I Risked My Marriage and Kids to Feed My Drug Addiction, Then Rebuilt My Life With Community Support
The metallic clink of my wedding ring hitting the glass counter felt like a gunshot in the cramped, salt-stained pawnshop. "Please, just give me the money," I whispered, my voice trembling as I avoided the man’s judging gaze. He sneered, sliding a few crumpled cedi notes toward me while the acrid, choking smell of stale tobacco and old copper filled the air.
Don't miss out! Get your daily dose of sports news straight to your phone. Join YEN's Sports News channel on WhatsApp now!
Source: Getty Images
"Is this all my marriage is worth to you?" I barked, a sudden, jagged fire of desperation rising in my chest.
"Take it or leave it, Afia," he retorted coldly, his yellowed fingernails tapping rhythmically on the glass. "We both know you aren't buying bread with this, and we both know you'll be back when the shakes start again."
I snatched the notes, the paper feeling oily and slick against my sweating palms. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, and I bolted into the thick, humid Madina air that tasted of charcoal and impending rain.
The neon signs of the market blurred into streaks of electric blue and violent red against the darkening sky. I could still feel the phantom weight of the gold on my finger, a cold, throbbing reminder of the man I was betraying.
"Forgive me, Kwesi," I breathed into the wind, but the words were swallowed by the roar of passing tro-tros. Everything shifted in that moment; I wasn't just a mother anymore, I was a ghost chasing a ghost.
I am Afia, a thirty-four-year-old woman who once believed her foundation was made of solid granite. Kwesi and I built our lives in a cramped two-room flat in the heart of Madina, Accra.
Source: UGC
We shared our small space with Ama, Kojo, and our three-year-old, little Nana. Life in the city was never kind; it was a constant, grinding machine of bills and expectations. "The school fees have increased again, Afia," Kwesi sighed one evening, rubbing his weary, bloodshot eyes.
I looked up from my sewing machine, the needle stuttering through a piece of bright kente cloth. "I will take on three more dresses this week," I promised, despite the throbbing ache in my shoulders.
I worked as a seamstress from home to help make ends meet while Kwesi travelled for work. He was often gone for weeks, leaving me to navigate the chaos of motherhood and commerce alone.
"You are the pillar of this house," he told me, kissing my forehead before his last departure. Those words, intended to be a compliment, felt more like a heavy crown of thorns.
The stress of daily survival began to erode my spirit until I felt like a hollow, brittle shell. Every morning brought a fresh wave of demands for water bills, electricity, and market supplies for the children. I felt the heat of the charcoal stove and the humidity of the room pressing against my skin.
"Mama, Nana has a fever again," Ama would say, her voice adding to the mounting pile of worries. I would just nod, my mind racing through our empty bank account while I stitched until midnight.
Source: UGC
My fingers were often pricked and bleeding, the tiny crimson spots staining the expensive fabrics I could never afford.
My friend from the market, Serwaa, noticed my hands shaking as I pinned a hem one afternoon. "You look like you are about to snap, Afia," she remarked, reaching into her beaded handbag. She pulled out a small, amber bottle of cough syrup and a blister pack of white pills.
"Take a little of this; it will make the world feel soft again," she whispered. I looked at the medicine, the light reflecting off the glass in a way that seemed almost hypnotic. "Is it for pain?" I asked, eyeing the unlabelled bottle with a mixture of fear and intense curiosity.
Serwaa leaned in closer, the scent of her lavender perfume mixing with the dusty air of my sewing room. "It is for the weight you carry, my sister," she said, her voice a soothing, rhythmic hum. I hesitated, looking at the sleeping form of Nana in the corner of the room, her breath ragged.
"Is it safe?" I asked, my voice barely audible over the monotonous hum of the ceiling fan. Serwaa laughed gently, patting my hand with a warmth that felt like a lifeline in the dark. "It is just medicine for the soul, a way to keep the pillar from crumbling," she assured me.
That night, after the children were tucked in, I took my first dose and felt a miraculous, velvet silence. The crushing weight of the school fees and the lonely nights seemed to evaporate into a shimmering purple haze.
Source: Getty Images
I sat by the window, watching the streetlights of Madina flicker, and for once, the noise did not bother me. "I can breathe," I whispered to the empty room, feeling the tension drain out of my locked jaw. The world transformed from a jagged landscape of demands into a smooth, manageable sea of calm.
For the first time in years, I did not lie awake worrying about the rising price of charcoal. I felt light, disconnected from the physical pain of my repetitive work and the loud, clashing demands of life. "You look rested today, Mama," Ama noted the next morning, her bright eyes searching my relaxed, smiling face.
I smiled back, a secret warmth spreading through my veins as I tucked a stray hair behind her ear. "I just had a very good dream, Ama," I replied, the lie slipping out with terrifying ease and grace.
