I still remember the day Rose suggested Afro Introduction. We were sitting on the balcony, the sunset painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink.
"Prisca," she said, twirling a strand of her hair, "you've been so down lately. Why don't you try Afro? You might meet someone decent."
I laughed nervously. "Do you really think it's safe?"
"Safe enough," Rose replied, shrugging. "Just be careful. But trust me — it could be fun. And maybe… who knows? You might meet someone good."
I hesitated. My heart was still bruised from Derek, still aching from his words, his belittling, his constant reminders that I was childish, too emotional, not enough. But curiosity and hope won over fear.
That evening, I created my profile.
The first message came almost immediately. Michael, 35, from the UK.
"Hi," it read. Simple. Polite.
I smiled, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.
"Hi, Michael," I replied cautiously.
The conversation started light — about music, movies, and the mundane details of our day. He seemed interesting, confident, and attentive. I laughed at his jokes, and he responded with emojis that made me feel seen.
A few days later, he sent a message that made my heart stumble.
"I'd love to see more of you," he typed. "Maybe some photos?"
I froze, staring at the screen. My fingers shook as I replied, "I… I don't feel comfortable sending those."
"Come on, Prisca," he insisted. "It's just for me. You trust me, right?"
I wanted to trust him, but something in his tone felt wrong. I laughed nervously. "Not yet."
Days went by, and Michael's messages became more persistent. I started feeling uneasy, the same feeling I had felt with Derek — like I was being cornered, tested, made to justify myself. Eventually, I stopped responding.
It wasn't malicious. He didn't yell or threaten. But I learned something important: not everyone who smiles at you online wants to protect your heart.
Then came Michel Ebling, 29, from Denmark.
I first noticed him in a group chat on Afro. He seemed different — calm, polite, gentle. He reached out privately one evening.
"Hi Prisca," his message read. "Would you like to talk?"
I hesitated for a moment and then replied, "Sure."
Our first video call felt like sunlight after a storm.
"Hi," he said, smiling softly. "It's nice to meet you."
"The pleasure is mine," I replied, my heart beating faster than usual.
We talked for hours that first night. About school, life, our families, our dreams. He asked questions with patience, and I felt safe. Unlike Michael, he never pushed boundaries.
"You seem… different from everyone I've met online," he said one night during a call.
"Different how?" I asked, smiling shyly.
"You're real," he said. "You don't pretend to be perfect. You don't hide your feelings. I like that."
"I guess I've had to learn that honesty is safer than pretending," I admitted.
We laughed, we shared stories, and I started feeling something I hadn't felt in a long time: trust. He sent small gifts, thoughtful messages, sometimes even money to help me when I was in minor need — always without me asking. For eight months, Michel became my comfort across the miles.
Then came the day I needed him most.
"Michel…" I typed, my fingers trembling. "I really need your help. I need 400,000 shillings to pay tuition."
He paused before replying. "I don't have it right now. I'm going out with my dad. Can it wait?"
I forced a calm reply. "Okay. I understand."
But after that, the warmth began to fade. Messages became off and on, calls shorter, his attention slipping through the cracks of distance. I tried not to panic, telling myself he was busy.
Days later, I realized I had been blocked.
Panic set in. I tried different numbers, Facebook, even followed his mom on Instagram — though I didn't say anything. I just wanted answers, to understand why the man who had felt like home could vanish without explanation.
I remember the night he finally replied. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst. After months of searching, after every dead-end, every unanswered message, there it was—his name lighting up my phone: Michel Ebling.
I couldn't hold back. I typed, my fingers shaking:
"Michel… why? Why did you disappear? What did I do to make you hate me?"
The reply came after what felt like forever.
"Really, Prisca… you asked for a lot of money, and there was another girl here in Arhus who didn't ask for anything. And… you were so far in Uganda. I love you, much, so I had no option… but the easiest way to block you… I'm such an asshole."
I stared at the screen. My chest tightened. Part of me wanted to scream, part of me just wanted to cry. But then… there it was. The truth. His truth.
I sent a message, almost whispering to my phone:
"Michel… can we try again?"
He pleaded. I could feel it in every word. "Please… give me another chance. I'll do better. I'll be here. I swear."
Against my better judgment, I said yes. And for a while… it was like we'd never been apart. Our bond grew stronger. Every night we talked, laughed, dreamed together. We joked about marriage online, about a life we wanted so badly, but reality always reminded us how far apart we were. He couldn't come to Uganda, and I couldn't just travel. But we tried. We held on.
Rose kept asking me about him. I lied at first. "We're fine," I said. But one day, I opened up. "We broke up… then we reunited." She smiled, genuinely happy for me. Rose—short, light-skinned, in her forties, a doctor, but running her own salon—always had this way of making me feel lighter, even in heavy moments.
But then… it happened again. Michel went silent. Calls unanswered. Messages ignored. And this time, I didn't chase.
I remember staring at my phone, the glow harsh in the dark. My heart ached, but I knew… it was over.
I whispered to myself, firm this time:
"I loved you, Michel. I hoped for you. But I won't chase someone who chooses silence over me. This is the last time."
I put my phone down. And just like that, I let him go.