Content Roots and rising 04 08 12 22 40 44 First Experiences and Early Ambitions When Music and Marriage Met We the Johnsons Journey of Hope and Healing A Season of Gratitude The Birthday Journal 3
Roots and rising My Early Years 4 The Birthday Journal
Tuesday, 24th August, 1954 Winneba the subtle briny smell of fresh fish, mixed with the oaky smell of smoked fish, the pungent smell of salted fish, and the putrid smell of rotting fish wafted in the air. Occasionally, a gentle sea breeze blew an air of freshness across the small town. From a distance, one could see tired-looking fishermen, their wet skin still glowing in the golden hues of the rising sun, their voices roaring as they sang in unison to announce their arrival on land, and their giant fishing nets laden with freshly caught fish as they pulled their boats onto the shoreline. A close look at their fishing nets revealed halfalive fish, still slithering and wriggling, as they fought against the net in a bid to free themselves. The small fishing town of Winneba was coming to life on an early morning. Fat fish traders, with empty wide aluminium basins well balanced on their heads, hurried to the shore in a bid to be the first to buy the freshest fish. Fishermen’s wives, their babies strapped to their backs and their half-naked children hurrying behind them, carried their aluminium cooking pans. They would wait for their husbands to sell the choicest fish, then take those that were not bought home to prepare the day’s meal of fante fante and fante kenkey. Skinny, well-groomed young women rushed eagerly towards the calm waters of the sea, eager to meet up with their young fisherman lovers. Small children, with tiny legs and big stomachs, moved between the huge group of people in their bid to throw themselves into the cool, calm waters. Every now and then, they would step on a grown-up’s toes and earn an occasional spank. My Birth In the innermost part of town, the sweet, soft cry of a baby wrapped in a fresh African print cloth could be heard. In one of the open wards, my mother, Helena Bortsie, affectionately known as Awo Kakraba, held me close to her breast. She beamed with pride as she studied my tiny features. At the time, my mother was a single parent. I was her second child. Although she had sent word to my father, a man from Enyinam, to inform him of my birth, he was never truly part of my life—at least not until much later in adulthood. I was named Comfort Araba Antwiwaa Quarshie. My mother raised us with the strong and loving support of our grandmother, and life moved forward. In time, she gotmarried and went on to have four more children: Getrude Amoako (Esi Bentsiwah), Reginald Amoako (Kow Nyan), Collins Amoako (Kow Yeboah), and Maame Esi Gyamah Brew. My biological father, Napoleon Quarshie, now ninety-eight years old, is still alive and looking forward to turning one hundred. Early Childhood Days The little birds tweeted outside; it was my cue to wake up. Getting up groggily, I walked drowsily to the back of the house. My elder sister, Ama Antwiwaa, had already woken up and was rolling her cover cloth into a buffer, which she placed on her head before putting the wide aluminium pan we used to fetch water on it. Heading for a corner of the compound, I took the big metal bucket, rolled my own cover cloth into a buffer, placed it on my head, and balanced the bucket on it. On a normal day, we woke up very early, fetched water for the day, bathed, and went to school. School closed at 11:30 a.m. If there was more water to fetch, we did that before eating lunch. I really did not like doing chores. I preferred looking after the babies as it gave me the chance to read my storybooks. My big sister was the one who helped with all the house chores. She washed my clothes but never ironed them. She would iron her school uniform with the charcoal box iron, but I would go to school in mine, all crumpled. She would say, “Do not follow me with your crumpled clothes.” But I did not care in those days. Primary School Days Clang! Clang! The bell rang for break time, and my friends and I poured into the school compound in glee. Before long, we were jumping high into the air, clapping my headmistress was insistent. “Do everything possible to take this girl to secondary school. This is the second time she has written and passed. She has a bright future.” “ The Birthday Journal 5
