23/08/2026
The Weight he carried
His name was Nji. 35 years old. Born and raised in Douala, where the rain smells like roasted corn and diesel, and where everyone has an opinion about your life.
For 10 years, Nji carried the same heartbreak like a second phone in his pocket.
Her name was Amina. His university love. The girl who knew how he took his tea â no sugar, extra ginger. The one he planned a future with back when futures felt cheap and easy.
Then one rainy evening in 2014 she said, âI canât do this anymore,â and left. No fight. No cheating. Just... gone. Moved to Canada for school and never looked back.
Nji never deleted the chats. He never gave back the hoodie. He told himself he was just being loyal.
But loyalty turned into something else.
Every new woman who came close got measured against a ghost.
âIf Amina was here, she would have laughed at that joke.â
âIf Amina was here, she wouldnât ask me for money like that.â
He became the man at family meetings who said, âWomen are all the same.â The man who stopped trying. The man who drank 3 beers instead of 1 just to quiet the noise.
His friends noticed. His younger sister noticed.
âBro,â she told him one Sunday after church in BonabĂ©ri, âyouâre not protecting your heart. Youâre punishing it. And youâre punishing us too.â
That night Nji couldnât sleep. He scrolled old photos until 3am. Same pictures. Same pain. Same loop.
And for the first time he asked: _Who is this hurting more â her, or me?_
Amina is married now. Had a baby. Probably forgot the hoodie.
Meanwhile he was 35, running a small phone accessories shop in Akwa, and still waiting for a life to pause.
The realization hit him like cold water: *he wasnât holding onto love. He was holding onto the wound.*
The next morning he did 3 things.
1. He archived the chats. Didnât delete them. Just put them where he wouldnât see them every day.
2. He gave the hoodie to his sister for her rag collection.
3. He wrote a note to himself and stuck it on his shop wall: _"Let go. Not because it didnât hurt. But because I deserve to heal."_
It wasnât magic. The first week he still reached for his phone to check her Instagram. The second week he caught himself and stopped.
He started saying yes to things again. Jollof with the guys on Friday. Teaching his nephew how to fix phone screens. Going to church without scanning the crowd for someone who looked like her.
Six months later, a customer came into his shop. Her name was Ebah. She was 32, loud, sold cakes at Marché Central, and argued with him for 20 minutes about the price of a charger. She won.
She also asked him if he wanted to try her cake. He did. It was good.
They started talking. No pressure. No comparisons. When he told her about his past, he didnât do it with bitterness. He said, âI held on too long. Iâm learning to put it down.â
She nodded. âGood. My hands are full too.â
Nji doesnât know if Ebah is âthe one.â He stopped trying to name things so quickly.
What he knows is this: the weight is gone. And in the space where that weight used to be, thereâs room now. Room for laughter. Room for new love. Room for a better kind of hope.
Heâs 35. Cameroonian. From Douala.
And for the first time in a long time, heâs not waiting for the past to come back.
Heâs waiting for the future to arrive.
