Contents 07 Amma Ntowaa @ 50 years 16 22 24 30 Cruising Through Childhood, Interrupted by the Sudden Crash Teenhood’s Drive Siblings on Board, Ma at the Wheel Love on the Accelerating Road to Adulthood On the Parenthood Highway Bumps and Joys Along the Way Reflecting on a Half-Century Life’s Twists, Turns, and Giving Back The Birthday Journal 3
Roots! Typically, gnarled brown shoots, That ideally snake downwards, Skirting stones and other impediments, Seeking to feed on nutrients buried Beneath the surface of the earth. These Roots. They grow from tiny original seeds, Intentionally planted and nursed, Shooting deeply into the recesses of the earth, Seeking to survive. Others grow from tossed seeds. Still, they form roots, That crawl closely on the earth’s surface, And sometimes attach their stubby shoots to walls, All in a bid to find nourishment That’ll branch out to the leaves And make them flourish. Without healthy roots, There’d be no leafy fronds. Without good soil, The Root’ll rot and bear nothing. These Roots. Though generally invisible, They give the trunk form and bearing, And strength to grow. Contextually, Roots are the beginning of something huge And an indication of support. So… I wonder. Are your roots healthy? Is your soil rich in nutrients? Have you uprooted? Are you nurturing? Will your roots survive the drought season? Are your roots strong enough to carry your harvest in a season of much? Are you leaning on a bigger tree? Or do you consider yourself an Iroko or Teak, That sits in the middle of the town mightily? What leaves are your roots bearing? Evergreen shoots? Or the kind that offers shelter from the fiery sun? Are your shoots shriveled up and brown? Or they block you and others from the pelting rain? Do you bear fruits? Or is tilling the soil so much of a chore that you have bought yourself an artificial plant? Your roots could be Jesus. -Ntology 4 The Birthday Journal
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Innocent Beginnings In the beginning, life was smooth, with my birth at the esteemed North Ridge Hospital situated in a quiet residential area on the 4th of May, 1974. Circa 1978 I celebrated a birthday not too long ago. I was a mere toddler, scampering around naked, waiting to be bathed or powdered, I think. Now, this man, who towered over me, appeared on my horizon. He grasped a rolled newspaper in his left hand. Bending over me, he lightly tapped my naked butt with the newspaper, saying, “Ko na kodwari na sh3 biibi,” meaning “Go and bathe and wear something.” I remember this phrase as if it were uttered yesterday. I scampered away, giggling, unafraid of his hulk. Then, time moved. Not sure how many moons had passed, but I was still a mere toddler. Cruising Through Childhood Interrupted by the Sudden Crash Ntowaa Benefo Dakwa The Birthday Journal 7
I toddled into a throng of people in a familiar space. I don’t recall what they wore, but they grabbed at me and gave me a path to toddle through in a zigzag fashion. My mind remembers the flies. They hummed in a daze, earning angry swats. That didn’t deter them; they continued their hum, probably becoming more incessant. A man lay prostrate, with snow-white wool stuffed in his nostril. Sniffles, noise, a confused blur. I blurted out inmy naivety and in the tongue of my Mother, “It must be a mosquito party y’all are having.” I don’t remember the response. I continued my toddle, oblivious to how my future and that of my siblings had capsized drastically. Years on, comprehension dawned. But the dire repercussions were still lost on me until a chance conversation with a great uncle had me grieving as an adult for a man I barely knew. But wish I did. A man who is spoken about in loving but hushed tones. A giant in his era, a man who they say is my Father. But, he became a historical figure I learn about from family and strangers and photos. James Kofi Benefo Dakwa. My Pa There was Pa, urging Ma gently but urgently to start getting ready for the long journey ahead. She mumbled something incomprehensible, tying her headgear, loosening it, and tying it again until it wrapped her head just the way she liked it. So he let her have some breathing room so she could finish quickly; his mother was already in Adabraka. A driver picked her at dawn, and it was not nice to keep her waiting for so long. So that was how the whole house got up to prepare for the journey, and then entered the car to go to Osino. Barely four years on the road of life, the vehicle of a father who drove me and my siblings crashed. The earth opened up and swallowed him and his mother whole, causing a catastrophe barely noticeable for me as a child. Wogyafo. Manager. Wofa. J.B. These were the aliases my Pa was known for, depending on his relationship with you, or what had happened. He was the Managing Director of Dakwa Fotohouse Group, a Limited Liability Company that dealt solely with the marketing, distribution, and sale of photographic equipment and photography. His executive office sat on the first floor of our home with my mother’s louvered office next door. She saw everything. Why not? She was his eyes and administrative secretary. The Late James Kofi Benefo Dakwa My Grandma: The Late Grace Amma Ofosua Dakwa 8 The Birthday Journal
Theatrical Dreams I had a legendary habit Of being very theatrical in my sleep, Especially when you tried waking me. I could act out a whole scene of Shakespeare In one gentle tap of my shoulder. My daughter kunfu’d me the other day. I’m not sure why I’m upset. -Ntology My Parents of Blessed Memory Pauline and James The Birthday Journal 9
