42 Some call it serendipity. Others, luck. For me, it was the hand of God that set the course for my journey—a journey that created the Ghana Brain Tumor Foundation. It is good to dream for dreaming is easy; it costs nothing. But the real power of a dream is in how it shifts someone else’s life. I quickly realized that this dream was bigger than me. To have any impact, I need you—all of you—to help make it real. I wasn’t handed life on a silver spoon, nor did I struggle with poverty. My parents worked hard to offer me the privilege of good healthcare—from northern Thames to Accra, to London, and finally to America. I took that privilege for granted. But it’s not something everyone in Ghana can count on, especially when facing brain tumors. In August 2023, I went back to Ghana for my grandmother’s 100th birthday. I should have been celebrating, but persistent headaches kept me sidelined. Prior to the journey I had been having headaches in Houston, I blamed my eyes and went for a visit to the optician The optician—alarmed— sent me to the ER. Still, stubbornness prevailed; I flew to Ghana anyway, the headaches growing worse by the day. Back in the States, my wife’s pleas finally won out. I stepped into the MRI room—then stepped out, overcome by claustrophobia. But on September 24th, I surrendered and took the scan. There it was: a tumor the size of a grapefruit. Immediate surgery was needed, so I braced myself, steeling my nerves while praying more than ever before. On September 26th, I entered the operating room. My family waited and prayed, their hearts on tenterhooks as the neurosurgeon sliced from my right ear nearly to the left, removing bone and muscle to reach my tumor. Thirteen lost hours later, I emerged—swollen, battered a metal plate in my head, yet alive—waking in ICU with tubes everywhere and a mind fogged by pain. Recovery and Awakening Steroids took their toll. Insomnia haunted me—five nights with no sleep. Anxiety and medication blurred the line between reality and nightmares. My wife sat at my side, powerless but steadfast as I struggled. I wept, raged, hallucinated, and searched for comfort that wouldn’t come. Rehabilitation was just as hard. I had to rebuild physical strength, relearn cognitive skills, and retrain my vision after months of partial blindness. Every milestone—no matter how small—brought its own victory. Yet in those toughest moments, I grew more certain that my survival had to mean something larger. I knew that so many people in Ghana, facing what I faced, would not have the same outcome. With just one neurosurgeon per 1.3 million people, timely care is a distant dream for most. The Hand of God How One Journey Sparked a Movement
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