I told myself it was just a temporary crutch to get me through a difficult, lonely season. I truly believed I could stop whenever the world stopped feeling so impossibly heavy, loud, and unforgiving.
The descent was not a sudden fall but a slow, greasy slide into a pit I could not climb out of. Within months, the "soul medicine" was no longer enough to keep the shadows of my anxiety at bay.
I moved from the syrupy sedatives to harder, more expensive substances found in the back alleys of Circle. My sewing machine, once the source of our survival, sat silent and dusty in the corner of the room.
Source: UGC
"Why aren't you working, Afia?" Kwesi asked over a crackling phone line from the northern region. I rubbed the puncture marks on my arm, my skin itching with a phantom fire that demanded more fuel.
"The market is slow, and my eyes are tired," I lied, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. My obsession became a full-time job, requiring a level of deception that made me a stranger to myself. I began to see our household items not as memories or tools, but as currency for my next high.
First, it was a small radio, then a set of fine Dutch wax prints I had saved for years. "Where is my blue dress, Mama?" Ama asked one afternoon, her brow furrowed as she searched the wardrobe. I snapped at her, my temper flaring like a sudden wildfire because I could not admit I sold it.
The physical sensations of withdrawal were a cruel tormentor that visited me every time the money ran out. My skin felt like it was being crawled upon by a thousand invisible ants, biting and stinging. The smell of the Madina market, usually a comfort of spices and fried fish, became an overwhelming stench of rot.
Light pained my eyes, forcing me to keep the curtains drawn even when the children wanted to play. "It is too bright in here, leave me alone!" I screamed at Kojo when he opened the door. The look of pure terror on his seven-year-old face should have broken my heart, but I felt numb.
Source: Getty Images
Desperation drove me to the edges of the city, where the air was thick with the scent of burning plastic. I met men with hollow eyes who traded packets of white powder for the gold band on my finger. "That ring represents my life," I whispered to the dealer, my fingers trembling as I slid it off.
He didn't care about my life; he only cared about the purity of the transaction and his profit. I walked home in a daze, my hand feeling strangely light and exposed without the weight of my marriage. When Ama saw my bare hand, she stopped mid-sentence, her eyes wide with a dawning, horrific realisation.
"Mama, where is your wedding ring?" she asked, her voice small and trembling like a leaf in the wind. I turned away from her, pretending to be busy with a pot of cold soup on the stove. "I took it off to wash the clothes, Ama," I snapped, refusing to meet her gaze or see her tears.
The lies were piling up like a mountain of refuse, suffocating the love that once filled our small home. I started staying out late, telling Kwesi I was at the market or paying off old debts. In reality, I was chasing a ghost through the dark streets, losing my soul to a chemical master.
I felt the control slipping through my fingers like dry sand, leaving me vulnerable and utterly alone in my shame. Every time I looked at Nana, I saw a reminder of the woman I used to be before the darkness. I was no longer a mother or a wife; I was a ghost haunting the lives of the people I loved.
Source: UGC
The debt collectors began to knock on our door, their voices booming through the thin walls of the flat. "Afia owes us for the fabric!" they shouted, but I hid under the bed, holding my breath in terror. The walls were closing in, and I knew the ceiling was about to collapse on my head.
The pressure in my chest tightened until I could barely draw breath, a physical weight that felt like a mountain of lead. I was prowling the room, searching for anything left to sell, my eyes landing on Ama’s school bag.
"Please, Mama, I need my books for the exams tomorrow," she pleaded, clutching the strap with white-knuckled intensity.
I lunged for it, my movements jagged and alien, fueled by a craving that screamed louder than my daughter’s voice. "I am the mother here, and I say we need the money for food!" I lied, my voice cracking into a high, hysterical pitch.
The sound of her sobbing followed me out into the street, a haunting melody that vibrated in the marrow of my bones.
The evening air in Madina was thick with the smell of charcoal smoke and the greasy scent of street-side frying. I walked toward the red-lit stalls of the chemical vendors, my feet moving on autopilot while my mind fractured.
Source: Getty Images
"You again, Afia? You look like a ghost walking in broad daylight," a vendor remarked, his teeth yellowed by habit and greed. I didn't answer; I simply thrust the school bag at him, my heart a cold stone in my chest.
He handed me a small plastic wrap, and for a moment, the world went silent, the neon lights blurring into soft, glowing halos. I felt a fleeting sense of peace, but it was a hollow, brittle thing that shattered the moment I turned for home.
The silence in the flat when I returned was louder than any shout, a heavy, suffocating blanket of judgment. Kwesi was sitting at the small wooden table, his face illuminated by a single, flickering candle because I had spent the electricity money.
Beside him stood Akua, our neighbour, her arms folded across her chest with an expression of grim, unshakeable certainty. "I saw her, Kwesi," Akua said, her voice cutting through my drug-induced fog like a sharp blade of ice.
