In Ghana, “I’m outside” is not a location update.
It’s a warning.
He sent the text at 7:42 p.m.
No emojis.
No explanation.
Just:
I’m outside.
My heart reacted before my brain could ask questions.
Outside where?
Outside why?
Outside like… now now?
I checked my reflection in the mirror.
I looked like someone who was not expecting visitors.
Hair in survival mode.
T-shirt doing its best.
Slippers that had seen things.
I typed:
“Outside where?”
He replied:
“Your area.”
That was not helpful.
Suddenly, everything felt urgent. I rushed to apply lip gloss like it could change my destiny in thirty seconds. My auntie passed by and looked at me.
“Who is outside?” she asked.
“Just a friend,” I said quickly.
She smiled slowly.
“That’s how it starts.”
I went outside pretending to be calm.
He was leaning against his car like he had all the time in the world.
Smiling.
Relaxed.
Fine.
Too fine.
“You didn’t say you were coming,” I said.
He shrugged.
“I was passing.”
In Ghana, passing can mean anything.
We talked.
Small jokes.
Soft teasing.
He moved closer.
Not too close.
Just enough.
People passed by.
They looked.
I ignored them.
At some point, he said, “You know, if I don’t come, you’ll complain. If I come, you’ll still complain.”
I smiled.
“That’s true.”
He laughed.
That laugh.
Before leaving, he said, “Next time, I’ll give notice.”
I watched him drive away, pretending my heart wasn’t racing.
When I went back inside, my auntie was waiting.
“So?” she asked.
I smiled.
“Nothing.”
She nodded.
“Something.”