Beyond the Storm Sometimes, life moves in a blur And it’s hard to remember the details. Other times it’s sharp, And you can remember everything. See how the SUN shows off after a Storm? See how it is blindingly BRIGHT? Remember this No storm lasts forever. The Sun will break through And preen to dispel the gloom, And DRY up every spot the storm touched. Then, the flowers will open up their PETALS And life will start off again. What are the odds that you’ll fail? Then again, what are the odds That you’ll succeed, beyond your wildest expectations, If you keep at it? -Ntology Pa was, however, known officially as James Kofi Benefo Dakwa. His passport is fat and filled completely with numerous stamps of countries I have just heard about. He brought ‘Mamiya,’ a Japanese Digital company, to Ghana, representing them solely. The consummate entrepreneur that he was, he had a vision to become a conglomerate. Thus, he pushed on to create Benefo Holdings Ltd. Under this new umbrella, he pushed Dakwa Fotohouse (his nerve center), D.F. Transport, D.F Electricals, Instant Fotos, Foto House Stars (a football team), Football Club. He added two more - Salon Budapest and Fonta Refreshments for Pauline Afia Ataa Gyankoromaa Dakwa, his wife. Pauline managed the Salon as a pastime and brought her delectable culinary skills from her personal kitchen to the public space - Fonta. It was a busy eatery in Tudu, Accra, that served all sorts of delectable African and continental dishes. By all indications, JB pulled Pauline along in his adventures in the commercial era. This, in retrospect, kept her going. In today’s parlance, they would have been the power couple. Everything I know about my Pa, I found out through word of mouth from family or total strangers. Thomas, my older brother, speaks about Pa with a glint in his eyes, reminiscing about their 10 The Birthday Journal
to cheek to slow music when the mood was apt, and disagreeing if they had to - a testament to the fact that even the teeth bites the soft inner cheek every now and then, unintentionally. It is never reason enough to rip out the cheeks or axe those white enamels. Writing about him in this fashion without really knowing him, yet knowing him and feeling every bit like him leaves a hollow pang in my heart. Is it weird to miss something you didn’t have? I miss the fact that I would’ve been a Pa Girl. We would’ve done morning coffees and evening sips, laughing raucously together. I miss most the guiding hands of a father. But, Thomas. He gives me glimpses of him. Thus, he became the one to give me away when a suitor found me. A great father outlives his death. DAKWA I needed a passport-sized picture, so I walked into Modern Photos at Circle in the early 2000s. On a whim, I said to this older man idling by the counter, “My father was into photography. If he were alive, he’d be bigger than Modern Photos.” Unbeknownst to me, he was the owner of Modern Photos. He peers at me, asking , “Who’s your father?” I smile. And with a chest bursting with pride, I hushed out, “Dakwa Fotos.” Instantly, the man straightened up to his full height, beaming. “I knew your father. He was a good businessman. He did a lot for the community, etcetera.” Before he could complete his reminiscent thoughts, I had grown 20 inches tall, gloating and preening. A suffused glow on my face. Na my Papa dat. I got free photos that day. As I walked to my car, emotionally choked, I couldn’t help but think that Pa’s polished name was sorting me out, even though he was 6 feet under. Dakwa! I hold onto this name. It’s not just a name. It’s my ROOT. It’s an identity. Mine. It points an erect finger to where I hail from and who sired me. There is something in a name. traipse through forest trails at the outskirts of Osino through to Abompe, where he laid red bricks to build a structure he marked as home. This 60 plus-year-old man speaks of Pa excitedly, working up a spittle like a 12-year-old, making gesticulations about him washing and polishing his white Mercedes Benz C230 and spring-cleaning the home with ABBA blaring loudly in the background as he sang along in his high-pitched tone. He flew two German Shepherds to his home, Peace and Mine. Nobody bathed and fed his dogs but him. I grew up to see a facsimile rendition of this through Thomas. Seeing the radiogram sitting in our dining area with a few records lying flat in there proved that Thomas’ tales were legit. This media piece became a relic that was used as a table or a holding area for knick-knacks. I wonder what happened to it. It’s sad how we lose important pieces of history as we move from place to place. Together with Pauline, they ruled their little Dakwa empire - doing good whenever they could, dancing cheek The Birthday Journal 11
Mamma Mia! Ma clung to Pa’s favorite shirt, clutched so hard at it, as rivers of tears streamed down her face. The burial was over, now everyone was gone. They told her to give Pa’s things away, so she would get over him, they helped her to give Pa’s things away. But this one shirt, with the scent of Pa, she couldn’t give it away. Looking at her son laying on one side of the bed, she wondered to herself, who would teach him to be a man? And her daughters, lying haphazardly on the floor of their bedroom, who would show them how a man should treat them? Drivers changed. Mom sat at the wheel now, plodding on with one teen lad, three children. With her short legs, she barely reached the accelerator to be able to move fast. However, with time her limbs became stronger, her eyes sharper, and her focus widened, taking in the journey and working very hard to avoid obstacles on the highway. Until 2023, I had no clue Owusu was Mom’s maiden name. I’ll wager my siblings are clueless about it too. For as long as I’ve known my mom, she was Pauline Gyankoromaa Dakwa. Her father’s name completely omitted as she fully immersed herself in her husband’s name. Part of the reason why I don’t wipe “Dakwa” out completely. At 31, Pa died suddenly, and her world, and that of us, came tumbling down, two blocks at a time. It changed her circumstances, wounding her forever. Thankfully, the foundation held. That is how the family survived. Kyebi Presbyterian Church invited Pa to come and help them outdoor new instruments they had bought for the Church. He departed Accra with the two women who pulled at his heartstrings - the one who birthed him - Grace Amma Ofosua Dakwa (I thought I had started the “Amma” revolution) and his Pauli to Abompe. As fate would have it, a head-on collision on his return trip killed him and his mother on the dawn of 21st May 1978 at Asuboi in the Eastern region. The accident. It maimed Mom for life. However, she put up a show for her children and the world. The teeth she showed when she smiled were not hers. They were dentures. At the end of every day, she would remove them and drop them in a small iridescent cup filled with some liquid that sat on her vanity sink in her bathroom. By the crack of dawn, she would brush them and click them into place with her “let’s play ball smile.” When I found out, I would go by her bedside early, prod her awake, and watch her impulsively reach out for her “teeth” as she mumbled. Then, I’d burst out laughing. Her insults were unintelligible . Her face showed the scars from the traumatic accident. Her elbows too. It