and kicking our legs forward as we played “ampe.” On the other side of the compound, groups of boys were playing football, others were squatted on the ground tossing the tail ends of snail shells in a game called “alikoto,” and other games. The more shy students stood alone, watching each activity. Primary school for me was at Methodist Primary School in Winneba. Those days were very happy and enjoyable. We were always playing around and not studying very seriously, but somehow we always managed to pass. Back then, there was no electricity in the village. You did not really study at home. What you were taught in school was what you relied on for exams. Middle School Days I do not know what came over me on this particular day. By my nature, I was very introverted, hardly the type to get into trouble. Coupled with this was the fact that I feared the cane. On this particular day, however, I ill-advisedly followed a group of daring girls to town during school hours, oblivious to what the consequences could be if we ever got caught. Imagine my dismay when we returned to find our headmistress, her face in a grimace and her jaw set in anger. She had discovered the absence of some girls. My heart raced. What had I gotten myself into? Was I ever going to gain the trust of my teachers and headmistress again? Shame enveloped me. That feat earned us a two-week suspension, for which I was thoroughly ashamed. The good thing for me was that by the time we were due to return, my Common Entrance results were in and I had gained admission into secondary school. I never went back to complete middle school. I attended Methodist Girls’ Middle School in Winneba. During that period, my mother and grandmother made and sold Fante kenkey, and we helped. We would carry fermented corn to the mill before school and bring it back after school. Then we would go back for afternoon classes, close around 4:00 p.m., do more chores, play, eat, and sleep. Onmost days, I could not wait, as the whole compound filled with the sweet aroma of freshly boiled Fante kenkey. That, mixed with the mouth-watering smell of freshly fried fish and the exotic blend of freshly ground pepper, tomatoes, and onion mix, would make me feel both heady and hungry. My grandmother was very entrepreneurial, a trait which my mother inherited. As a result of that, though we were relatively poor, we never went hungry. Middle school was fun. Of course, academics were beginning to become a bit complex, but I still managed quite well, and all went smoothly until the day I followed a group of girls into town during school hours and earned a two-week suspension. I passed! I stretched both arms out in victory and screamed, screaming and screaming with joy. News had reached us that the Common Entrance results were out, and I had passed! In my joy, I hopped onto my mother’s bed, hopping on it several times, until, “crack,” I heard the sound of broken wood. The bed was broken, but I was still not fazed. That day, if I had had money, I would have thrown a party. I even forgot that I was on a two-week suspension from middle school. Even my mother was very happy, although she didn’t have much. In fact, it was my grandmother who had given me the money for the entrance exam. Grandma was so happy she said, “I will help you go to secondary school. At least you will bring some glory to the family.” In spite of all this, both my mother and my grandmother still couldn’t see how they would raise the funds to send me. A must-not-miss opportunity “This is your daughter’s last chance. Even if you have to borrow, let her go. She is intelligent.” I hid behind the door and eavesdropped as my middle school headmistress tried to convince my mother to let me attend secondary school. Initially, when I saw her walk into our compound, with that fearful, revered gait that most headmistresses often carried, shockwaves ran through my body. I was already serving a two-week suspension. Was I in further trouble? Even my mother appeared daunted. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when I realised what she was there for. My mother, her face clouded with worry and sadness, used one end of her cloth to wipe her face several times and tilted her head miserably as she tried to come up with excuse upon excuse as to why she could not let me attend. She was a single mother, she had other children to take care of, her business was not thriving as it should, but my headmistress was insistent. “Do everything possible to take this girl to secondary school. This is the second time she has written and passed. She has a bright future.” Eventually, my mother began to see reason. Repositioning herself on her stool, she resolved firmly to send me to her elder sister in Cape Coast to see if she could help. That single action taken by my headmistress was deeply etched in my mind, and it shaped my whole life. 6 The Birthday Journal
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Cape Coast i stood in awe, staring at the small rectangular box with a glass front. There were people inside it, and they were talking. My curiosity was instantly piqued. How had they gotten in there? And how were they going to get out? My aunt burst into laughter when she saw the look of shock on my face. “It’s called a television,” she said, laughing. “And no, they didn’t climb in there.” However they had managed it, I was completely fascinated. It was my first time encountering one. My first culture shock in Cape Coast was discovering I would be sleeping on a soft and comfortable bed. I had always slept on a mat on the floor. I was also surprised to find that water ran out of pipes at the pipestand. Did this mean I would no longer have to carry big buckets on my head and walk long distances to the