I Realized My Friend Was Manipulating Me – After Her Drunk Driving Nearly Hit a Bus, I Cut Ties

The headlights came at us fast—blinding, white, and far too close. I felt the car jolt as Tina swerved, laughing like we were on some amusement park ride instead of the dark Spintex Road at 1 a.m. Her knuckles were loose on the steering wheel, her foot heavy on the accelerator, and I could smell the alcohol rising off her skin like heat.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

“Tina, slow down!” I shouted, but she only giggled, tilting her head like she was trying to hear something better. The car drifted dangerously into the lane of an approaching trotro bus, its headlights flashing frantically.

For a moment, time slowed.

The bus honked loudly—long, furious, terrified.

We missed it by inches.

My breath left my body in one violent gust as she corrected the car with a careless flick of her wrist. My palms were sweating, my stomach twisted, and something inside me snapped cleanly—painfully—like a rope pulled too tight.

Read also

My Wife’s One-Night Fling Resulted in a Baby — And I Had to Decide What Kind of Man I’d Be

That was the exact moment I knew: I had to cut Tina out of my life before she killed me—emotionally, mentally, or literally.

I wasn’t always the type of woman who found herself in near-death situations. If anything, I had built my whole adult life on avoiding exactly that kind of chaos.

My name is Amina, and in my late twenties, I liked to think of myself as careful—not boring, not rigid—just intentional. I grew up watching my mother rebuild her entire life after one reckless decision by my father, and I promised myself I would never gamble with my future like that.

Everything I did had a purpose: my job in finance, my savings plan, my boundaries, even my small circle of friends.

And then… there was Tina.

She swept into my world like warm wind off the Gulf of Guinea—loud, bright, utterly impossible to ignore. She was in her early thirties, but she had the youthful stubbornness of someone who believed nothing terrible could ever happen to her.

We met at a mutual friend’s birthday dinner at East Legon, and within two minutes of sitting beside her, she had me laughing harder than I had in months.

Read also

I Watched My Neighbour Neglect His Children For Months – Reporting Him Was My Only Option

That was Tina’s gift. She was magnetic.

She told stories with her whole body, hands flying, eyes sparkling, voice rising and falling like music. Even her flaws looked charming on first glance—her impulsive decisions, her “we’ll figure it out later” attitude, her messy love life.

She called it “living freely.” I called it “living dangerously.” But somehow, despite the contrast between us, we became close. Maybe too close.

We bonded over the things that mattered: work stress, heartbreaks, unfair bosses, and dreams of doing more with our lives.

She listened when I cried about my job, and I held her hand through a terrible breakup with her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Kojo. The friendship grew naturally—WhatsApp messages every morning, impromptu lunches, late-night phone calls where we talked about everything and nothing.

At first, I loved it.

Then slowly—so slowly I didn’t notice—it began to chip away at me.

Tina lived in the moment. If she woke up and felt like going to Cape Coast for a spontaneous road trip, she would call me. If she wanted to blow her entire salary on a night out at Osu, she would call me. If she was bored, sad, restless, or just feeling dramatic, she would call me.

Read also

I Discovered My Girlfriend's Affair After My Tumour Surgery and Ended Our Five-Year Relationship

And I, in my eagerness to be a supportive friend, answered every time.

Little by little, my own structure bent to fit her spontaneity. I started showing up late to work because we had been up talking until dawn. I spent money meant for bills on outings she insisted were “once in a lifetime.” I postponed career development courses because she needed me “just for today.”

Just for today turned into tomorrow. Tomorrow turned into always.

Yet, whenever I expressed worry—“Tina, I can’t skip work again,” or “I really shouldn’t spend this money”—she would laugh it off.

“You’re too serious, Amina. Live small!”

She said it with affection, with a playful nudge, but something about it made me feel small. Like being responsible was a weakness I needed to apologise for. Like my caution made me less fun, less worthy of friendship.

Still, I pushed the discomfort down.