told the story of a sore that healed but left a jagged edge. Her lower lip became thicker. Her heart was hardest hit. What with losing her husband and mother-in-law in one fell swoop. Trauma. Calamity. Distress. Disaster. At 31, she was a widow with 4 children under the age of 14 with a conglomerate to run. When I could speak, the whole community called her “Auntie,” so I joined them. My friends too called her the same. It wasn’t an anomaly then to call Mothers “Auntie” with a twang. Auntie. She was like a human Christmas tree. She gave everything until she was left with nothing. I remember getting her Josef Seibel’s from a trip. These were comfort shoes that cost me $99.95. She gave them to her cousin because she needed comfort shoes. I rolled my eyes at her. Auntie was industrious - working her fingers to the bone doing everything possible to bring comfort to her four children and extended family, even at her peril. She sold Banfo bissi, a brownish Charlewote, etcetera. Auntie was a fine mix of compassion, laughter, aroma, prayer, chilled Guinness, wet eyes, strength, and an undaunted spirit. Eventually, she started a canteen in her home in Adabraka. She was a great cook. Her soup was efie nkwan ankasa. Now. Some days, the sales didn’t go as expected, so she’d dodge the creditors when they came at her. One time she stood her ground when Auntie Akwele, the fish seller, showed up. Mama was drinking her daily chilled Guinness and reading her daily Graphic. This dialogue ensued. “Ei Auntie…” And before she could finish… Mama said “Eka fuour didi wati,” meaning debtors eat too. Then she asked her “wobe num den?” To wit… “what will you drink?” She said “beer.” Mama offered her a chilled bottle, and they sat there talking like old friends sharing their struggles - my mom in broken Ga and Akwele in broken Twi. The Late Pauline Gyankoromaa Dakwa My Parents James and Pauline 12 The Birthday Journal
Legacy In 2023, through curiosity, my siblings and I decided to do a simple Google search of Dakwa Fotohouse, which revealed priceless information and memories. With each newspaper clipping, we uncovered the profound impact our father, alongside our mother, had on our community. His various companies echoed through time, a testament to his entrepreneurial zeal and our shared commitment to philanthropy. These discoveries shed light on a legacy of kindness and generosity, serving as a reminder of the enduring influence of our parents’ legacy. The Birthday Journal 13
Salty Pond of Mfantsiman In 1986, a motley group of girls, Fresh-faced, mature, tiny, tall, Petite, chunky, rich, poor, Bow-legged, you name it! Ninety-six of these sorts Flowed from our homes Into the Salty Pond of Mfantsiman To begin flexing our muscles And webbed feet So we could learn To swim against or with The high school current. As ponds go, we were stagnant And somewhat calm, Growing in aquatic proportions. Then, like the tributaries of a river, We branched out Into our different houses - Engmann, Scotton, Chinery, and Butler - Marked by our distinct gingham colors Of blue, red, green, and yellow. We branched out again Into Science, Arts, and Business streams. Some had strong undercurrents And became a force to reckon with, While others were freshwater, Shallow, and just treading water. The important thing is we flowed anyways... 14 The Birthday Journal
Then, in 1991, we spilled out Of the school gates, Branching out once again To other regions and capitals, Notably Takoradi, Accra, Kumasi, Yendi, etcetera, To face an even stronger current Outside our gates. Out there... Some of us flowed into other rivers And became one, Others into oceans, Becoming huge waves That house whales and sharks. A bunch of us formed lakes, Others became waterfalls, Meandering into the woods, forests, Under bridges, glinting when the sun came out. Some became ice or snow, Thawing by seasons, And some were bottled. Thirty-three years after I tickled out there, I dried up every so often, Somehow I filled up again. Still, I remain a pond, A purple Salty pond. I mist up... Out of the 96, Six have become vapor. Ninety of us hopefully still flow. -Ntology The Birthday Journal 15
Adabraka! I grew up in Adabraka! It was a beehive of activities. There were discos like Miracle Mirage. It hugged the side of the slope that led to Circle. That was the first disco I entered wearing a flowered skirt and top, feeling out of place as I sat in the dark confines and inhaled the mixture of smoke, cologne, and leather. It was a heady feeling. The City of Adabraka was unique. During the day, corporate activities boomed. The streets bustled with tire-wearing men and smartly dressed women working. In the afternoons, students from Oreilly Secondary School mixed up with public school students, and they thronged the street in front of our house as they walked home. However, during the evening, nightlife was exquisite. Bars blared loud music as they brought out chairs for their guests. There was Darjona, Avenue Club, Teenhood’s Drive Siblings on Board, Ma at the Wheel and a host of others, including my mom’s own makeshift bar. It didn’t have a name. It was a square hewn out of concrete. My sister and I took turns managing that bar many times. Adabraka was next to none when it came to food. There were steamy food joints. One of such was Lominava (it meant “if you love me, come”). The queue was maddening. Then, there was Dzibordi. Herhhhhh... their banku was soft and hot. They cupped it with a small calabash, making it look like a woman’s boob in a half-bra. When the fetri dekyi (Okro soup) was scooped and put over it… Chale, your taste buds would jerk up. Then, there was this cooked white rice with meat stew that was adjacent to Hajia’s Waakye. They served the rice in green Waakye leaves. It was delish. I used to smile at her son, Yaphette, but he never dashed me this rice some days. Ei. A few minutes down my street, past Family Clinic, this diminutive Akwapim woman made Aboboi and Tatale. Her eyes had a permanent squint from all the smoke that billowed to her eyes when she dropped spoonfuls of oil into the flat pan that fried the mashed ripe plantain. Of course, there was a Kenkey house. Perhaps two major ones close to me. I loved the Amma Ntowaa with ‘look-alikes’ in Mfantsiman 16 The Birthday Journal
