The Single Mother Who Finally Said Enough

I have a daughter—a seven-year-old girl. I was seventeen when I gave birth to her. The story of her birth is one I usually avoid; it brings heartbreak, regret, and sometimes tears.

For a long time, I believed men stayed away because I was a single mother. And then Aboagye came along. He was a man full of dreams, carrying his future on his shoulders. Every word he spoke was wrapped in ambition, wrapped in promises of wealth—but there was one problem: he had no job. Plenty of certificates, no work to do.

I gave him a chance because he loved my daughter, and she loved him too. I remember the day my daughter asked, “Is Uncle Aboagye going to be my daddy?” That question hit me hard. My little girl had been starved of masculine affection for so long that she wanted to cling to the one who was there. That was the reason I allowed Aboagye to move into our home, even though we weren’t married. That was the reason I even let him perform the ‘knocking’ rite with my family, despite knowing he was unemployed.

At first, he seemed diligent. He looked for work, tried to make himself useful. But over time, he slowed down. He stayed home all day, watching TV, playing games, and occasionally helping my daughter with her homework.

“You’re smart,” I told him one day. “If there’s no employment out there, why don’t you start something on your own?”

He smiled confidently. “I have all the plans laid out. All I need is money. GHC30,000, and I’ll start my business.”

The next day, I applied for a loan at work and handed him GHC35,000. I trusted him. I wanted him to make me proud. Instead, he made himself proud.

For nearly three months, there was no business activity. Instead, there were new clothes, new shoes, and sneakers every week. He stopped eating from the house. When I asked about the business, he said, “I’m registering it. A business like mine needs legal footing before it can walk.”

A year passed. Still no work. We fought constantly. Every argument ended with the same threat: “I’ll leave. And when I do, you’ll realize no one has time for a single mother.”

His words gnawed at me. In quiet moments, I thought, maybe he’s right. He had been the only one to stick around. But fear of losing him kept me crawling back.

He began sending me constant messages: “No drink in the fridge. Buy some.” “My shaving stick finished. Get a new one.” “Prepaid finished. Send MoMo.”

The financial strain was crushing. I was still paying off the loan. My salary barely covered my daughter’s school fees.

One night, he came home drunk. I served him food. He bathed, then jumped into bed, trying to force himself on me. I struggled, pushing him off.

“Single mother with attitude,” he muttered. “When I’m gone…”

I cut him off. “You’re leaving tomorrow. Stop right there with that speech.”

He screamed, “I’ll go! Explain to your parents what you did to drive me away!”

The next morning, he was still there. I told him, “Call me when you’re ready to leave. I’ll come for the keys.” He never called.

That evening, I began packing his things. He thought I was joking.

“Are you serious?” he asked.

“Do I look like I’m joking?” I said. In minutes, his clothes and shoes were packed. “Leave. I want to lock the door, and I don’t want you inside.”

I left him in front of the house and walked away. When I returned, he was gone.

Guess who’s begging now? Definitely not the single mother.