"I saw her behind the stalls at Nima, and I saw her at the pharmacy that sells the 'blessed' syrups." I tried to laugh, a dry, rattling sound that died in my throat as Kwesi stood up, his chair scraping harshly.
"Is this true, Afia? Have you traded our children's future for bottles of poison?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
Source: UGC
I opened my mouth to weave another lie, but the words wouldn't come; my tongue felt heavy and coated in the dust of my own deceit.
"It’s for my nerves, Kwesi! The man at the chemist said it’s a healing balm for the stress of the house!" I finally erupted. Akua stepped forward, tossing a handful of crumpled flyers onto the table—advertisements for "miracle stress cures" and "energy pills."
"These are not healers, Afia; these are predators feeding on mothers like us," she whispered, her anger softening into a terrible, piercing pity.
I looked at the flyers, seeing the faces of smiling women, and suddenly the veil was ripped away from my eyes. I wasn't an isolated failure; I was a target in a vast, calculated network of exploitation that thrived on our exhaustion.
"They told me it would help me sew faster, help me stay awake for the kids," I sobbed, collapsing onto the floor. The "health influencers" in the market and the local pharmacies had sold us addiction disguised as a spiritual or physical remedy.
I realised with a jolt of lightning-bolt clarity that my "escape" was a prison built by people who knew exactly how tired I was. The shame I felt was no longer a solitary weight; it was a hot, communal fire that burned away the last of my excuses.
Source: UGC
"They promised me strength, but they only took my gold and my dignity," I cried out, clutching Kwesi's knees. He didn't pull away, but he didn't reach down to lift me either; he simply looked at me with a profound, quiet sadness.
"We thought you were sick with a curse, but the curse was bought in a bottle," he said softly, his shadow stretching long across the room. I saw the network of other women in my mind—the tired market queens and the struggling seamstresses—all caught in the same trap.
We were being harvested like crops, our desperation turned into someone else’s profit margin while our families crumbled in the dark. The revelation didn't fix my cravings, but it gave my enemy a name and a face, changing the way I saw my own reflection.
The path to redemption was a jagged, uphill climb that required me to strip away every remaining layer of my pride. Kwesi didn't offer a neat forgiveness; he offered a boundary, a hard line drawn in the red dust of our Madina floor.
"I will stay for the children, but you must walk toward the light every single day," he stated, his voice firm and devoid of the old warmth. I began attending a support group held in the basement of a local church, a circle of women who shared my hollow eyes.
Source: UGC
"My name is Afia, and I sold my wedding ring to buy a lie," I confessed during my first meeting, the words feeling like shards of glass.
I learned to sit with the physical agony of sobriety, the cold sweats that made the sheets feel like sheets of sandpaper against my skin. The smell of the morning rain on the hot earth became my new anchor, a sensory reminder that I was still alive and grounded.
"Look at the garden, Mama; the peppers are finally turning red," Kojo said, tugging at my hand one afternoon. I knelt in the dirt with him, feeling the grit under my fingernails and the warmth of the sun on my neck.
I was no longer hiding in the shadows; I was learning to breathe in the brightness, even when it hurt my eyes.
The money I once fed to the "healing" vendors now went into a small tin hidden beneath the floorboards for school fees and fresh fruit. I went back to the pawnshop, not to sell, but to look at the empty space where my ring had once sat.
It was gone, sold to someone else, a permanent scar on my history that I had to accept as the price of my survival. "You are different now, Mama; you are actually here with us," Ama remarked, her voice regaining the melodic brightness I had nearly extinguished.
Source: UGC
I didn't promise her a perfect future; I promised her a mother who was present, honest, and willing to fight the demons of the past.
Looking back at the wreckage of my addiction, I realise that my greatest mistake wasn't just taking that first dose. It was the belief that I had to carry the world on my shoulders in absolute, terrifying silence until I broke.
Survival in a place like Madina isn't a solo performance; it is a communal dance that requires us to lean on one another. I thought I was being strong by hiding my struggle, but true strength was found in the moment I admitted I was drowning.
We live in a world that tries to sell us quick fixes for deep-seated exhaustion, turning our very humanity into a commodity.
The community that I feared would judge me became the very safety net that caught me when I finally let myself fall. I see the vendors in the market differently now, and I speak up when I hear them whispering about "blessed pills" to tired young mothers.
Source: UGC
My life no longer shines as before, but it feels real, and it stands on hard truths and earned trust. I am a seamstress again, but I sew with a steady hand and a heart that no longer needs to be numbed to endure the day.
The weight of the world is still there, but I have learned that I don't have to carry it alone to be worthy of love.
If you found yourself standing at the edge of that same dark pit, would you have the courage to reach out your hand before you lost everything?
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
