By then, Mohammed had become part of my everyday life.
I was always thinking about him.
If he called, I answered.
If he needed something, I tried to help.
If he said he wasn't feeling well, I worried.
If he complained about money, I immediately started thinking about how I could assist him.
I didn't realize I was becoming his solution to every problem.
At first, I believed helping someone you loved was normal.
But love shouldn't make one person constantly empty while the other person constantly receives.
My small business was already struggling.
I needed money to restart it properly.
But every time I managed to save something, Mohammed needed help.
One afternoon, he called.
"Bjei."
"Yes?"
"I need your help."
My heart sank.
"How much?"
He mentioned an amount.
I looked at the little money I had.
It was almost everything.
"I need this money for my business," I told him.
"I know."
"Then why are you asking?"
"I'll pay you back quickly."
I hesitated.
"You still haven't paid the previous one."
"I will."
I closed my eyes.
"Okay."
I sent it.
After the transfer, I sat quietly.
I had just given away money I desperately needed.
But I didn't feel angry.
I felt relieved.
Because I believed I had helped someone I loved.
That was my mistake.
The requests became more frequent.
Sometimes he would call late.
Sometimes he would text.
Sometimes he would appear with a story that made me feel guilty for even thinking about refusing.
And every time, I gave.
My business eventually became impossible to maintain.
I had no working capital.
No savings.
Nothing.
Yet Mohammed still found a way to ask.
I remember one day looking at my empty business space and feeling tears gather in my eyes.
I had built something with my own hands.
And now I couldn't even afford to keep it alive.
I finally asked him,
"When are you going to pay me?"
He became quiet.
"Soon."
"You always say soon."
"I told you I'll pay."
I wanted to believe him.
So I did.
Again.
Meanwhile, my relationship with James was deteriorating.
He kept trying to reach me.
He would call.
He would send messages.
He would ask to see me.
I became distant.
Sometimes I ignored him.
Sometimes I told him I was busy.
One day, I finally said it.
"James, I think we should break up."
There was silence on the phone.
Then I heard his breathing.
"Why?"
"Because things have changed."
"Because of Mohammed?"
I didn't answer.
He already knew.
"Bjei, please don't do this."
"I'm sorry."
"Do you love him?"
That question broke something inside me.
I didn't know how to answer.
I had feelings for Mohammed.
But somewhere inside my heart, James was still there.
"I don't know," I whispered.
He became quiet.
Then he said,
"I still love you."
I closed my eyes.
I didn't want to hear it.
Not because I hated him.
Because I knew I still cared.
But I had already gone too far.
I wanted to believe Mohammed was my new beginning.
I didn't want to admit that maybe I had simply escaped one emotional problem into another.
I continued visiting Mohammed.
Sometimes I traveled for hours.
Sometimes I spent money I couldn't afford just to see him.
His friends would laugh whenever I arrived.
"Your serious girlfriend has come again!"
I would smile.
Mohammed would smile too.
Those moments convinced me.
I thought if his friends knew about me, he must be serious.
I thought if he allowed me to visit him, he must care.
But there were moments when something felt strange.
He seemed more excited when I came with something.
Money.
Food.
A gift.
Something useful.
I noticed it.
But I ignored it.
I didn't want to believe that someone I loved could be taking advantage of me.
Then one day, I needed money badly.
I called him.
"Mohammed, I need some of the money you owe me."
He became quiet.
"I don't have it now."
"You've been saying that for months."
"I'll get it."
"When?"
"I don't know."
I felt something inside me crack.
"You've taken so much from me."
"I never forced you."
The words stunned me.
I couldn't speak.
He was right in one sense.
I had given willingly.
But there was something cruel about hearing it.
I had trusted him.
I had sacrificed for him.
I had damaged my own business helping him.
And now he was making it sound like everything was simply my choice.
I ended the conversation.
That night, I cried.
Not because I had lost money.
Because I was beginning to realize that I might have been losing myself.
Bathsheba's voice returned to me.
Don't forget yourself.
I had forgotten myself.
Completely.
I had rejected men because I wanted to protect James.
Then I met Mohammed and slowly gave him pieces of myself that I hadn't intended to give anyone.
My time.
My attention.
My money.
My trust.
My peace.
And perhaps most dangerously—
my judgment.
I began watching Mohammed differently.
Not as the man I loved.
As the man I needed to understand.
And once I removed my emotions from the picture, I started seeing things I had refused to see.
His excuses.
His demands.
His anger when I questioned him.
His lack of urgency about paying me.
His interest in what I could provide.
Everything suddenly looked different.
I wasn't ready to admit it yet.
But the truth was already standing in front of me.
And it was ugly.