Kenkey houses that had the Akweley’s and Oko’s. They treated me as family, asked me about my Mom, giving me “tishinu” - the thick liquid that formed when they cooked the Kenkey for sale. It was meant to be medicinal and cure fever. But, I loved to scoop on sugar and drops of milk. It was a full meal. To this day, I love its cousin “Maskk3”. Our home stretched from Manyo Plange Street and went downhill to Watson Avenue. We were hemmed in by the Quarcoopoomes, where I played ampe, cooking with tomato cans. The park in front of the Amaamo and Ayalolo Cluster of schools was a stadium of sorts for the young men in the area. It bred greats and provided students with a training ground at Castlebridge and Ayalolo Cluster of public schools. Our landscape was pitted with families like the Wus. Growing up, I knew nowhere else except Adabraka. There was the occasional foray into Dansoman to see Dina Kesson. Otherwise, Adabraka remained a happy place for me. Memories assail me every time I drive through. Every so often, I go back there, purposely on an errand. Other times, in dodging traffic on the main Kojo Thompson road, I’d drive through the familiar streets that look narrow to me now. Adabraka had character. It housed some beautiful people who’ve gone on to become something. It is where I met Kwabena Atakora Nsiah on a random late afternoon in 1991. Kin Climbing onto the banister, I held onto the metal rail, lay my whole body on it, and then, w-h-o-o-o-o-s-h! I let myself go down, down, until I was on the ground, then I climbed up to do it again. My elder sister turned to give me a cold stare for my inappropriate behavior, but did I care? She was all girly, girly, and I was the tomboy. Before I knew it, my younger sister was clambering up the stairs, ready to go and replicate my move. “You see what you are teaching her?” my eldest brother scolded. Growing up in Adabraka was a blur. Somewhat. It was as if I snoozed and scenes flashed past. Then, slowly, I pushed the covers off me and woke up. And focused. And I began to focus on what mattered. Family seemed to matter. And friendship tag-tailed. And the kitchen was hot and busy with all sorts of fragrances. And I saw things for what they were. I recall streams of people flowing in and out of home. And it was “Sister this” and “Braa that”. But most had no lineage with me. Turns out mom was a collector of persons with stories that made her eyes moist. So if you had a good story, your bed and breakfast were assured. However, I recall living in the shadows of a fair, dainty, and beautiful older sister. Not that she turned ugly. This lass was eerily quiet, with a countenance that was not ordinary. I inherited all her “sister thank yous”. To wit, “hand me downs”. My mother would sew or purchase two of the same dresses for us, and I would end up wearing both because she had passed on what didn’t fit her anymore to me. To this day, I never buy the same things for my girls. Maybe different colors. But never the same. I don’t recall us bonding like glue where she would give me “boyfriend filla” and be all girly and frilly. She seemed to float around with an ethereal quality, while I tumbled around in pure tomboy fashion. Yet our gap was a mere 5 years. I can feel her eyes dance with laughter. Afia Ofosua, Yaa Gyankoromaa, Amma Ntowaa Amma Ntowaa, Afia Gyankoromaa (our late Mom), Yaa Gyankoromaa The Birthday Journal 17
Then just as I was inching up to her ears to start the tête-à-tête journey of girls, an Arafat noticed her on the streets of Accra. Courted her. And promptly put a circular metal on her ring finger, whisking her away to Madina, a suburb that was alien to me. In record fashion, she pushed out 3 kids. Literally! She had become a wife and a mother. So. I was stuck with my younger sister. Mehn. She was stubborn academy material, giving me grief when we shared a room. But as adults, we roll without fanfare. She’s got my back. I don’t need to look over my shoulder if she’s in the rear. Englebert Englebert School shared a wall with Nyaho Clinic in the rear. We had no gates. It was just one long block of about 8 classrooms overlooking a park. My mom enrolled my younger sister -,Anita and me there. I recall this day like it was yesterday… Crin… Crin…. Crin The bronze bell tolled. It was time to go home. Hastily stuffing jotters, exercise books, and pencils into school bags, grabbing plastic lunch boxes, we streamed out of the six-classroom block in a purple swathe towards idling Peugeots 504’s, Datsuns, Citroens, and Renaults parked on the asphalt road, where children piled onto interior seats, sweaty and dirty. Excited chatter filled the air. Car doors slammed shut and pulled away, one after the other. Slowly, the school emptied out, all the purple-clothed toddlers and teens, except for three: a 12-year-old whose uniform was torn in the rear, necessitating a patchwork fix. Her classmates had resorted to nicknaming her “apache duna”, to wit “patched butt”; her barely 9-yearold pudgy-faced sister, Anita, and tiny Nana Akua, a cousin. These three lounged against the electricity powerhouse that sat on the edge of the school’s park, sullen, hungry, and somewhat disheveled. The “Keep Off ” warning did not deter us. Every few minutes, three necks craned to see if an approaching car was the Datsun 160 J that their uncle who picked them up owned. Nope. Somebody forgot to pick us up. Not sure who. Appiah- The Driver? My Uncle? Finally, a decision was made: “Let’s walk home.” Then began our toddler steps from Englebert International School through the quiet residential community of Airport, passing through Jack and Jill until we reached the busy crossroad leading to Pig Farm. Afterward, we boarded a Trotro (public transport) with others. I am not certain if we paid a pesewa to the “Mate” who collected the fares, but our ragged selves earned us the seat we squeezed into. Not sure how, but we got dropped off at the Ring Road, where cars whizzed past like they were chasing each other, amidst horn blares. Now. Here comes the tricky part. The trio handheld on the left and right by the 12-year-old me begun to cross this busy intersection together. Halfway and holding tightly onto each other, Anita, unbeknownst to me, had espied a car fast approaching, so she tried to break free of my tween grasp and cross to the median. Cautious and blinded from what she saw, I tried to pull her back into safety. I lost my grip on this tug of war, and she raced forward only to be hit by this fast-approaching sedan. For an interminable minute, my sister lay in a supine position, while I screamed my lungs out, holding tightly onto Nana