Because Tina also had a softer side—a loyalty when it mattered, a warmth that made people flock to her. She remembered birthdays, she defended me fiercely in public, and she made me feel seen when the world felt heavy.

Read also

My Husband Destroyed My Sister’s Company — and I Unknowingly Helped Him Do It

And so I allowed myself to believe the best about her. I told myself all friendships required compromise, that it was normal to bend sometimes.

But in bending, I didn’t realise I was slowly folding myself out of shape.

By the time things got truly bad, I had already ignored too many signs. I had missed too many clues. I had convinced myself that Tina’s recklessness was harmless—that she would never do anything to put me in real danger.

I didn’t yet understand the truth. Not then.

Some people don’t need to intend harm to cause it. Some simply need you to let them.

Things didn’t suddenly fall apart; they frayed.

One thread at a time.

The first problem was pressure—small at first, harmless-looking, almost easy to dismiss.

It started with things like: “Amina, let’s go to Bloom Bar tonight. It’s Friday, why are you acting old?” Or, “Call in sick tomorrow, let’s have breakfast at Labadi Beach. You need sunlight and vibes.”

Sometimes I said no. But most times I said yes—even when I didn’t want to—because Tina had a way of turning my refusals into guilt.

Read also

I Watched My Half-Siblings Get the Dad I Never Had; An Old Note Showed His Deliberate Choice

The second was money.

Tina wasn’t irresponsible with her spending—she was reckless. She treated her salary like it had nine lives. She lived on impulse, on “soft life”, on the thrill of the moment. Meanwhile, I lived on spreadsheets, budgeting apps, and a quiet fear of being broke.

But Tina didn’t understand that. Or maybe she pretended not to.

One night, we were at a restaurant in Osu, and she insisted we order a bottle of wine I couldn’t afford. When I tried to protest, she waved her hand dismissively. “You work too hard not to enjoy yourself. Let this be your treat to you.”

But it wasn’t “my treat.” It was a dent in my rent savings.

The third beat was career pressure.

Tina believed life should be lived boldly—jump now, think later. So when I mentioned wanting to apply for a promotion at work, she told me, “Just resign and start your own business. You’re too smart to be stuck in an office.”

Read also

A DNA Test Said My Dad Wasn't My Father, But He Never Stopped Being One

I laughed at first. But she pushed the idea more and more.

“Amina, you’re scared of your own greatness,” she would say dramatically.

Meanwhile, I wasn’t scared—I was realistic. I needed stability. I needed health insurance. I needed certainty.

Every time I tried to explain, she made me feel like I was choosing fear over freedom.

That was when I began to feel something else—something ugly building inside me.

A mix of exhaustion and hurt.

But the fourth beat— the one I couldn’t ignore— was how she treated my boundaries.

Whenever I said “no,” she heard “convince me.”

Whenever I said “I’m not comfortable,” she heard “try harder.”

One evening, I told her I couldn’t go out because my mother was coming over early the next morning.

“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “Your mum will survive.”

Her words stung.

I forced a laugh to avoid a scene. But inside, something shifted. Something cracked.

Because I realised Tina didn’t just ignore my boundaries—she didn’t even believe they existed.

Read also

My Best Friend Exposed My Secret to Make a Joke, So I Walked Away From the Friendship

To her, my needs were negotiable. My comfort was an afterthought. My “no” was a challenge.

Still… I stayed.

Maybe because I feared losing a friend. Maybe because I believed she would grow out of it. Maybe because I thought loyalty meant enduring discomfort quietly.

But I didn’t know then that this was only the beginning.

That a far uglier truth was waiting just around the corner— a truth that would break something inside me that could never be repaired.

The shift didn’t happen with a fight. It didn’t happen with tears or confrontation.

It happened quietly—so quietly that if I hadn’t walked into the room at that exact moment, I might have continued living in Tina’s shadow, thinking her chaos was love, thinking her recklessness was loyalty.

