Until My Last Breath: A True Story of Love, Sacrifice, and a Devotion That Wouldn’t Die by Jeffery Opoku - HTML preview

Chapter One

The Vault of Heaven

I had just started my master’s degree at KNUST when I first saw her; a young woman doing her national service, quietly following one of my lecturers to class. The world was slowly healing from the grip of COVID, and with everyone still wearing masks, I hadn’t even seen her full face. But something about the way she carried herself struck me.

I was curious and intrigued. I did a little digging, learned her name, and found her on Facebook and Instagram. She was beautiful; not just in appearance, but in presence. One morning, I arrived early and saw her standing at the entrance of the lecture hall. I told her I had something to say after class. When the lecture ended, she walked up to me and I told her I had overheard it was her birthday and wanted to wish her well.

That evening, I sent her a small birthday gift. Later, she would tell me that gesture touched her deeply. From then on, we grew closer. She would visit my hostel, and we’d spend hours talking, laughing,

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sometimes even cooking together. At the time, she was in a relationship she described as lifeless. No communication, no warmth. Just distance.

I could see how her smile returned when we were together. A few months later, she ended things with the other guy, and we began our journey. I was around 27 or 28 then. And for me, she wasn’t just my girlfriend; she was my first love.

When her national service came to an end and it was time for her to leave campus, I felt like my heart was being ripped from my chest. That day is etched in my memory forever. I woke up at dawn and rushed to the station where she would be catching her bus.

I stood there, helplessly emotional, watching her prepare to leave. I had come to love her deeply, more than I thought I ever could. About a year later, both of us had the opportunity to pursue further studies in the U.S. She left Ghana first, and I followed a week later. We were headed to different universities, in different states.

But the distance didn’t dull the flame. We were always on the phone, talking for hours, falling asleep on call, comforting each other after long, overwhelming days.

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Eventually, life started getting hard for her where she was, and I could sense the weight she was carrying. Her program was intense, and the environment didn’t offer her much convenience or comfort. I couldn’t bear to see her like that, so I spoke to my boss and found a way to help her transfer to my university. That moment changed everything. She moved over and stayed close. That was for a year and a half until she graduated and left for her PhD at another university.

She became the center of my world. I had no other friends. She was just everything to me. I loved her fiercely, gently, and purely. She had a sweet local name, but I gave her my own special name: “Me Maame” meaning my mother. I don’t even know where that name came from, it just flowed naturally. And it fit because she nurtured and mothered me in so many ways.

My love for her wasn’t obsessive. It was simply deep, selfless and protective. I couldn't stand to see her cry. If she was hurting, I was restless. If she was shedding tears, my own eyes would swell. I remember times I would gently hold out a tissue closer to her nose and ask her to blow out her nose into it. I just wanted to keep her safe and smiling, and I loved her to the moon and back.

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Sometimes, she’d place her hand softly on my shoulder and ask, “J baby, why do you love me this much?” And I’d smile and say, “I don’t know oo, but I believe God put it there.” She’d look at me, eyes full, and say, “Thank you.” And I’d mean it every time. I was ready to love her till the day I died. I truly could give everything I had for her.

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