Akua. By a miracle, Anita stirred. With minor scratches and sprains, we were piled into the car that hit us and driven home to our anxious Mummy at about dusk. How that happened is hazy and remains a mystery. We met Mother, a fretting widow pacing back and forth when we were brought in. I can still remember her cry of relief and seeing her scarred face straighten up. This story has stayed with me. To this day, I get the jitters when I have to cross a twolane street. I am convinced we were saved for a purpose. You also are still alive for a reason. If you have not found this purpose, find it. Find it in your quiet moments or in the din and live that purpose. It will bring your life fullness, a savory quality, and sure-footedness. Regrets In 1993, I entered the Ghana Institute of Journalism. The Institute gave me a sense of direction. It also widened my network to include some fantastic Chics and Guys who have become part of my support system and family. For my required industrial attachment, I was sent off to US Information Services for 2 months, originally located around. But I stayed for 6 months. Looking at my background, Nic Robertson suggested I work more in the department that produces an in-house Newsletter, although I was given the freedom to roam through most of the departments. One time a US Navy ship - USSR landed in Tema, and I was sent to cover their arrival. Entering the ship and interacting with the officers, I fell in love with the possibility of becoming a Navy Officer. I was enthralled. I stayed on the ship the whole day. In the evening, we had dinner on deck. I knew I was sold on becoming a Naval or Military Officer. Years on, I landed on US soil. By fluke, I met a Military recruiter and started the process. In one of my final interviews in Gaithersburg, I feigned gallstone pain that I feared would impede my progress as a Military Officer. All because my colleague at work told me, “I would be tossed very far away from family.” Her exact words. That is how I missed out on being a Naval Officer in the United States. Lesson here: Not every dream in the incubation stage should be shared. In retrospect though… How would I have met Kwabena? How would Kofi, Abena, and Yaa have looked like? Would I have had them? Would I have had any? Where would I have been? 18 The Birthday Journal
Ma and her first born Thomas The Birthday Journal 19
Happy 50th birthday to my lil sister, Abrewaa! 50! God bless you abundantly, sister, wati! Dakwa siblings, we are blessed to have you! Enjoy the 50th floor I just left! Love, Kwabena Benefo Happy birthday, Lil sista! Welcome to the 50th Floor. We bless the Lord, May the Almighty Father Fill your lamp with fresh oil To lighten your path So you see the new path He has created for you. Enjoy your new age! With love, Afia Ofosua Happy birthday to the one who knows me best and loves me unconditionally, Amma. As you step into the 5th floor, I wish you oceans of happiness, mountains of success, and a lifetime of love. May all your dreams and aspirations come true. You deserve the best, my sister. Welcome to the 5th floor again. I love you with all of me. Happy birthday, Amma. Love. Yaa Gyankoromaa 20 The Birthday Journal
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Seasons Sometimes the sun is unforgiving. It scorches And hits you squarely on the forehead, And your face actually burns. A baleful squint at the sun’s fierceness, Or a momentary stalling under a leafy tree, Or a focus on tasks ahead will give you the strength to defy its ferocity. Or a trickle of water And trudge on. It can also hit you at the nape of your neck, Or touch Other parts of the bare skin, And send rivulets of sweat trickling down your backside. Other times, the sun disappears, Or it does not shine bright enough, And the clouds form and create a gloominess That seeps into the soul. An ominous rumbling sets off in the expanse, And flashes of light illuminate the earth. Then the blustery winds curl and blow everything in its path to nowhere and everywhere. Eyes look upward worriedly, and the feet hurry to shelter. Then in the space of seconds, The skies will gape wide, And torrents of rain beat down and cleanse and sweep away everything it can carry, Leaving a residue gurgle of debris sounds in drain pipes... Don’t get it twisted. ‘Tis just seasons. ‘Tis just the earthly orbit Making its 92 million mile pilgrimage. The sun’ll come out again. No doubt. It will. -Ntology 22 The Birthday Journal
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A mighty tree fell – Ma When they told me that Ma was gone, a long searing pain wrenched at my heart. It was as if someone had reached into my heart and forcibly tugged my heart out. I knew her time would come. The doctors had intoned this based on the prognosis. But. I trusted my hoarse prayers to God. And I was not ready ? Hmmm. Is anybody ever ready for a Mother’s death? Showing Up Two young men wearing pristine white shirts moved through a crowd of black-garbed people. Their heads glistened due to the sun’s lazy stare hitting them at oblique angles. It led them to lower their heads to avoid the eyes that sought them out to welcome them, instead keeping a focus on me. Finally, they got within inches of me. I said jokingly, “Did y’all kill my mom?” Quick laughter from them followed; “We didn’t quite get the information. We thought ‘black and white’.” A wry smile followed, and a shrug. Never mind. “Thank you for coming.” My heart leapt in its cubicle. But the somber atmosphere made me remain calm, a shadow of a smile dancing around my lips. These two. One who would wait confidently for me at the altar, a year on. His bosom friend, who would become his best man on that auspicious occasion, had traveled some 100 plus kilometers to come mourn with me and my family. I had not been living in my native Ghana for some 5 years. I had not kept in touch with many folks. So, I didn’t feel the need to invite my mates, et al., to my mom’s almost sudden death. So, to see these two make it to a rural community warmedmy heart. Thus, I couldn’t be bothered about the “inappropriateness” of what they wore. After all, they had on black pants! Who cared? They showed up. They were there when it mattered. The other day, I showed up at the funeral of an octogenarian in a bright orange shirt and denims. Their prescribed attire was black and white. The voice of reason that knew my proclivity for showing up right suggested I stop and mourn, regardless of what I had on. Uncomfortably clad, I strode into a church singing soulful songs with everyone wearing traditional black and white garb, even children. She, for whose reason I was there, came out. Looked beyond what I am wearing and drowned me in texts of gratitude. “Wow Aunty Amma, just seeing you here tonight..means so much to me. God bless you.” Suddenly I felt included. Suddenly, I felt as if I was clothed in “black and white” and a part of that solemn occasion. Love on the Accelerating Road to Adulthood 24 The Birthday Journal
