed but he said it was because God was full of joy and his eyes were the only medium to express it. 

It was well known in the entire village that your father woke up before the gods and chanted his prayers into their ears until it woke them. His incessant prayer was simple—the seed in the womb of his wife must be a girl. 

Of course, his three sisters now took turns to accuse your mother of witchcraft and how she wanted his properties to herself. Your father never sent them away but he consistently offered libations unto the earth until it felt like Asaase Yaa would drown. At last, there you were, announcing your presence to the heavens and the earth in tears. Asaase Yaa sighed in relief. 

Your parents always began the story as that of a savior. You were the answer your father had desperately sought and gotten. Your mother said he bundled you in his arms, singing over you with gladness and joy. Three days before your body would tell you that you were pregnant, you sat on the bathroom floor biting your teeth and clinging onto the walls with the strength of three men. The man whom you thought was your all in all said he’d curse the earth and cry in pain if his first child was a girl. He spat and it missed your face by a hair.

Nights after that encounter, the curve of your being was dreamless beside his. He still kissed you every morning before he went to work. He still expected his food to be cooked on time. He still wrote poems and told you how lucky he was to have found and kept you. He still demanded that you keep up with keeping his house in order.

He still kept telling you it was okay if you couldn’t cook once in a while. He still lived the life he was living before he met you. His world had not turned upside down. He was not crying every night, stuffing the sheets in his mouth so as to not make a sound; he was not rolling over his mind that he wasn’t wanted so dearly like how your father wanted you. No, that was only you.

And when you asked him if you could get a maid to help due to the pregnancy, he asked you, “Why?” then added, “I might as well marry the maid,” with a shake of the head, as though if it stayed still, the disappointment would cause it to fall off.

You placed your hand on your belly. You looked at the clean floors and your aching knees, the kitchen and your tired hands, this man sitting in front of his 43-inch plasma TV screen, eliminating enemies one after the other on his screen, lips curled in excitement, your heart missing a beat when you remembered how they felt on your lips and left the room.

You sat on your bed contemplating what to do. You asked yourself what would happen if you gave birth to a girl. You remember your father and how he dearly loved you. But you also remember how he did not love your mother as much as he loved you. If this man was at least going to love her like your father did, you could stomach every other thing thrown at you. 

But he would not. And you did not want to give your daughter a miss on what it means to be a daddy’s girl.

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Your body did not move during the process. Cold liquid gushed out from you like a sweet slow dirge. Your only worry was that you would stain the white sheets despite wearing a vulva pad. You try to think of the positives. Aside from the baby, there was something else growing inside of you. 

“It would have complicated the pregnancy,” the doctor said. And you could hold on to that piece of information and it might cover the slight guilt you feel. Except your body is having none of that. No guilt over the solo decision, over your lost child, over the hysterectomy your doctor wants you to think about and possibly discuss with your husband first.

At the word husband, you rolled your eyes. An anger you hadn’t known existed in this space you called a body rose to the tips of your fists. In your mind, you played out a scene where you smashed them into the doctor’s face, repeatedly yelling at him not to call the bloody bastard your husband. You imagined the nurses calling security, restraining you, injecting you with something to make you calm or fall asleep—evaluating you for mental health defects. But instead, you merely clenched and unclenched your fists, breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth.

There had been no white wedding—just a small traditional ceremony. You remembered how you had nearly lost the relationship when he said he wasn’t interested in a white wedding. He told you it wasn’t about the money. You had been ready to chip in, ready to invest in what should have been one of the happiest days of both your lives. But he kept calling it your day. Your wedding day.

You never got to order your dream cake—a three-tiered chocolate orange cake from Sweet Couture. Never got to wear the traditional rose-shaped dress from The Agyeman, the bespoke wedding gown from The Gentleman Kennedy. Never had the reception catered by The Boys or the outdoor wedding service at the Lord’s International Ministries, Osu branch—the one with the chapel by the sea. You would have had so much fun with your besties, screaming and dancing the night away.

Instead, you had to cut the guest list. Just your parents and his, plus a couple of uncles and aunties you had sworn you’d rather die than invite. Your sister was the maid of honor. He promised you an after-party, a way to make up for the lack of a real wedding, a chance to bond with your friends after bonding with family.

It had been six months now. And you hardly heard from anyone anymore.

“Madam, please, are you okay?” There was a nurse in front of you, holding a tray.

“Are you in pain?” You shook your head no, and she looked confused. “Madam, please, you’re crying.” You did not bother to come up with an explanation. You simply wiped them away and reached out for your handbag. Your phone was littered with missed calls from the bloody bastard. You went through your call log and called the one person who deserved the greatest apology from you.

You watched with bated breath as the call went through and bit your lip when she didn’t pick up. You tried again on second ring, wondering what you were going to say, and how you were going to say it. You wondered if you should even be calling her at all. Maybe she intentionally didn’t pick up on first ring. Maybe you should hang—

“Hello? Babes?”

“I just had an abortion.” You blurted out before you could stop yourself. “I’m all alone, Jo.” The dam that was holding steady behind your eyes broke, and you spent a good five minutes crying.