It was a Saturday afternoon. We were meeting a few friends at Kwesi’s apartment to plan a birthday surprise. I arrived late because I’d stopped to buy snacks, and everyone else was already in the living room, laughing over something on Kwesi’s phone.

Read also

I Was 35, Divorced, and Done Trying — Then a Stranger at a Friend's Party Made Me Hope Again

I was about to call out a greeting when I heard my name.

“…Amina? Oh, she’s the easiest person to convince,” Tina said, giggling.

My stomach tightened.

Kwesi laughed. “Ei, how?”

“Oh, please,” she said, waving her hand dramatically. “If I want her to do something, I just make her think it’s spontaneous or fun. Or I guilt her small. She’ll bend. She always bends.”

My heart dropped to my feet.

The room erupted in laughter—not malicious laughter, but the kind that grows when people think they’re sharing inside jokes. Except the inside joke was… me.

My body felt hot, cold, then hot again. Something inside me curled in on itself—something fragile I didn’t even know was still alive. This wasn’t harmless teasing. This wasn’t friendship. This was strategy.

Deliberate. Conscious. Cruel in its carelessness.

I stepped into the room. The laughter died instantly. Tina’s smile faltered. “Amina? Oh—how long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough,” I said, my voice flatter than I intended.

Read also

I Went From Marketing Executive to Living in My Parents’ Spare Room, Forced to Rebuild Everything

The air tightened. No one spoke. Tina laughed awkwardly, brushing her braids back. “Come on, you know I was joking. Don’t be dramatic.”

But it didn’t feel like a joke. It felt like truth clothed in casual cruelty.

I didn’t fight her. I didn’t argue. I simply sat down, silent, my heart pounding hard against my ribs, trying to process the realisation that the woman I called my best friend didn’t just encourage my poor decisions—she engineered them. For her entertainment. For convenience. For control.

Something inside me dimmed. Two weeks later came the final straw.

Tina invited me to a party in Osu. I didn’t want to go, but saying no felt too raw after what I’d overheard. I didn’t want to start a fight; I wanted to observe. Understand. Confirm.

So I went. From the moment we arrived, I knew something was off. Tina was drinking too fast, laughing too loudly, moving with that reckless, glittery energy I’d foolishly mistaken for charm for years.

We got separated in the crowd. I tried calling her phone multiple times, but she didn’t pick up. When I finally found her near the bar, she was swaying slightly, eyes bright and unfocused.

Read also

After Years of Crippling Debt and a Toxic Job, a Wrong-Number Text Saved me at Rock Bottom

“Let’s go home,” I said.

“Relax,” she slurred. “The night just started.”

“Tina, you’re drunk.”

She rolled her eyes. “Amina, you worry too much. I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t fine—not even close. When we got to her car, dread filled me. “Tina, let’s take a Bolt instead,” I said. “We can come for your car tomorrow.”

She scoffed. “I’m not leaving my car here. Get in.”

I should have refused. I know that. But I’d spent years bending. And old habits don’t snap cleanly in one moment. I got in.

Five minutes into the drive, she almost hit a parked taxi. Ten minutes later, she blasted through a yellow light like it was a suggestion. And halfway down Spintex Road, she nearly collided with a trotro bus—just inches from disaster.

I saw my life flash in that blinding, violent moment.

That was it—the final, unbearable truth.

Tina didn’t just manipulate me. She endangered me.

And suddenly, every sacrifice I’d made for the sake of our friendship felt stupid, naïve, and heartbreakingly unnecessary.

Read also

I Was Homesick and Alone, Then a Stranger Sent Me A Cherished Gift

That near-crash ripped the last threads holding my loyalty together. I realised then: To her, I wasn’t a friend. I was a pawn. And I refused to be moved any further.

When the trotro’s headlights disappeared behind us, and the silence settled—heavy, accusing—I knew I couldn’t stay in that car another second.

My heart was still beating too fast, my breath shallow and shaky. Tina was humming to herself, as if we hadn’t just grazed death. As if my life—or hers—wasn’t worth more than a night of fun and recklessness.