Did Jesus not come because of us - the naked, so he can clothe us? Or the hungry, so he can feed us? Or the homeless, so he can provide us shelter? Hundred-dollar question. How do you make people feel? I am gently reminded of how we make people feel. Accepted inspite of ? Or rejected regardless? Kwabena If there was anything I hated, it was that ‘ssss’ ‘ssss’ sound that boys made when they saw girls, and my neighborhood boys knew. In fact, they knew better than to come and toast me. Like, in my teenage girl mind, I was sure that none of them could utter a word to me. The closest was a polite nod. Besides, they feared my brother, Thomas. I could see the respect in their eyes whenever they saw me, and I enjoyed it. “Ssssssss” Imperceptibly, I stopped. Then I continued to walk away in my Navy Blue uniform and black sandals, thinking it was the hiss of the wind. “Sssssss,” I heard the sound again. Stronger this time. Then, in my head, I questioned the one producing the sound. I said to myself, “Is he a snake?” I Mtchewwwwed him in my head. Kwabena and Ntowaa The Birthday Journal 25
However, his next question stopped me in my tracks. “You went to Mansite?” I turned around to look squarely at the guy who shuffled his feet close to me. He just knew what to say. A small smile formed on my lips. I nodded. The snickering from his band of boys sitting a few feet away died away when I smiled. Apparently, they had warned him that I was untouchable, unapproachable because I was my legendary brother Tommy’s little sister. He didn’t listen to them. He confidently moved and spoke his mind. So. Now… he was a Champion. As fate would twist it, his parents had divorced and he chose to follow his dad who had moved to Adabraka. Whilst some things are messing up. Others are getting better. A direct translation of an Akan truism. Then the conversation shifted to “Do you know this person or that person?” The pursuit started almost immediately. I didn’t tell him I wanted to think about it. Or I needed the wisdom of my pillow to give him an answer. My answer was ready . “You are too late, I have said yes to this person.” Instead of backing away, he became a staunch friend, looking out for me, checking in on me. Everybody in my family loved Kwabena, especially my mom. She did not understand why I would not say “Yes” to this respectful young man who she parried with. I gave all these silly excuses even after I was not dating anyone, until one day, my brother slipped into a conversation I was having with him that Kwabena was getting married. I felt an indescribable pain. Next to what I felt for my mom when she left? Probably. The rest of the conversation did not interest me. I wasn’t distracted I waited for anopportune time…a lull in the conversation to leave his house and call Kwabena. As soon as I got home, I dialed his number accusing him of not informing me about his impending marriage. Ei. This man was laughing at me as if he had no idea what I was talking about. In the next couple of days, Kwabena slipped in playfully, “make up your mind and let me marry you.” I didn’t hesitate. My mind was made up. No long things. In 2004, he waited for me at the altar of the Ascension Presbyterian Church of Ghana as Thomas Dakwa entrusted me into his care, my little sister bringing up the rear as my maid of honor. My treasured squad. Little Bunnies He breathes on me… I bulge. He breathed again… Another bulge. He blew me kisses… Another bulge Barely a year on the road, and I stuck “a baby on board” sticker on the car. 26 The Birthday Journal
The Birthday Journal 27
Wow, Amma! Fifty years! It seems just like yesterday when our paths crossed. I am excited as your birthday draws closer; I see the same anticipation from the kids because it is an opportunity to show you once again how much we love and cherish you. I am grateful to God first for the gift of life and for intertwining His plans for each of us in that chance encounter thirty-four years ago. For the past few days, I have taken a walk down memory lane, right from when we first met, making my “move” despite being warned of your protective brother Thomas. Somehow, we enjoyed each other’s company. Although we were both dating different people at the time, we found companionship and a kindred spirit and always ended up having “that conversation,” but each time, the timing was not right until fate smiled at us. In hindsight, it must have been God navigating our steps to each other. It is no surprise OUR SONG echoes this: When God made you, He must have been thinking about me. Amma, my “Coochie”: Love is finding your soulmate in your best friend. Someone who shares your love for people. Who believes in giving. I am blessed I found all these in you. I fell in love with your sincerity, your loyalty, your laughter, the wrinkles at the corners of your eyes when you smile, your tight hugs, and the little ways you love me. Most people know you as outgoing, but Amma is a paradox. She is soft yet hard; loud but quiet; naughty but nice; confident yet shy; predictable yet surprising; private yet an open book, self-assured but down-to-earth, and I love all shades of you. Love grows if well-watered with respect, forgiveness, and love. Our love for God has made navigating marriage seemingly easy. We have not been immune from the challenges of life and relationships, but we have always held the notion we will not deliberately hurt each other. Amma, “Coochie,” you are my best friend. I have known you for thirty-four years (34) and been married to you for twenty (20). You have walked besides me in love, supporting my crazy dreams, nurturing our amazing children, and at the same time playing your role at Integral Associates Ltd with dexterity. As you mark this milestone, I can only thank God and pray for more blessed years and a more intimate walk with Him. The Lord bless you and keep you, the Lord make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you. I admire your incredible way with words, and I pray you develop your writing skills. I will be the first to purchase at the launch of your book in the near future. You have made me a better man. Thank you for being my loudest ( literally) cheerleader. Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for the many sacrifices. Thank you for the secret prayers. We have seen each other at our best and our worst, and the love only grows. Fifty sure looks good on you, beautiful! Here’s to the next 50 Tracci, Amma, Maame Ntowaa! Here’s to making more awesome memories. I love you, Amma; there’s no stopping us. As God wills, we will grow old together in love. It can only get better. Nyame ne Hene. This is Fifty! 28 The Birthday Journal
