My Girlfriend Used My Account to Insult Women — I Took Back Control and Changed Every Password

At 1:17 a.m., my phone buzzed with a message from a client in Kumasi: "Kwame, why did you call me a desperate village girl from your account?" I opened Instagram and saw a fresh reply in my DMs. It was my name, my profile picture, and a line I would never say. My stomach turned as more notifications poured in, one after another.

I sat up in bed in my Madina apartment, screen lighting the room like a torch. My hands shook as I scrolled.

A woman I had met once at a networking event had written, "You are disgusting." Another message said, "Tell your girlfriend she has won. You and your account can both rot." A third had already blocked me.

I tapped into the conversations and felt my chest tighten. The replies were harsh, jealous, and strangely personal. They accused women of chasing me. They mocked their looks. They dragged their jobs. It sounded like a bitter stranger using my face as a mask.

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I checked my sent messages. There were replies I did not remember typing, posted at hours I was asleep. Some were in the middle of the day when I had been in traffic on the Tetteh Quarshie Interchange, phone in my pocket, both hands on the wheel.

My first thought was hacking. My second thought was worse.

I turned my head slowly and looked at Adjoa sleeping beside me, her face calm, her phone on the bedside table. A new notification popped up on my screen.

"Stop pretending you are innocent," it read. "I have screenshots."

I am Kwame Mensah, twenty-eight, and my work keeps my phone busy. I do digital marketing for a small agency in East Legon. On an ordinary day, I respond to clients, colleagues, vendors, cousins asking for help, aunties forwarding prayer videos, and old schoolmates checking in.

My DMs are loud, but not dangerous. People talk. People joke. People send business enquiries. Nothing deep.

When I started dating Adjoa Owusu, I assumed her jealousy was normal behaviour. She asked questions like, "Who is that?" when my phone lit up. She wanted to know why I followed certain women. She insisted on seeing pictures from events, as if proof could calm her mind.

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I tried to be patient. Adjoa was intelligent, beautiful, and intense. She worked in a salon in Adabraka and spoke as if she were always fighting for space in the world. Sometimes her confidence slipped, and she would say, "Girls are wicked. They will take your man if you blink."

I would laugh and assure her. "I am not going anywhere," I always said.

And I meant it.

I thought we were building trust. I even shared some passwords with Adjoa, casually, the way couples do when they are cooking, and one person says, "Log in for me," or "Check the delivery." I did not write them down for her. I did not hand her my account like a gift. I had failed to guard it like a bank vault.

I never imagined she would use my name to hurt people.

I never imagined she would turn my social media into a weapon and then sleep beside me as if nothing had happened.

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The first sign came like a small scratch.

I woke up one morning and saw a post on my Instagram story: a screenshot of a random woman's selfie with a caption that read, "Some of you need to rest. You are not even fine." I stared at it, confused. I had never posted anything like that. I deleted it quickly and blamed tiredness. Maybe I had pocket-posted. Maybe my account glitched.

Two days later, another thing happened. A colleague, Yaa, messaged me about a client brief. When I went to reply, I saw someone had already answered her.

The message said, "Stop disturbing. I know your type."

My face went hot. I typed fast. 'Yaa', I did not send that. I'm so sorry.

She replied, "Kwame, are you okay? This is not funny."

I told myself it had to be hacking. I changed my password and felt a little relief. Then it got worse.

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Women started reacting to me as if I were a madman.

A lady from a brand partnership blocked me after sending, "Please keep your insults. I am not competing with your girlfriend." Another woman cussed me out in Twi and said my mother had failed.

I started checking my DMs like a man checking for termites in his walls. Every conversation had new replies written in a tone that was not mine. The words were petty and sharp. The grammar was messy, full of emotional punches.

"Trying to steal someone's man?"

"Your waist beads cannot save you."

"Stop acting like you are better than my girlfriend."

"You think because you wear wig you are special?"

I felt sick reading them because it was my face insulting women who had done nothing but send routine messages.

The insults were not only to strangers. Even my cousin Efua, who lived in Takoradi, asked why I had replied to her joke with "You talk too much like a desperate girl." She had called my mother.

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I panicked.

I told Adjoa one evening as we ate fried rice from a joint in Haatso. "I think my Instagram is hacked," I said. "Someone is replying my messages."

Adjoa's eyes widened. "Ei. That's serious."

She leaned in, suddenly sweet. "Maybe it's those boys who sell data bundles. You should report it."

She looked genuinely concerned. She even held my phone and said, "Let me see." She scrolled like a helper, not a suspect.

She told me to calm down. She promised she would support me. She kissed my cheek and said, "We will fix it."

Meanwhile, the messages kept flowing.

It became a pattern. Any woman who messaged me got attacked. If a woman complimented my work, the reply snapped, "Find your own man." If a woman asked for a quote, the reply said, "You think I am cheap? Go and beg elsewhere."

People began to avoid me. My professional image started cracking. My boss asked if everything was alright because a client complained that I was "hostile and unstable."

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I started feeling like I was losing my own name.