stream to fetch water? There was also that thing in the kitchen my aunt used for cooking, which required no coal pot, and light came on at the touch of a switch. Cape Coast was a wondrous place indeed. My aunt was fun and kind. She was relatively well-off compared to my mother, and I was very happy living with her. Her husband became a father figure to me. On Saturdays, we would go to the market to sell cloth; she owned a fabric shop there. She taught me how to cook, and even how to kill and clean a live chicken. She was extremely meticulous. If she taught you something and you didn’t do it properly, you would First Experiences and Early Ambitions Being in a mixed school like Ghana National made me very self-conscious. For instance, if someone made a mistake answering a question, the boys would laugh. So we just bottled things up. That is why some of us never came out of our shells. “ 8 The Birthday Journal
regret not paying attention. Despite her high standards, she was great fun and treated me like one of her own children.. Secondary School First day at Ghana National College, and I felt a combination of elation, anxiety, and fear. Elation because it was my first time wearing shoes, and it felt wonderful. I looked down every now and then to admire them and kicked my leg a little farther forward than usual so everyone could see them. Anxiety, because my uncle and aunt were the ones who took me to school, but it soon became evident that they were going to leave me there, and I was going to be in a strange place with strange people for the first time in my life. And fear, because somehow I had heard tales of Form One students being bullied by seniors for no reason, and the sight of the giant-looking seniors that I had seen so far caused my stomach to somersault several times. I could only imagine the kind of punishment that awaited me and my mates. If this was anything to worry about, then I was not prepared for what awaited me during dining. For no sooner had the bell rung and we had been ushered into the dining room and served our meals, than we were told we would not be eating with our hands. Trouble. Instead, we had been advised to bring along with us cutlery sets, three little implements, of which I had used the spoon before. Now, the seniors began the arduous task of demonstrating to us how to use the cutlery set. Intently, I dug my fork into the plantain with my clumsy left hand, then with my right hand I tried to cut it, but the plantain had a mind of its own and kept threatening to slip off the plate. It took quite a few visits to the dining hall to perfect using the cutlery set. Being in a mixed school like Ghana National made me very self-conscious. For instance, if someone made a mistake answering a question, the boys would laugh. So we just bottled things up. That is why some of us never came out of our shells. Besides, my mother had given me a stern warning about getting involved with any boy, so I kept very much to myself. Picking up my pen and a sheet of paper, I wrote out boldly, “I didn’t come to school to plait hair. I came to study,” then I pasted it on my bed. That was it. “ The Birthday Journal 9
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I didn’t come to school to plait hair… I sat on my bed one Saturday morning, fluffed out my afro, and proceeded to cut out neat lines on my scalp as I sectioned it in preparation to plait it. Gathering one section in my hands, I combed it out in one long stretch, held it tightly at the base and began to wind the black thread neatly around it, until I was holding one long, neatly plaited section in my hand. “Comfort! Did you just plait your own hair?” It was one of our seniors, looking at me with curious eyes and wonder, causing me to smile. “Yes,” I replied proudly, making another plait. “From this time onwards, you will plait my hair,” she said and walked towards the door. By mid-afternoon, several seniors had come to my corner to confirm my hairplaiting skills, and before long, I became the chief hair-plaiter for the seniors. Initially, this was to my benefit, as I realised that I was no longer asked to do unnecessary punishments like kneeling down, washing and ironing seniors’ uniforms, or even being made to scrub the bathhouse or toilets. I earned a special place in the dormitory. However, as time went on, my academics began to suffer. While my friends were in the classrooms using their prep time to study, I would be in the dormitory plaiting one senior’s hair or another. The situation was dire. If I continued like that, I was going to fail my exams. One day, I took a bold decision. I would no longer plait anybody’s hair. Picking up my pen and a sheet of paper, I wrote out boldly, “I didn’t come to school to plait hair. I came to study,” then I pasted it on my bed. That was it. No one came asking to have their hair plaited again. Occasionally, I would do it for a senior that I particularly liked, but nothing more than that. Off to Banking School “Comfort, teaching means more school before you earn money. Banking gives you income now.” That was my aunt, urging me to take the entrance exams for Standard Bank. After Form Five, I had wanted to become a teacher. Growing up, I enjoyed teaching Sunday school, and my middle school headmistress had always encouraged me to pursue teaching. She believed in me and admired the way I carried myself. I took the entrance exam for Komenda Training College and, around the same time, also sat the entrance exam for Standard Bank. I passed both. My aunt encouraged me to begin working at the bank, and I followed her advice. I started at Standard Chartered Bank as an ordinary clerk and worked my way up to become the number one cashier. The Birthday Journal 11
