FOR THE GIRL LIKE ME

I spend my evenings the way single girls do. There's a WhatsApp channel I follow, anonymous confessions. It's my entertainment, my gist, my window into other people's lives.

That night, one confession stopped me cold.

It was from an 18-year-old girl. She said she was fond of her own gender and didn't know how to stop. She was scared and confused.

I was reading myself.

Fear sat in my chest. What if she doesn't get the right advice? What if she finds people who will pull her deeper? Will she be safe? Will she ever be free?

I couldn't let it go. Someone had to reach her. Someone who had walked that road.

I don't send anonymous messages. But that night I did. I wrote: "To the girl who wrote that — I have been where you are. You are not alone. If you want a big sister to talk to, you can message me, No judgment."

I prayed God would let her see it.

I grew up in a big, light-yellow house with a wide veranda. My mother braided hair there in the evenings. In the middle of the compound stood a big mango tree , our shade, our playground, our meeting point.

The house was always full. My parents, siblings, my aunty and her children. Noisy, busy, and clean. Saturdays were for sweeping and washing. Nights were for fans and crickets.

Two steps away was Aunty Akoto's house. Our headquarters. After school, that's where all the children ended up.

I was an indoor child until one Saturday. My cousin Nadia came.

"Come, let's go play at Aunty Mansa's. Abena showed us a game."

"Really? Then let's go."

We went , me, Nadia, Aunty Akoto's daughter, and her sister's daughter. No adults were home.

That was the day everything shifted.

They showed me a secret game. A game that made us giggle and then go quiet. A game that felt like crossing a line we didn't know had a name.

I was hesitant. Then I watched. Then I joined.

That was my initiation.

Within months, I became the one everyone called for. I didn't understand arousal. I didn't understand desire. I just knew it felt like power and belonging. And it was a secret we all kept. Maybe from fear of beating. Maybe from shame. Something kept us quiet.

It lasted for years.

It followed me to school. To the evenings when we slept in the container shop where our mothers sold. To the new neighborhood when my parents separated. It was always there, quiet, persistent.

No one noticed. Not even my mom.

As I grew into a teenager, I realized how heavy it was. I wanted to stop. I tried. But the urge was part of me and I hated that part of me. I wasn't looking at boys. Girls were my world. And I didn't know how to rewire myself.

Until I prayed. Really prayed.

"Father, help me quit."

It wasn't instant. But slowly, the hold loosened. Even now, sometimes I see a girl I like and the old thought flashes. I push it away. Maybe that's why I'm single to stupor. I've never told anyone.

Which is why I wrote to her.

To the girl who wrote that confession:

I see you. Because I was you.

You're not dirty. You're not broken. You're not alone.

What started as a game doesn't have to be your whole story.

You can stop. You can be free. And you don't have to do it alone.

I'm here.

*GYEM WRITES*

*THE END.*

This is for the girl like me. If this found you, it was meant for you.

#ForTheGirlLikeMe #GhanaianWriter