The truth came through a single sentence.

A woman named Naa Dede had messaged me about a campaign we had discussed at a seminar in Ridge. Her message was polite and brief. I went to reply and saw my account had already responded.

It read, "Do not try that soft voice thing. I know you. You like taken men. Also, tell your brother in Tema to stop calling my girlfriend."

My heart stopped.

Naa Dede did not have my girlfriend's number. Naa Dede did not know Adjoa had a brother in Tema. Only one person could have written that and chosen that detail.

A week earlier, Adjoa and I fought over her brother Kobby's call to complain about money. During that argument, she had shouted, "Even my own brother stresses me, and you don't understand!"

That exact phrasing sat in the DM, like a fingerprint.

I did not confront her immediately. I needed proof, not vibes.

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I opened Instagram's login activity and stared at the list of connected devices. Someone had logged into my account from a phone model I did not own, in locations that matched Adjoa's movements. It showed frequent sessions, some at odd hours, some during the day.

I remembered something else then. Adjoa often asked to use my phone "just to take a picture" or "to check something small." She had access long enough to copy passwords. She had also once said, casually, "Your emails are too many. I can help you clean them." I had laughed, thinking she was being helpful.

Now it made ugly sense.

She had taken my passwords. She had logged into my accounts on her phone. She had deleted verification emails, so I would not see alerts. She had been replying to DMs, posting stories, and creating chaos for months, then acting shocked beside me.

She was not protecting our relationship. She was controlling it by setting fire to every bridge between me and any woman who existed in my inbox.

And she had been using my face to do it.

I experienced heartbreak that resembled disgust more than sadness.

That night, I did not shout. I did not throw anything. I did not perform.

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I waited until we were home in Madina and the room was quiet. I sat on the edge of the bed with my phone in my hand.

"Adjoa," I said, "are you logged into my Instagram on your phone?"

She blinked fast. "What kind of question is that?"

"Answer me," I said.

She laughed nervously. "No."

I turned my screen towards her and showed her the login activity. "This device," I said, "is not mine. It has been active for months. And there is a message with a detail only you know."

Her face changed. It was quick, like a curtain dropping.

She tried again. "Maybe someone cloned my phone. These things happen."

I stared at her. "Adjoa, stop."

For a few seconds, she stayed silent. Then tears came, sudden and dramatic.

"I did it because I love you," she cried. "You don't understand how women are. They will take you. I had to protect us."

"You protected us by insulting people in my name?" I asked.

"They were coming close!" she snapped, then continued crying. "You are always talking to girls. You make me feel small."

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I breathed in slowly. "Adjoa, insecurity is not an excuse for sabotage. You damaged my work. You embarrassed me. You harassed women who did nothing wrong."

She reached for my hand. "Kwame, please. I will stop."

"You did not slip once," I said. "You built a whole second life inside my account."

Then I stood up.

I changed every password, starting with my email. I signed out of every device I did not recognise. I enabled multifactor authentication on every account, from my banking apps to my work accounts. I checked for recovery emails and changed them. I added new security questions. I made sure she could not reset anything from her side.

Adjoa watched, crying, then angry, then quiet.

When I finished, I looked at her. "Pack your things," I said. "You are leaving tonight."

She protested. She begged. She tried to blame me again. But my decision did not move.

My cousin Kojo came to help because I did not want drama. Adjoa left with a small bag and a face full of rage and tears. Kojo locked the gate behind her.

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After she left, I did something that humbled me.

I opened my DMs and wrote apologies.

To Yaa, to Naa Dede, to the brand partner, to my cousin Efua, to anyone my account had attacked, I said the same thing: "I am sorry. Someone accessed my account without my permission and sent those messages. I take responsibility for fixing the damage. You did not deserve that."

I did not drag Adjoa's name through the mud. I did not turn it into gossip. I just owned the repair and kept my boundaries.

I used to think control looks like love because it comes with attention. It comes with questions. It comes with "I just care." But care without respect becomes surveillance.

Adjoa did not trust me, and instead of facing that fear, she tried to control the world around me. She saw every woman as a threat, so she turned my account into a shield made of insults.

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The painful part is that her actions did not only hurt strangers. They also damaged my reputation, my work, and my peace. They pulled innocent people into a mess they never asked for.

I learnt something important about boundaries in relationships.

You do not prove trust by handing someone access to your life. Trust is demonstrated by how they behave when you are asleep, when you are not watching, and when they have power and could abuse it. Adjoa had power, and she used it to harm.

Taking back control was not only about changing passwords. It was about changing my mindset.

I can love someone and still say no. I can be patient and still protect myself. I can empathise with insecurity without letting it become my prison.

Now I keep my accounts secure. I use multifactor authentication. I log out of shared devices. I refuse to equate privacy with secrecy, and I refuse to equate openness with permission.

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And when someone asks for access as proof of love, I pause. Love should not require me to hand over the keys to my identity.

If someone could speak through your mouth and ruin your name, would you still call it love, or would you finally call it what it is: control dressed up as affection?

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.

Source: YEN.com.gh