David was my very close friend. We grew up together in Tema, attended the same secondary school in Accra, and later ended up at the University of Ghana. I came from a well-off family, while David’s family struggled to make ends meet. Life was tough for him, but he was a fighter.

Things took a turn in our second year at Legon. David lost his father—his only breadwinner. His mother, a full-time housewife, couldn’t support his education. I still remember the day he came to my room in Commonwealth Hall, crying like a child.

“Kofi, I think I have to drop out. I can’t continue like this,” he said, his voice shaking.

I couldn’t bear to see my friend in pain. I called my father, and by the grace of God, he agreed to take care of David’s fees, his hostel rent, and even his allowances. My parents treated him like a second son. David ate what I ate, wore what I wore, and lived life like he had no worries. He was beyond grateful, and I believed God had used me to save his education.

After we graduated, we did our National Service—I was posted to the Ministry of Trade and Industry in Accra, and David got posted to a bank in Kumasi. Despite the distance, we stayed in touch. After the service, my father offered David a managerial position in one of his companies. The salary was excellent, and life started smiling at him. He moved his family from their one-room apartment in Tema New Town to a decent two-bedroom house in Adenta. I was proud of him.

As for me, I was doing well too. I worked under my father as the director of operations in one of his companies. Life was smooth.

Two years later, I met Lydia at a youth empowerment summit in Accra. I still remember that day vividly. She was wearing a simple kente dress with flat slippers, yet her beauty radiated through the entire room. She had this calm demeanor and bright smile that melted my heart. I couldn’t concentrate during the seminar because my eyes kept darting towards her. After the program, I manned up and approached her.

“Hi, I’m Kofi. Please, can I get your number so I can pretend I didn’t meet you here today?” I said with a sly smile.

She laughed shyly. “Are you always this smooth?”

“Only when I meet someone like you,” I replied.

She gave me her number, and that was the beginning of our beautiful love story. Lydia was every man’s dream—smart, beautiful, respectful, and cultured. She was the type of girl you proudly introduced to your family. When I finally did, my mom couldn’t stop singing her praises.

After three years of courtship, I proposed to Lydia at Labadi Beach during sunset. She said yes, and we planned a beautiful traditional wedding in her hometown in Cape Coast. We were happy. I loved Lydia with all my heart, and I was ready to do anything to make her happy.

But as the years passed, one issue kept coming up. Lydia never seemed comfortable around David. Anytime David came to visit, she would greet him coldly and disappear into the room. Sometimes she’d even whisper, “Kofi, I don’t like this your friend. Can’t you tell him to stop coming here?”

I would get angry and defend David. “Lydia, do you know what this guy has done for me? He’s my brother from another mother. Stop being disrespectful.” She would shake her head and quietly walk away.

David started coming over to our house frequently. He would sometimes come unannounced, especially on weekends. One Friday, he called to say he was coming to spend the weekend with us. I told Lydia, and as expected, she wasn’t pleased.

The next day, just as David arrived, I remembered I had left an important file at the office. Lydia wanted to come with me, but I told her to stay and take care of David.

“You’re being dramatic,” I said, laughing off her concerns. “It’s David. He’s like a brother. Relax.”

I left the house and got stuck in heavy traffic around Spintex Road. It took me nearly two hours to return home. As I entered the living room, I saw Lydia sitting on the floor, shaking and crying uncontrollably. Her tears soaked the kaba blouse she wore. I rushed to her, confused.

“Lydia, what happened?”

She slapped me across the face. “You betrayed me, Kofi!”

“What did I do?” I asked, holding my stinging cheek.

She slapped me again, stood up, and screamed, “I curse the day I met you!” She stormed into the room, locked the door, and refused to open it.

David was nowhere to be found. I called his number, but it was switched off. Lydia eventually packed her things and left the house.

“Kofi, you’re a fool!” she yelled through her tears as she drove away.

I was broken and confused. Then I remembered our CCTV camera. I rushed to check the footage.

What I saw made my knees go weak.

David had arrived minutes after I left. Lydia opened the door and tried to leave his presence, but David grabbed her hand. “Why are you avoiding me? Or is it because I’m better than Kofi?”

“David, leave me alone!” Lydia shouted, but he pushed her into a chair and…

I couldn’t watch anymore. The friend I trusted with my life had raped my wife. She screamed my name, but I was stuck in traffic, oblivious to what was happening. After he was done, David casually stood up, zipped his trousers, and said, “So this is what my friend has been enjoying? No wonder he’s so obsessed with you.”

I was shaking. I couldn’t breathe. I called my parents, and they came to pick me up. My father’s face was stone-cold when I showed him the footage. My mother was weeping uncontrollably.

The police arrested David later that evening. The betrayal was too much for me to handle. A friend I considered my brother destroyed everything I held dear. My marriage. My trust. My peace.

In Ghana, there’s a saying: “Not everyone who smiles with you has good intentions.” I learned that the hard way.