JameS’ Crescendo It all started at a birthday party. i t was not just any party — it was Araba’s party. It was the last Saturday in August 1976. I had recently graduated with a degree in Civil Engineering from the University of Science and Technology and had taken up a temporary position with the Ghana Highway Authority in Cape Coast, hopeful that it would lead to a placement for my national service. I had brought along a state-of-the-art sound system I had picked up during a vacation training trip to the Netherlands. It was a thing of beauty—clear sound, serious power. One of my friends was so fascinated by it that he came over often just to listen. At some point, he mentioned that a friend of his, Araba, was having a birthday party and needed music. Would I DJ? I agreed. That friend turned out to be her. On the day of the party, I went over to her house and, before setting up my sound system to play the music, I smiled and introduced myself: “James Fiifi Johnson.” She greeted me warmly, grateful that I had shown up. After the party, we realised that we were neighbours and agreed to keep in touch, and we did. Not long afterwards, I invited her to another gathering with friends from the University of Cape Coast and old classmates from St Augustine’s College during the Afahye festival. We danced, talked and laughed. Slowly but surely, our friendship began to deepen. What drew me in? She was calm and composed. No drama. No endless demands. No questioning everything. That stood out. Occasionally, she would bring me food—delicious food. However, it was the peace she brought with her presence that struck me most. When Music and Marriage Met 12 The Birthday Journal
By the following year, I was sure. I wanted to marry her. When I visited her family for the first time, they were excited, though I could also sense a bit of surprise. Her grandmother had been counting down the days to meet the young engineer marrying her granddaughter. As soon as I walked in, I caught the look on her face. With genuine amazement, she said, “Ei! So you’re the engineer we’ve been hearing about? This small boy is the one coming to marry my granddaughter?” Apparently, the title “engineer” had stirred up some lofty expectations, someone older, taller, maybe with greying hair, a deep voice, and a serious briefcase in hand. Clearly, I did not match the mental picture they had painted. The Birthday Journal 13
Once the initial surprise wore off, the room burst into laughter. Everyone was in stitches. That day, we all learned a good lesson. Engineers come in all shapes and sizes, and sometimes with a better sense of humour than you would expect. We had our traditional marriage in 1977. Our first child arrived in 1978. By that time, I had already moved to Liberia for work, and six months later, she joined me, pregnant with our second daughter. Life in Liberia was full of promise. Initially, she stayed home, but once we found our feet, I opened a drug store for her to run. It gave her independence and brought our family much-needed stability. We thrived. Liberia was good to us. While we were living in Liberia, I felt a strong desire to have our union blessed in the Church. In 1982, five years into our marriage and with two daughters, we decided to return to Ghana for a formal Catholic wedding. Coordinating a ceremony from abroad was no small task, but I was determined to see it through. We chose Kumasi, where I had been born and raised, the place that had shaped me. My father had passed away when I was just 17, but my mother was still alive, and I wanted her to witness our vows. Surrounded by family and the people who had known me all my life, we had a beautiful ceremony. There was joy, music, and meaning. Every hurdle we overcame to make it happen was worth it. Araba is beloved in my family. My siblings adore her. She also comes from a large, deeply respected family. We balance each other. In the mid-1980s, I had begun thinking ahead. School fees were becoming expensive, and we had four children under our care, including a nephew. I knew I wanted to start my own company, although I had no idea how it would unfold. I decided to bring the family back to Ghana. It was a more affordable, safer, and wiser choice. That decision turned out to be prophetic. When the civil war broke out in full force a year later, the family was already settled at home. We had to abandon everything and start over, but we were together. My wife has endured so much. Brain surgery in 2008. Breast cancer. Through it all, she never appeared to panic or live in fear. She prayed. She found strength in silence and in her faith. She had beenMethodist when we met, but after marriage, she embraced Catholicism fully, perhaps even more devout than I am now. The Rosary became part of her daily rhythm. What has kept our marriage strong over 48 years? Understanding. Respect. Quiet patience. We never involve third parties in our issues. We always resolved them between the two of us. I often tell younger couples: You do not marry to change someone. You marry to love them as they are. And if 14 The Birthday Journal
