I LIVED WITH A GHOST FOR 4 YEARS AND ONLY FOUND OUT ON THE DAY I WENT TO PAY LOBOLA AT HER PARENT'S HOUSE

I LIVED WITH A GHOST FOR 4 YEARS AND ONLY FOUND OUT ON THE DAY I WENT TO PAY LOBOLA AT HER PARENT'S HOUSE

I never thought I would one day write this, but my story is real, and I still struggle to understand how it all happened. For four years, I lived with a woman who wasn’t alive. I loved her deeply, planned a future with her, and even went to pay lobola for her — only to find out she had died five years before we met.

It all started when I decided to stay away from extroverts. My past relationships had drained me. I wanted peace, a woman who wasn’t glued to her phone, who didn’t care about social media, who didn’t have a crowd of friends. I wanted quiet — a companion who understood the beauty of silence.

And then I met her.

She was perfect in every way. Calm. Gentle. Private. She didn’t post, didn’t go out, didn’t mingle. She said she preferred staying home, and that she shopped online because crowds made her uncomfortable. I admired that about her. She made me feel like I’d finally found the kind of love that wasn’t about showing off — just real, raw, peaceful love.

We moved in together a few months later. Everything about her felt normal — her laughter, her cooking, the way she’d hum old love songs while cleaning. Nights were beautiful, quiet, full of love. She never had visitors, and I never met her family. She told me her parents had passed away and that she was the only child. I respected her space.

But things started to get strange over time. Her phone never rang, and she never made calls. When I asked about friends, she’d say, “I lost touch with people. I’m better alone.” She didn’t have an ID, saying it was lost during a house fire years back. I believed her. I loved her too much to question anything deeply.

Then, after four years, I decided to make it official — to pay lobola and bring her home properly. I wanted my uncles to meet her family. That’s when everything shattered.

When I went to the address she had once mentioned — a small village not far from her “hometown” — the people there looked at me with confusion. I asked for her by name. An old woman fainted. The rest just stood in shock.

When she came to, she said, “You can’t be talking about that girl. She died five years ago.”

At first, I thought it was a cruel joke. They showed me her grave. Her picture was there — the same face I had kissed every night for four years. I felt my knees give in. My body went cold.

When I returned home that night, the house felt different. Her clothes were gone. Her perfume was gone. Even her toothbrush was gone. The walls were empty, and it felt like no one had ever lived there. The bed was made, untouched. I slept on the floor that night, in silence, replaying every moment, every laugh, every meal we shared.

It’s been months now, and I still dream of her. Sometimes I wake up to her scent, or I hear her voice calling my name faintly. Maybe love is powerful enough to cross worlds, or maybe I was just blind to the impossible.

All I know is — I loved her, ghost or not. And a part of me still does.