Love to Marriage

The sun rose slowly over Legon, stretching its gold across the familiar red roofs and the endless walkways that crisscrossed the University of Ghana like a living maze. I remember that morning clearly, how the light fell gently on the flowering trees, how the air carried that soft, dusty calm that only came after harmattan had finally lost its strength. It was the kind of morning that felt innocent, harmless and almost too quiet. Later, I would joke that the quiet was a warning. Because nothing about the weeks that followed would remain quiet; not my heart, not my mind, definitely not my phone. But that morning, I was just an ordinary girl with an admission letter folded in my handbag, confidence folded somewhere deeper, and a destiny that, unknown to me, was already waiting by the gate. My first days on campus were not luxe the way people make university life sound. There were no fireworks. No dramatic soundtrack playing in my head. Just me, my brown tote bag, my dry lips from stress, and the same question of; “Why is manual registration always difficult?” Day One of registration had humbled me. I walked from office to office, building to building, only to be told, “Go to the other side,” “Come tomorrow,” and my personal favorite: “The system is down.” The system was always down. Day Two humbled me even more. I queued under the sun long enough to start questioning my life decisions. I was too tired to complain, too thirsty to argue, and too new to even understand what I was supposed to be doing. By Day Three, I was determined to finish everything, even if I had to fight the system itself. So I woke up early, prayed silently, drank water like a responsible adult, and marched onto campus ready to conquer bureaucracy. To my shock, everything actually worked that day. I went from office to office like a champion, collecting signatures, stapled papers, and instructions. By afternoon, I had completed every form, received every stamp, and survived every queue. I stepped out of the last office feeling like I had survived a battle. My phone battery was on 8%, my brain was on 2% and my legs were on airplane mode. All I wanted was to go home, bathe, and sleep. Then I met him; not in a romantic twilight glow, not in a poetic slow-motion moment where the wind lifts your hair and violins start playing. But I met him at the main gate, when I was sweaty, tired, and holding crumpled papers like a frustrated hawker. I saw a group of guys standing near the gate, wearing bright campaign T-shirts and handing out flyers. They looked loud, excited, and full of energy, everything I was not that day. I tried to pass quickly before they dragged me into whatever SRC politics they were hyping. But fate had other plans. One of them stepped forward. Tall, fair, wearing glasses with a confident grin; that grin that looked like it knew secrets. “Hello, miss. Are you a fresher?” I blinked. “Is it written on my forehead?” He laughed loud, warm, and annoyingly charming. “Well, yes. Your face is giving ‘new here.’ Don’t worry, It’s cute.” Cute? I didn’t feel cute. I felt like a roasted yam. Before I could escape, he continued: “My name is Ryan, and we’re campaigning for my friend who is contesting for SRC” I cut him off gently. “Please, I’m tired. I’ve been busy the whole day with manual registration.” He nodded with sympathy. “I understand. But it’ll just take 30 seconds. Okay fine, let me add you to the group, we keep students updated there.” Before I could say no, he held out his phone. “Your number?” Now, at this point I should have been firm. I should have remembered that I don’t give my number to strangers. I should have acted like the strict, cautious girl I always claimed to be. But I was too tired to argue, too polite to create a scene, and too dazed to think. So I gave him my number. “Great,” he said. “Check your w******p. I just added you to the platform.” I nodded, ready to escape. “By the way,” he added, “welcome to Legon.” And I walked away, not knowing that I had just stepped into a story that would shape my entire life. A few days later, school reopened officially. January on campus felt like a new world, crowded lecture halls, confusing portals, new roommates, and a thousand unfamiliar faces. My roommates were the outgoing type. Always dressing up, going out, laughing loudly, taking pictures in every mirror they found. But me? I was the opposite. Quiet, calm, mind-my-business type; the kind that people forget is in the room unless I cough. While they went out to explore, I stayed indoors, slept, read my books, and tried to figure out my timetable. If I'm not having lectures, I'm in the library pretending not to be socially awkward. Life felt steady, peaceful and predictable. Just how I liked it. Until February 1st. I had returned from lectures, thrown my bag on the bed, and was scrolling through my phone when a message popped up; “Hi Sylvie.” The number was unknown. The profile picture was blank and the greeting was suspiciously friendly. I frowned. Then I replied: “Who is this?” The answer came quickly; “This is Ryan, from the SRC group. We met the day you finished registration.” I stared at my phone. Ryan? The campaign guy? How did he even wait? Oh yes. I gave him my number. Before I could even ask why he was texting me, he added; “I took your number from the platform because I wanted to talk to you personally. Your profile picture caught my attention. You look exactly like the type of woman I want in my life.” I sat up,blinking, confused, what type of line was this? Was this a joke? Was I on a hidden camera? I typed: “How can you say that? You don’t even know me.” His reply came; “I don’t need to know everything. The moment I saw you, I felt it. You’re meant for me.” Meant for him? Please. This was not Nollywood. I typed back quickly; “I’m not interested in a relationship. I came to Legon to focus on my studies ok.” He replied: “ I won’t disturb your studies ok. I respect boundaries. But I don’t want to lose you.” Lose me? Sir, you haven’t even found me. I ignored the message. Eventually, I told him I was busy. And he didn’t text again for a long while. February moved on quietly, exams approached, Ryan disappeared like vapor. Honestly, I was relieved. Then one afternoon, when I had just returned from the library, my phone buzzed again. “Sylvie, so you won’t talk to me?” I sighed. Why was this boy persistent? He continued; “If you don’t like me, just tell me. At least talk to me small. I’ve been thinking about you.” I replied slowly, trying not to sound rude; “It’s not like that. I’ve just been busy.” “Busy is okay,” he replied, “but can’t you be busy and still text? Just one message? Even ‘hi’? I won’t bite you o.” I laughed unexpectedly. His tone was funny without trying to be. Then he added; “We are writing exams , so I’ll be vacating soon. I wish I could see you before I travel. Even if it’s just two minutes.” I hesitated. Not because I wanted to see him but because something in his words felt genuine. Still, I typed; “I’m in the library. Maybe another time.” And that was how it began; not with fireworks, not with love at first sight, not with smooth lines but just a number I shouldn’t have given, a message I shouldn’t have replied and a boy who refused to vanish. The funny thing is? Even then , a small quiet part of me knew he wasn’t just passing through my life. I didn’t want to admit it but destiny doesn’t care about your plans. It only cares about its timing and mine had just started ticking.