The Birthday Journal 29
Family Family is everything, and more. not limited to blood Or DNA But someone or a people who seek to push a positive agenda. I love these guys. They see me at my worst And my best. They see my strength; My weakness too But through it all, They have stayed. Do they have a choice? I bet they do They pull my strings taut, So taut, That it snaps And hits. But we Always go looking for the frayed edges And knot it beautifully. This bunch, When I break, They fence me in, Shutting the world off And offering support Till my limbs And elbows heal. We are a loud bunch During footie games, Chelsea, City & United. Sometimes We are divided by our Genders in the home, The men against the girls , Sparring And bantering. Other times, Parents Against children. We are like Captain Planet, Joining the forces from Oguaa to Akyemfo through Kumasi And back to Oguaa. “Perseverance conquers all.” “Obra Nye woara wobo.” “Ut Sint Unum.” “Dieu Le Veult.” “Live pure. Speak true. Right wrong.” Follow the king. We chant these In various decibels, Hoping to imbibe in us The Nsiah Bunch, An imperfect five, Bound tightly by the grace of God, My gift from heaven above. -Ntology 30 The Birthday Journal
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Becoming… I knew something was off, especially in my mouth, as no matter what I ate, sourness lingered, making me feel uneasy. Eventually, one Saturday morning in April, Akosua Owarewaa Dakwa unexpectedly barged into our Condo Crib, wielding a wrapped stick and instructing me to pee on it. Dutifully, I followed her instructions, and as soon as she heard the flush, she entered the room and stared intently at the stick. Then she let out a yelp. “You are pregnant. You are pregnant,” she exclaimed, confirming my pregnancy. The realization hit me like a ton of bricks, and despite suspecting it before, having it confirmed was petrifying, leaving me feeling overwhelmed with the responsibility of caring for myself and the new life growing inside me. Fast forward to the present, Kofi is almost two decades old, and despite my initial shock, the joy of welcoming another child, this time an Abena, into the world knew no bounds, even if it meant getting another ticket for a baby bump while speeding on the highway. Leading simply “Stop running around,” I screamed. This was like the umpteenth time I had said this to Abena and Kofi. They refused. Next thing I heard was a yelp of pain and blood dripping. Abena had slipped on the tile, breaking the skin very close to her eyes We ended up in the emergency unit. Another time, we were traveling from Wisconsin to Maryland. When we got to Atlanta on transit, Kofi refused to go through the security turnstile. He threw a tantrum for no reason as he flew all over the airport, infuriating his Pa. He carried him on the pretext of taking him to the bathroom. Kofi came back docile. His Pa had given him a few licks on his butt. He healed quickly through. Those were their toddler years. Ah, there I was, sprawled out on the floor atop a patch quilt, still in my day clothes, utterly spent. Half asleep, the mundane glow of a Netflix movie flickered on the screen behind me. My gaze drifted to my little Madam, also clad in her after-school attire, idling nearby. In response to my instruction to bathe, she hesitated, then piped up, “Mummy, can I ask a question?” “Why not?” I replied, asserting our somewhat democratic household. Then, clear as day, she inquired, “Mommy, have you bathed? Do you always bathe in the evening?” Ah… Ah… Ah… The African mother in me yearned to cinch my imaginary wrapper tightly around my chest, adjust my glasses to sit squarely on my nose, and position my hands on my hips, glaring at her while rattling off unprintable phrases, as my foremothers did when kids dared to question the status quo. Instead... I took a deep breath, summoning a placatory tone fromwithin, and explained the rare instances when I avoided water in the twilight hours. I felt a sense of satisfaction as she shuffled her tiny feet away, the refreshing sound of the faucet running and water gushing out filling the room. Sigh. Leadership sets an example, indeed. You never know who’s keeping tabs on you before she draws herself a bath. The pressure. Inherited Habits I settled into the fiber-covered armchair, my gaze fixed on the 20-inch dark screen before me. Suddenly, it dawned on me—I wanted to watch 22 men chase a ball while I cheered them on. “Yaa,” I called out, but there was only silence. Gradually, faint noises emerged from downstairs, confirming Nana’s presence. “Nana Yaaaaa,” I called again, a bit louder this time. “Yes, Mummy,” came the reply, albeit reluctantly. She made her way up the stairs to the second landing. “Can you turn the TV on for me?” I requested. Miss Yaa shot me an incredulous look before her eyes darted towards the remote control, just within reach of my closely cropped nails. With painstaking effort, she picked it up, aimed it at the screen, and pressed the power button. Voila! The screen lit up. I couldn’t help but wrinkle my toes in amusement. Remotes, I thought, are a nightmare with their myriad buttons. “Oh, and a glass of ice-cold water too,” I added, realizing I had unconsciously slipped into a familiar maternal role. Oops! I’ve just become like Mom. Parenthood Highway Bumps and Joys Along the Way On the 32 The Birthday Journal