“Tina,” I said quietly.

She didn’t hear me.

“Tina,” I repeated, louder this time.

She glanced at me, annoyed. “What now? Are you still tense? Amina, relax. I’ve been driving longer than you. I’m fine.” Her words hit me with a cold wave of clarity. She didn’t think she had done anything wrong. She didn’t see the danger. She didn’t see me.

Read also

Doctors Said I’d Never Walk Again — Ten Years Later, I Walked Back Into Their Hospital

“Pull over,” I said.

“Why?”

“Just… pull over.”

She frowned but eased the car toward the side of the road, tyres crunching gravel. The moment the car stopped, I unbuckled my seatbelt with hands that were still trembling.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

I opened the door.

“I’m going home,” I said.

“Are you being serious right now?” She laughed in disbelief. “Amina, get back inside. I’m not about to chase you on Spintex Road.”

“I’m not getting back in that car.”

She stared at me like she didn’t recognise me—a mixture of confusion, irritation, and something almost like offence.

“You’re overreacting,” she said. “We’re fine. Nothing happened.”

“Something almost happened,” I whispered. “And that’s enough.”

I stepped out onto the pavement, the night air cool against my burning skin. I could still hear the echo of the trotro’s horn, still feel the ghost of its headlights crossing our path.

Tina leaned across the passenger seat, frustration rising in her voice. “So what? You’re punishing me now?”

Read also

I Hated My Stepmom for Years — Then She Threw Me an 18th Birthday Party I’ll Never Forget

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I pulled out my phone and booked a taxi.

She scoffed loudly behind me. “Amina, you’re doing too much. You always act like the world will end if things aren’t perfect.”

Maybe once, those words would have pulled me back. Maybe once, guilt would have swallowed me whole.

But not that night.

Something had snapped permanently.

When my taxi arrived, I walked toward it without looking back. The driver glanced at me with concern—my face must have told the whole story.

For once, I chose myself.

The next morning, my phone was buzzing nonstop—calls, voice notes, messages.

I stared at the messages with a strange mix of sadness and relief. I didn’t reply. I didn’t have the strength to explain the years of chipped boundaries, the built-up resentment, the fear that had held me hostage.

She wouldn’t understand anyway. Not then. Maybe not ever.

But when she finally sent, “I don’t know what your problem is, but if you want to act brand new, fine,” that was when the last emotional tie dissolved.

Read also

I Met My Dad's "Friend" at Fifteen — and Kept His Affair Secret for Years

I blocked her. Not with anger. Not with hatred. With certainty.

When I think back on everything, the near-crash wasn’t the only wake-up call—it was simply the loudest one. The truth had been whispering for years in a language I chose not to hear.

I used to believe loyalty meant holding on, even when it hurt. I used to think being a good friend meant bending, adjusting, sacrificing, smoothing every rough edge until the other person was comfortable. But all that did was teach people how to step over me without noticing the damage they left behind.

Walking away from Tina was painful, but it was also the moment I realised something important: protecting your peace is not selfish—it’s necessary.

Boundaries aren’t walls to keep people out; they’re lines that teach people how to love you better. And anyone who mocks, dismisses, or tramples those lines isn’t a friend… they’re a lesson.

I still care about her. I still hope she finds her way. But I’ve learned that caring for someone doesn’t obligate me to stay in places where I’m diminished, manipulated, or endangered.

Read also

My Sister Disappeared After Her Wedding Night and Ten Years Later, I Found Her Letter

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is say, “I’m choosing myself now.”

And maybe the real question is this: What would your life look like if you finally chose you?

This story is inspired by the real experiences of our readers. We believe that every story carries a lesson that can bring light to others. To protect everyone’s privacy, our editors may change names, locations, and certain details while keeping the heart of the story true. Images are for illustration only. If you’d like to share your own experience, please contact us via email.

Proofreading by Racheal Murimi, copy editor at YEN.com.gh.

Source: YEN.com.gh