“Babes, just tell me where; I’m coming to get you.”

You met in a way you didn’t think other people met people. It was the first year of a six-year Doctor of Pharmacy program, and you were unpacking into your assigned wardrobe. You were the fifth of six roommates to report. The other roommates had already bonded and you did not feel like intruding. Your father had left about 10 minutes ago, and you were basking in your newfound freedom. After you had finished packing and settled into your bed, the door swung open.

“I’ve arrived, bitches!” 

Wearing ripped jeans and a blue spaghetti strapped top was this beautiful girl whose make-up, in your opinion, did not match her caramel skin. She claimed she did it intentionally and that it was a fashion statement. She stood by the door awkwardly as no one responded. You cracked a smile when she looked at you. She squealed, dropped her bags and buried her face in your chest. “Help me; I’m so embarrassed.” She would later claim she wasn’t embarrassed and that she just wanted to feel your breasts.

From that time, the both of you did everything together. She appointed herself as the cook between the both of you. You didn’t know how to cook, and she didn’t mind stuffing you until you begged no more. She was the one who taught you cutting onions and finding the right type of tomato for salads. She taught you how to clean, wash and live. The problem with being loved so much by your father was that you did not lift a finger in his presence.

Your mother always complained about you not helping her in the kitchen or with general household chores. Your father would not let her get a helping hand either. She spent most days trying to beat sense into your head with whips and belts. Your father never said anything when you complained. Your mother only woke with purple bruises on her face the mornings after.

Part of being friends with Jo was that you tried everything. She was the one who slowly nudged you out of the sheltered life you lived. The only difference between the two of you was that, no matter how hard she tried, you were not going to have sex unless it was the first night with your husband and no matter how hard you tried, it was no big deal for her to have sex for fun.

But within twenty-four hours of visiting him, your legs nearly touched his ceiling that night, screaming and aching in pleasure. Jo was happy you lost your virginity, but she was concerned that the man you explicitly told you wanted to be celibate had sex with you on the very first night. “It wasn’t forced,” you reminded her. “Plus, I was severely horny.” 

Jo snorted. She reminded you of how you’ve been horny for the entire duration of your course. Merely a month of starting housemanship and two weeks of meeting this guy, you’ve become a different person. She let it go after. Her concerns resurfaced when you sent her a picture of you holding a glass wine, with a ring on your wedding finger. Your phone rang immediately. 

“I don’t understand. Is this a prank?” You broke into laughter. You explained to her how he invited you for dinner over at his place and he ended up proposing to you. Besides, the plan was always to get married right after the internship. 

“Who suggested the marriage?”

“We both wanted to get married. It seemed right.”

Jo hissed. “Don’t give me that. Between the both of you, who mentioned marriage first?”

You did not answer Jo. You ended the call and went back into being happy. You spent the day replying to texts and calls from well-wishers. Your mom was over the moon that you were going to settle right after finishing school. She couldn’t wait for her grandkids. While you slept that night, you stopped your mind from reminding you that he asked you to be his girlfriend after he had slept with you. He actually didn’t ask you.

After the sex, he stared at you and went, “This means I’m your boyfriend, right?” You nodded your head. There was a hole in your chest you couldn’t explain. You always wanted to experience the kind of proposals the women in your books had. How their men made the proposals intentionally for them. You convinced yourself this is the real world, and you take what you get.

The day after the proposal, the conversation had led up to having kids. You never wanted to have kids. You were eighty-five percent sure. But when you met him, you figured he was the right man. So why not? But he had told you he wanted boys first so they could protect their sisters.

“I don’t understand,” Jo started when you called her in tears.

“He wants to give birth to bodyguards?” you were not laughing and neither was Jo.

“Babes, your father literally prayed you into being and you’re going to be with a fool who speaks to you like this?!”

You were still crying. You were not going to allow yourself to dwell on what he said to you. There was an ugly truth lying at the end of your rational thinking that you did not want to see. After that night, you and Jo would not be in contact for a while. The next time you spoke, you were telling her about the wedding. It was difficult explaining to her why she wasn’t invited and how you would make it up to her later. She simply wished you all the best. And told you her doors were always open to you. There was a period of drought between the both of you until you called to share news of the pregnancy.

“I thought you were waiting a year after the marriage, no?”

“That was the plan. But he’s 32 and he didn’t want to be taking care of children in his retirement.”

“That made sense to you?”

You did not talk again.

Now, you were wrapped in her arms, crying into her shirt. She did not ask, but you told her everything: From the start of the relationship, how you never got what you wanted, how you shrunk yourself to fit, How you rehabilitated your pain until it looked like love, and How you gave and gave and gave in spite of it all. You cried and screamed and cried, holding onto her for dear life.

“It felt like the only way to undo the mistake,” you hiccuped. “Imagine having to take care of a daughter with him. I just had to try.”

She told you she understood you perfectly. You were doing the right thing. After minutes of silence passed between the both of you, she asked, “what are you going to do now?”

You felt the weight of your wedding band press into your skin. 

“I am going to be free.”

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