Strains on the Modern Family Who is the caregiver in your home? Who’s your child watching? Who picks up your child from school?Who mentors your child while you are trying to scrape a living? I witnessed a scene that left me disturbed. A child with closely cropped hair, clad in a faded-out “Adjoa Yankey” frock, wielded a stick to corral about 6 other kindergartners on a residential asphalt road. She administered licks from the stick without provocation! I was livid. I stopped and bellowed at her, “Hey you, what do you think you are doing?” But she continued flogging, casting a malevolent look at me, as if to say, “Dzi wofie asem” - “This does not concern you.” Open-mouthed, I watched her retreating small frame! Scary! Saddened! And befuddled? Both parents work outside the home to provide for their children, placing enormous responsibilities on them. Choosing between staying at home to care for their siblings and going to work is not a matter of choice anymore; it’s a necessity! But how many can afford this luxury? How can we give our best at work when the future generation faces such peril? Current caregivers are video games, TVs, and house helps, often excreted out of hell! Another time, I saw a school bus driver stop in front of a convenience store and promptly fall asleep. Seven teenage girls bounded out. Three went to the store; one peed in front, and the rest engaged with unsavory characters. As mothers, if we’re not careful, we’ll clutch our stretch-marked tummies and weep. And fathers, neglecting your role in the home, don’t blame women. As a community, if we don’t become each other’s keepers, we’ll wail inconsolably in the future, facing devastating ripple effects. Let’s advocate for daycare facilities at or near workplaces. Let’s examine a shift system where one parent is always on “standby.” And may God be our help Kofi, Abena and Yaa The Birthday Journal 33
Dear Mum, I honestly don’t know what to say about this jazz lover because, honestly, what don’t you do? Happy 50th, Ma, or Amma, or Vida, or however you like to be called. I am very, very grateful for you, and in another life, if I still had my way, I’d choose you as my mum. You push me when the going gets tough, especially when I complain about school and it not being for me. You sit me down and always emphasize how I’m your first fruit, first boy, and your “piesie,” and it always gets to me. You taught me a lot of stuff, from pouring wine, and to think of it, I had no business doing that, but it’s you, so agya. But sometimes, Ntowaa can be a pain in the … (respectfully speaking, before I get my money locked up). “Kofi, go and do this, Kofi, go and do that,” and I wonder to myself, how does she survive when I’m not around, but it’s nothing but love on this side. I love you, Mum. Wishing a very happy birthday to a coffee connoisseur, a wine enthusiast, and a flower fanatic! May your day be filled with everything you love, and here’s to another year and more years of you enjoying all these and more. Your favorite child and only son, Caleb 34 The Birthday Journal
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Mama, I love you. I don’t think anyone loves their mother as much as I love you; I say this confidently because I know how deep my love for you goes. Every passing day, I thank God for bringing you into my life. Thank you for answering the phone every time I call. Hell, I can even call you at 3 am, and you’ll answer. Thank you for listening to me every time I want to rant or do kokonsa . Thank you for providing and caring for me. I am always assured of your help. I have never felt the need to look to someone else for help. You go out of your way to do the very best for me. Thank you for being a sister and a friend. Thank you for your advice and pep talks. Thank you for giving me hope and encouragement. I always want to be better because of you. Thank you for setting an example for me to follow in your steps, for being a role model. Thank you for being there, through every joy, every tear, every fallback, and every success. Thank you for being you. Your kindness, patience, and endless sacrifice have shaped me into the person I am today. As I grow older, I realize more and more the depth of your love and the countless sacrifices you’ve made for our family. You inspire me every single day. I have told you this before, and I’ll tell you again. When I start making my money, I’ll buy you the world. Start telling everyone to pack their things and move to Mars or something because Earth will be yours soon. You deserve it! On this special day, I want you to know how much you mean to me. Thank you for being the best mom anyone could ask for. I love you, Mama. I really love you. God bless you always❤️ 36 The Birthday Journal
Ntowaa, The woman who carried me for nine months and never fails to remind me, especially when she catches me doing something and I try to deny it. The woman who taught me how to do everything I know now, the good stuff of course. I know every child has their own superhero mum, but I truly believe mine is out of this world. My mom has a certain aura that when she walks into a place, the joy that suddenly fills up the room is immeasurable. My mom has a certain sense of humor that is even able to make the dullest person crack a smile. My mom has a certain “vibe” she brings that even the moodiest of them all will see that they can’t remain the same after she enters the atmosphere. My mom is a woman who loves her wine. Lol. I know this because, I mean, who doesn’t? My mom’s favorite place is Olive Gardens. My mom loves plants. Like, she absolutely loves them, and my siblings can testify to this fact. If you know the amount of plants we have had to water in the house, especially my brother, you’d die; let’s go on. I think she got that from her mom. Although I didn’t get to meet her, all I can say is she birthed a woman of substance and integrity. My mom is a family person; like, she’s really big on family. She tries everything to bring my siblings back home even though they’re in uni. I mean, come on. My mom is the type of person who lets me know that they are always there for me no matter what and know that no matter what I’m going through, they’ve got my back. She makes me know that I’m loved, needed, and cared for. She really disciplines me when I go wayward to just let me know the difference between right and wrong. She teaches me how to have a solid foundation. She teaches me how to be a proper woman of God. Mymom is standard, guys, and today, mommy, I just want to say happy birthdayyyyyyyyyyy. I love you so so so so so so much, and I pray that God will continue to protect you and give you your heart’s desires. Enjoy your day, my love. From Kaakyire The Birthday Journal 37
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