change comes, let it be gentle—born of love, not force. I am an early riser who likes to make noise. She prefers a quiet morning. So, I learned to hold back and give her peace. That is marriage; we have learned to compromise in the little things. We have had six children. Initially, I hoped for three or four, perhaps three girls and a boy. God gave us more. We are grateful. In our family, we celebrate everything, birthdays, anniversaries, and even the day one becomes a parent. Music and food are always present. That is our way. Even when the children are abroad, we celebrate for them here, sometimes withMass, sometimes with a feast. Looking back, I smile. At the sound system. The party. The laughter. The unexpected way love came. Our life has had its highs and lows, but we have faced it all together— prayerfully, joyfully, and with deep respect for one another. And yes, she still calls me “Me Wura,” “Mr. J,” and “Fiifi.” I call her “Mi yere Araba.” After nearly five decades, calling each other “my husband” and “my wife” still holds warmth. Because truly, it all began on a birthday. Araba’s Sonata Liberia There I was, pregnant and holding tightly to my toddler, our suitcases stacked on a trolley. We had just cleared immigration and were heading towards the airport exit. Liberia seemed full of life, with many foreigners arriving, Americans, and people from across Africa. Outside Roberts International Airport stood a very happy Fiifi, excited like a teenager to welcome us. After our marriage, Fiifi got a job in Liberia and did not want to leave us behind. He went ahead for six or seven months, then asked us to join him. I thought I would stay only a few months, but I never returned to work. Life in Liberia was new and challenging. Foreigners were often asked for work permits, which made things uncomfortable. With one baby, a toddler, and no help, Fiifi encouraged me to stay home and care for the children rather than struggle with permit issues. The small family drugstore he opened kept me busy. We made many friends, especially at church, and formed a vibrant Ghanaian community. It was in Monrovia that I became Catholic. Fiifi, already a Catholic, wanted to take communion but could not because our marriage was only traditional. Danger! The Liberians whispered a lot. They huddled around radios and lowered their voices whenever others came close. Even the streets felt different—quieter, as if holding their breath. As foreigners, especially Ghanaians, you quickly learn to stay out of politics. Keep your heads down. Smile. Don’t ask too many questions. Still, even we could not escape the unease. At some point in our Liberia journey, my husband, Fiifi, made the decision for us to relocate back to Ghana. What The Birthday Journal 15
a good decision that was. Within a couple of months of our leaving, Liberia became a danger zone. It had been just a month after the Liberian elections, and Monrovia was still reeling. Most believed the opposition should have won, but Samuel Doe had entrenched himself in power. There was a general sense of fear, suspicion and outrage. So when news broke that General Quiwonkpa, a former ally of Doe, had crossed over from Sierra Leone with a group of mercenaries to attempt a coup, the capital erupted in hope. But it was short lived. Doe’s forces crushed the uprising, executed the rebels and, shockingly, some reports claimed they even cannibalised them. The brutality was horrific. And then the wrath turned to civilians. People were being killed like flies. Monrovia descended into a dark season, despair, fear and sadness wrapped around the city like a thick cloud. Just watching the news sent shivers down my spine. Foreign missions began advising their citizens to leave immediately. From then on, Fiifi made the decision to leave Liberia, hoping to wrap things up and bring our belongings home. Where is Dada? When the Liberian war fully broke out, we lost all communication with Fiifi. We waited anxiously. Each group of returnees to Ghana raised our hopes, but days passed with no news. The house grew quiet, and the children became mopey. “Mama, maybe Dada is dead,” they said more than once. But deep down, I refused to believe it. “He’s going to come back,” I would say, trying to sound confident. I prayed for hours. I had to be strong for the children. It reminded me of my own