Finding Love In Accra Episode 1: Fine girl, empty side of the bed

Let’s talk about finding love in Accra, because at this point, I’m beginning to think that finding a good man should qualify as a national assignment.

Honestly, where are the good men hiding? Because the situation is becoming increasingly confusing.

The romantic ones: some are still emotionally attached to their exes.

And the ones who say they are looking for a serious relationship! Please, somebody should explain what serious means in the Accra dating dictionary. Because how can a man tell you he wants to settle down, but every time you ask him about commitment, he starts behaving like you have served him bitter leave soup.

Then there are the men who want a traditional woman, but they have no intention of being traditional men. They want respect, submission, loyalty, peace and understanding. Meanwhile, when you ask what they bring to the table, they say, “Let’s build together.”

But on a more serious note, finding love is not just about finding someone handsome, rich or romantic. It is about finding someone whose values align with yours, someone who is emotionally available, kind, responsible and ready to build something meaningful.

And perhaps that is where the real problem lies. We have become so focused on what a person looks like, what they earn, what they drive and what they can afford that we sometimes forget to ask the most important question:

“Can I actually be happy with this person?”

Welcome to Finding Love in Accra, where we will laugh about the dating madness, share the experiences many of us are too embarrassed to admit, and have honest conversations about love, relationships and the things nobody warns you about.

Because somewhere between the talking stages, the mixed signals, the disappearing acts and the famous “I’m not ready for a relationship” speech, some of us are genuinely trying to find our person.

The evening I decided to give up on love, I was wearing a dress that deserved better circumstances.

Wine-coloured. Fitted at the waist. A small slit that behaved itself when I stood still and developed other ambitions when I walked.

I had spent forty minutes getting ready for a man who cancelled our date eleven minutes before I was supposed to leave.

Something has come up, babe. Rain check?

Then at the earrings I had struggled to fasten.

“Your father is rain check,” I muttered.

My name is Lovia. I am twenty-five years old, and before you tell me I’m too young to be tired of dating, please understand that some people can put you through a whole marriage before the third date.

I have a rich chocolate complexion that catches a warm glow in the afternoon sun. A round face, full cheeks and dark eyes beneath naturally arched brows that make me look slightly suspicious even when I’m minding my business. My lips are full, very kissable, with a small dip in the middle of the upper one, and there is a gap between my front teeth that my mother insists is responsible for half my problems.

“You smile too freely,” she says…Apparently, I am single because of the gap.

I am of medium height, with full breasts, a waist that curves neatly inward and hips that have never entered a room quietly. The Coca-Cola shape, as people like to call it. Mine comes with soft thighs, a small lower belly and the occasional battle with a zip.

When I walk, there is movement. I cannot help it. I have tried walking discreetly. It makes no difference.

I can leave the house in slippers, with my hair tied under a scarf, and still return with somebody’s phone number. Usually written on a receipt I needed for something else.

So, growing up, I assumed finding love would be straightforward.

Someone would see me. We would talk. He would discover that beneath the face and figure was a woman who could make him laugh, remember how he liked his eggs and sit beside him through a difficult season. He would choose me. I would choose him. We would buy curtains.

I had given considerable thought to the curtains.

What I had not prepared for was the number of men who would like everything about me until I asked a simple question.

Suddenly, English became a difficult language.

One said he didn’t believe in labels. He was a brand manager.

Another told me he was healing. I respected that until he healed enough to marry someone else four months later.

Then there was the one who called every night, sent me lunch at work and once drove across Accra because I mentioned I was craving ‘kelewele’, the popular Ghanaian street food and snack made from spicy, deep-fried ripe plantains.

For six weeks, I walked around smiling at my phone like a woman with shares in happiness.

When I finally asked where things were going, he looked genuinely startled.

Perhaps that was the embarrassing part. Beneath all my complaints and jokes, I remained hopeful. Every new conversation came with a little, private possibility.

Maybe I could finally delete the dating apps without downloading them again on a lonely Sunday evening.

My mother was especially confused by my situation.

“But you are beautiful,” she would say, studying me as though somebody had supplied her with a faulty appliance.

If I knew, would I be sitting in her kitchen on a Saturday night, helping her separate kontomire [Green cocoyam leaves]?

That evening, after the cancellation, I sat on the edge of my bed and opened the man’s chat again.

I hated how quickly I began editing myself when I liked someone. A reasonable complaint would enter my head and emerge on my phone wearing an apology.

I’ve already spent time getting ready. More notice would have been considerate.

Across the room, my mirror reflected a woman in a beautiful dress, sitting beside a handbag she had no reason to carry.

Please. The makeup had already been paid for.

I posted one with the caption: Stepping out…..Technically, I stepped onto the balcony.

My friend Emefa called before I had even returned inside.

“Must everything on the internet be true?”

“Good. Bring that mood. You can sit with it in the car.”

Forty minutes later, we were at a small restaurant in Osu. Emefa had ordered enough food to suggest that my disappointment required catering.

I was halfway through explaining why I would no longer be entertaining men when someone stopped beside our table.

“Excuse me. I think this belongs to you.”

I looked at my bare wrist, then up at him.

White shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. A slightly crooked smile. No dramatic entrance music, although Emefa’s sudden silence did a respectable job.

Behind my glass, Emefa’s eyes were already doing an investigation.