would send the chosen individuals from our village to the bustling capital, Accra, for their schooling at a boarding school. I wasn’t afraid of the test. My mother and other anxiouslooking mothers hovered around the small classroom door as we wrote the test that would determine which of us would win a scholarship. My elder siblings had long since taught me my ABCs and 123s. I didn’t disappoint my mother. Imagine her joy when the results were read out, and I had topped the test. She carried me on her back, danced around, and then took me home, rewarding me with a bowl of delicious rice and chicken stew, along with a bottle of Fanta. I remember the day I was leaving, a six-year-old with my little bag and other belongings being stuffed into my uncle’s car. My mother hugged me again and again until it felt as if she would squash me into a pulp. “Be a good boy, okay?” she advised. “Be obedient to your elders, wake up early, and study diligently.” She gave all this advice at once, wiping sweat frommy forehead, adjusting my collar, tucking in my shirt, and straightening my shorts every few minutes. She looked a bit sad, and yet she was excited. “You will be prosperous,” she added for good measure. What did I care? I’m sure I forgot her advice even before I sat in my uncle’s car. Even though I was leaving home, I was excited at the prospect of seeing my cousins who lived in Accra. And, of course, it was wonderful. I attended the boarding school at St. John’s Preparatory School along with my cousins. Although the boarding house was not like home, because it was kind of strict and regimented, it was so much fun because I had my cousins with me. Unexpected Twist: AMajor Setback inMy Life Four years later, at the age of ten, on a bright Monday morning, I experienced the shock of my life. That morning, as we marched to our class after assembly, singing our usual marching song, my world suddenly crumbled. My class teacher called me out, and with a firm grip on my hand, he separated me from my cousins, instructing me to go to the headmaster’s office immediately. It was anything but good news; I was being pulled out of school. The weight of this revelation hit me like a scorching coal, and my mind raced, trying to recall any possible misdeeds that might warrant such a punishment. Was it a suspension? Or was it expulsion? All colour seemed to drain from the world, and before I knew it, tears were streaming down my face. I was choking on my own tears, clutching at my belongings, some of which were hastily being bundled into the car parked outside. My two cousins, who had now caught wind of the situation, rushed to the car park. Our faces mirrored the grief of a funeral, all three of us in tears. As I sat in the car that would take me back to Bawku, I couldn’t even find the courage to wave back at them. My love for themwas profound, and over the past four years, we had grown exceptionally close. It felt as though someone had taken a broken plank and struck it hard against my chest until I could barely breathe. I cried for days on end, and my mother wept alongside me. Later, I discovered that an unresolved family feud had triggered this heartwrenching decision. Nevertheless, this setback did not deter me. My parents swiftly took action to enroll me in a private school in Bawku, one they could afford. At this juncture in my life, my love for football consumed most of my time, and it began to overshadow my commitment to my studies. Bawku Zinzin Zinzin! Zinzin! Zinzin! In my mind, I aspired to be like Brazil’s Pele, Argentina’s Maradona, or Cameroon’s Roger Milla, but my schoolmates thought I was more like Japan’s Zenzin due to my knack for scoring long-distance goals. They nicknamed me Zinzin. As our school advanced in the inter-school football tournament, I could hear them shouting out my nickname. The chants of my name made me feel like I was on fire. I was determined to score a goal, at the very least, to secure a spot as one of the exceptional sixteen players representing the region at the national level. 11 The Birthday Journal
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