mother, single, poor, raising many children. With Fiifi gone, times were hard. He had been our main breadwinner, and now there was little to live on. Looking back, I see how my tough childhood prepared me for this. I came from strong, entrepreneurial women. What would my mother, grandmother, or aunt have done? I gathered our few valuables and began selling meat pies, snacks, and ice cream—anything to keep us going. I never wore misery on my face. I kept the children’s spirits high. Once I handed the problem over to God, I had no fear. The days dragged on, then weeks, then months. The children’s hope faded, but I held firm in my faith that Fiifi was alive. Joy Comes in the Morning “Mummy! Hurry! Quick!” The children screamed with excitement. I rushed outside, unsure what to expect. At the top of the hill, a smallish, familiar figure appeared. “It’s Dada!” they shouted, running with arms outstretched. Fiifi smiled widely, a small bag hanging around his neck. He opened his arms and ran towards them. They crashed into his embrace, nearly knocking him over. Tears flowed. Relief washed over me. It did not matter that he returned with nothing; he was the miracle I had prayed for. Neighbours came out to see the celebration. Soon, the whole neighbourhood rejoiced with us. A New Beginning I looked into my money box—no cedi left. But I was not sad; I was grateful. We had lost everything in the war, but we still had each other. And that was everything. “We will start again,” Fiifi said, and I agreed. We had already paid five years’ rent on our house, so we renewed it. I suggested building our own home since Fiifi was a seasoned civil engineer and builder. From the little we had gathered, we began construction. By 2003, we moved into our new home. 16 The Birthday Journal
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40th Anniversary 18 The Birthday Journal
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We the Johnsons approaching the beach are six excited adults, each carrying a picnic basket, their eyes alight with wonder as they take in the new changes around the area. A closer look reveals the resemblance— they are siblings. Each wears a polo t-shirt with “The Johnsons” inscribed on the front and their individual names on the back. It has been ages since they visited these parts, and nostalgia lingers in their eyes as their voices rise in unison, recalling memories of home. The Birthday Journal 23
At the beach in Cape Coast, the Johnson siblings sit in a half-circle, the waves teasing the edges of their towels. Coconut fronds sway above them, casting playful shadows across their faces. Laughter spills easily, carried by the salty breeze. Each moment feels suspended between the weight of memory and the lightness of being together again. As they begin their picnic, one memory stands out above all others: Mama, a.k.a. Mrs. Jay! The afternoon becomes a time to speak only of her. Audrey, wistful—as though yearning to relive her childhood—gives a tender smile, her eyes glistening with tears of love as she whispers: “One of the things I love most about our parents is their nurturing nature. They treated every child they met as if they were their own, whether it was giving advice, sharing a laugh, or even disciplining when necessary. Mama was truly a queen—the heart of our home, built on love. One thing I’ll never forget about her was her open door. It didn’t matter who you were—if you stepped into our compound, you became family. She’d scold you, feed you, pray for you, even slip you some food for later. Sometimes I wondered if half the neighbourhood was raised in our house.” Mansa chuckled, nodding. “It’s true. Our home was a community centre—the only difference was that the love tasted better because it came with fufu and light soup.” Adah’s voice dropped into a thoughtful tone. “Maybe it came fromher own childhood. Her father didn’t care much for her and her sister. Yet, instead of growing bitter, she poured herself out for us— and for everyone else. She gave, and gave, and gave. Even when there were moments where life got tough. But she also had strong examples in her mother and grandmother, who raised her and her five siblings with the conviction that family is everything. In that home, love was never measured by what you had but by how much you shared. There was always room for one more at the table, always laughter in the small things, always a reminder that no matter how hard life pressed, you held on to each other. That spirit flowed intoMama, and through her, it flowed into us.” “Then again,” Adah continued, pulling her cloak tightly around her as the sea winds grew stronger, “Mama was always full of advice. She would always say to me, ‘Akokɔ a ɔda ntɛm nnya amadze.’ (Meaning: The chicken that goes to sleep early stays out of trouble.)” “I have used that mantra throughout my adulthood and in raising my kids. She gave us so many of these Fante proverbs that we use in our everyday life.” “I tell youuuuu!” the siblings shout in unison. “Herh!” Missy screamed. “I remember when I was about eight years old, and I coerced Awo and Junior to ditch Dad’s car and join the Augusco school bus, which used to pick up some of our friends in the neighbourhood. The way Mama caned me for being the ringleader—I don’t think I’ll ever forget that day. It also made me realise that I was responsible for the younger ones, so any action I took with them would bear consequences.” This sent the siblings collapsing into each other, roaring with laughter as they all remembered the unfortunate incident. “Me too,” Awo, the fifth 24 The Birthday Journal
