WE WERE NEVER APART

We moved like one person with two shadows.

If he stopped, I stopped. If I turned, he was already there. People would joke sometimes—say things I didn’t fully understand—but I could tell they noticed it. The way we mirrored each other. The way we never drifted too far apart, even in crowds.

Crowds were dangerous.

The busy parts of Accra could swallow you whole if you weren’t careful. The Central was the worst—too many feet, too many smells, too many hands reaching for everything that wasn’t tied down. When we had to pass through there, we pressed close, shoulders brushing, moving fast. If one of us stumbled, the other pulled.

That was the rule. Always pull.

We didn’t need to say it out loud. It was understood.

Sometimes, when things were calm, we would sit and watch people. Office workers with stiff shoes and tired eyes. Hawkers balancing impossibly heavy loads on their heads like it was nothing. Couples arguing softly, then laughing five minutes later as if nothing had happened. Everyone looked like they were heading somewhere important, somewhere better.

We didn’t envy them. Not really.

The street had taught us something early: wanting too much makes you careless. Carelessness gets you hurt.

So we wanted small things. A full stomach. Shade. A quiet night. Each other.

At night, when the heat finally broke and the city lights blurred into something almost gentle, we leaned against the same wall and rested. I could feel him there—solid, familiar, breathing at the same pace. That was how I knew I was safe.

Once, during a heavy rain, we were chased out of our usual spot. Water rushed down the gutters like it was alive, carrying trash and secrets and the smell of rot. We ran until our lungs burned, slipping and stumbling, laughing despite ourselves. We found shelter under a rusted metal awning, pressed close, soaked through.

He laughed first.

A strange, breathy sound that made no sense in the cold rain. I joined in, and for a moment, the street felt kind. Like it was laughing with us.

“I’ll never leave you,” he said later, when the rain softened.

I believed him. Completely.

Because in a place where everything was temporary—food, shelter, kindness—he was the only thing that felt permanent. The only thing I trusted not to disappear when I turned my back.

If I had known that permanence was an illusion, I might have held on tighter.

But at the time, we were never apart.

And I thought that meant we never would be.