MyMother When I was six years old, I was asked to write a school composition titled “MyMother.” I knew your name. I had seen it written many times. But it was long, and at that age I couldn’t quite remember how to spell it. So you taught me a trick. You broke your name down and said, “Think of it like beat rice.” Beatrice. It worked. And it stuck. Today, I feel honoured and proud to write another composition about you—this time not just about your name, but about the many tricks, lessons, and quiet demonstrations that have shaped who I am. That moment in Class One is my earliest clear recollection of your name. More broadly, I think I’ve always known you were my mother, but I can’t pinpoint an exact moment when it suddenly clicked. I must have been about six or seven years old. From a very early age, you spoke to me as someone who could understand. I don’t remember you ever baby-talking me. One moment that stands out is when I learned the word considerate. In a shop once, after seeing other children throw tantrums, I tried the same tactic. You stopped me and said, “Please, let’s be considerate.” I didn’t knowwhat the word meant, so you took the time to explain it. Looking back, I realise you distracted me from the tantrumwhile teaching me a lesson. I learned early that shouting and rolling on the floor wouldn’t get me what I wanted. Every time I have the opportunity to be considerate, I remember that lesson frommany years ago and live by that word. Growing up, you were my study partner. You didn’t just help with homework— you recreated the entire school experience at home. You would go through the material with me, set your own questions, leave the room like a teacher, then return to see if I had filled in the gaps. Every subject. Every time. Beyond academics, you taught me life skills. Cooking, for one. You are the best cook in the world. You probably should have opened a restaurant by now, but your passions lie elsewhere. Even today, you are constantly teaching me little tips, tweaks, and improvements. Some of the most important lessons you’ve taught me, however, are about navigating life itself: pushing through, never giving up, believing in yourself, giving people the benefit of the doubt, recalibrating when life becomes unpredictable, and learning to adapt. One defining lesson came in primary school, when I was very much into basketball. I had been selected to play in a school game, only to be removed later—most likely because I wasn’t tall enough. You didn’t accept that as the end of the story. You encouraged me to speak to the PE teacher and reminded me that if I believed I had the skill, I should pursue it. You were ready to stand by me if needed. I spoke to him. You spoke to him. I ended up playing in the game. I don’t even remember if we won, but I remember the lesson clearly: don’t give up just because someone suddenly decides you’re no longer qualified. Music has always been part of our home. Yes, I play the piano. I had a teacher, but you were someone I really looked up to. You play very well and also compose your own music. At home, you would play the piano, Dad would play the guitar, and I would attempt the harmonica. That was something we often did on Sundays. Those moments stay with me. There are so many wonderful memories, far too many to recount. You and Dad also used to take me on trips out of Accra, which I loved. You always prepared sandwiches—usually tuna or chicken—and packed drinks in a cooler. You preferred packing our own food rather than making frequent stops. I now recognize the love and forethought (as well as effort) that goes into making these trips enjoyable and seemingly easy, and I’m thankful for these shared moments. There was always good music in the car, and we would spend time at the beach taking in the sights and sounds. Those trips were really special. You rarely raise your voice—it’s a real rarity. You are generous with your time, your knowledge, and your resources. If you can help someone, you will. Sometimes I joke that you give so much of yourself that there isn’t always enough left just for you. You are like this everywhere—at home, with extended family, and at work. When you are stressed, you communicate it clearly. You say, “I have a lot on my plate right now.” That taught me not to bottle things up and to communicate honestly, instead of letting stress spill over onto others without explanation. What makes you happy is simple and beautiful. You love music—concerts and good music in a lovely setting. You love good food, the outdoors, plants, and greenery, especially orchids. Anything horticulture-related delights you. I The Birthday Journal 11
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