Maame One of my most cherished memories is seeing the pride and joy on Mrs. Jay’s face when she meets any of the kids she helped raise. The appreciation they show her, and the pride she feels knowing she played a part in their growth into the adults they are today, is truly heartwarming. This is something I deeply admire about her and believe she is most proud of. The Birthday Journal 25
Nana Mama is a very downto-earth and humble person, but she can be very assertive when the need arises. She never misses an opportunity to correct behaviour and offer good advice. She laughs the most when my dad is up to his usual antics. 26 The Birthday Journal
Johnson child, said, grabbing a bottle of water to keep from choking on her laughter. “I remember the day Mama gave me one hot slap on the back because I was being all moody after school. That thing reset me to factory settings! It reminded me never to carry unpleasant moods.” The siblings erupted again, their laughter spilling freely into the air. Silence followed, broken only by the rhythmic crash of waves. Then Audrey’s eyes glistened. “When Dad disappeared in Liberia, I watched her carry everything alone. She sold meat pies, cloth, even small trinkets at the market—anything to keep us afloat. But she never let us feel shame. We went to school like every other child. We laughed, we played. She shielded us from the weight she carried.” Their laughter rolled once more into the sea breeze, full and unrestrained. Then, as always, came the familiar rivalry. “She loves me the most,” Mansa declared, tossing her hair dramatically. “In your dreams,” Awo shot back. “No, me,” Adah insisted, placing both hands on her chest. “But I’m her bestie, her confidante,” Missy reiterated. “I’m the first fruit,” Audrey added with a mischievous grin. “And I’m the last baby—the only boy. No challenger here,” Junior boasted. A chorus of “Ooooh!” followed, with playful boos and laughter. Beneath the teasing, though, the truth lingered: Mama had loved them all, fiercely and equally. Mansa’s tone softened. “What I cherish most is how she always wanted us united. When Audrey first travelled abroad and sent things home, she never wrote ‘From Audrey.’ It was always, ‘From the Johnson family.’ She never allowed division. We were one front.” She paused, her voice thoughtful. “On Mama and Daddy’s 18th wedding anniversary, I was in Holy Child. I had saved up my pocket money to buy this big, beautiful photo album from the school bookstore. It was expensive at the time, but I was so excited to give it to them. I wrote a long note and signed it: ‘Happy 18th Wedding Anniversary, Love Mansa.’ I was turning 18, and their anniversary was in July 2000. I showed it to Mama first, since Dad wasn’t around. She looked at it and said, ‘It’s perfect, just rewrite the message, but at the end, write that it’s from all of you. Put down all your names.’ She told me, ‘Even if it’s your money today, another day it will be your siblings’. It all balances out.” “So I rewrote the message and listed all our names. You guys didn’t even know I had done that. That album is still in the house. When Dad came back, I gave it to them. He was so excited and thanked all of us.” Her eyes softened with memory. “That really stuck with me. Even now, there are days when Mama will call to say, ‘Thank you for the money,’ and I’ll have no idea what she’s talking about. Then I’ll text you all, and someone will say, ‘Oh, yeah, we sent something from all of us.’ We’ve always presented a united front. That way, there’s no competition, no one trying to outdo the other. We’re all at different financial levels, and this system covers everyone.” We weren’t rich, but we were never short of what mattered most—love, laughter, and the belief that tomorrow could be better if we worked for it. Our parents’ faith was their compass, and it became ours too, though we didn’t realise how much it had shaped us until much later. Turning to her siblings, Mansa smiled. “Even our relationship with each other has gotten better because of Mrs. Jay. Growing up, I was always fighting with you,” she said to Adah. “Do you remember? I wanted to follow you everywhere, but you’d get annoyed.” The Birthday Journal 27
Adah laughed, shaking her head. “You were quite the annoyance.” “Then I grew taller than you,” Mansa teased, “and people thought I was the older one. You always had to correct them.” “There was quite an age gap between the first three and the last three, so it was sometimes harder for the older set—Phase One—to connect deeply with Phase Two. (Dad has affectionately divided us into Phase One and Phase Two.) But credit goes to Mama. She always insisted that I come home to Cape Coast on weekends, even when I had just started working and was living in Accra. No matter how busy I thought I was, she would remind me, ‘You must not forget your siblings.’ And so I would come. And what did we do? We cooked, went to the market together, attended Mass. And you know us—you don’t need outsiders for a party. Just food, drinks, and music.” “Parteeey!” Audrey shouted, lifting her arms. Everyone burst into laughter, dancing to imaginary music. Mansa nodded. “It was those little things that made us bond. WhatsApp helped too. With Missy, it started with work talks—sharing about colleagues, deadlines, and tough bosses. Slowly, it shifted to personal things. Now we share everything.” “Everything,” Missy echoed, smiling knowingly. “With you, Audrey, it was different— you were this awe-inspiring big sister in the U.S. Remember when you came back in 1999 with platinum blonde hair and all the trendy clothes? You made us stars in our neighbourhood! Back then, you felt more like a ‘sister mommy’ than a playmate. But Mama kept urging us to hang out whenever you visited—she would say, ‘Spend time together, don’t let distance make you strangers.’ Gradually, we did. Now we laugh together, we go out, we create memories. We’ve really become close.” Audrey raised her glass. “To Mrs. Jay, the glue!” Everyone lifted theirs. Adah added softly, “It’s true. She taught us that relationships don’t grow by accident. You water them, you show up, you forgive quickly, you laugh often. That’s why, today, we’re not just siblings—we’re friends.” “But my most cherished childhood memories with Mum,” Mansa went on, “are our late-night study marathons. Back in JSS, all the way through to my BECE, anytime I had to stay up late studying or cramming for exams, Mum would stay up with me. Not hovering over me or nagging—no, she had her own system. She’d settle nearby with one of her beloved novels—usually Danielle Steele, Sidney Sheldon, John Grisham, Stephen King, or Agatha Christie—and keep me company while I studied. “It became our little thing.” “You know she did this for all of us, right?” Audrey asked, and everyone nodded. “And the minute your head started nodding or you went quiet for too long,” Adah chimed in, lowering her voice in perfect imitation, “you’d hear her classic line: ‘Ei, I’m sitting here reading and you want to sleep? I’m not begging for you to get into Holy Child ooo!’” “Yes!” the siblings chorused, dissolving into chuckles. “Looking back,” Mansa said thoughtfully, “those nights did more than just help me pass exams—they shaped who I am. She wasn’t just keeping me awake; she was modelling discipline, curiosity, and a genuine love for reading. “It was through her that we discovered our love for books. She introduced us to incredible authors, and I still remember The Firm by John Grisham being one of the first ‘grown-up’ books I ever read—and loved. That book pulled me into a world of suspense and drama, and I’ve been hooked on reading ever since.” She paused, then added, “And again, Mum was very hands-on. From around JSS2, she would take us to the market and introduce us to her favourite vendors—onions here, tomatoes there, fish and carrots over there.” “True, true,” Audrey and Adah chimed in together. “Those were really special days.” “After a few trips,” Mansa continued, “she would give us the list and the money, and we’d have to shop by ourselves. Usually, we’d pass by Auntie Awo Panyin’s first. The first few times, Sister Bea would follow us, but after 28 The Birthday Journal
Mansa What I love most about my mum is her pure zest for life. She’s not exactly the life of the party — but trust me, she is the party when she wants to be! All she needs is her Guinness (or a glass of wine if she’s feeling fancy), some good music, and she’s in her element. She’s the ultimate “all or nothing” kind of woman — whether it’s cooking, dancing, praying, or hosting people in her home. The Birthday Journal 29
MissKrom For Mama, nothing excites her more than seeing her children doing well wherever they are. Add to that the joy of her grandchildren and their milestones — from first steps and first words to reading in church, learning to drive, and so much more. 30 The Birthday Journal
the third or fourth time, Mama expected us to navigate on our own and make sure we weren’t cheated.” Missy, who had been listening intently, reached for some sandwiches, poured herself a full glass of juice, and took a long sip before speaking. “Mama is one of themost incredibly strongwomen I know. Her unwavering faith in God is something I admire most and try to emulate. I remember when she was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2021—she was the one encouraging us, certain she would pull through. She has the utmost faith in God, and He always comes through for her.” “That’s absolutely true,” her siblings agreed, pulling Missy into a group hug. “Now that I’m with her almost 24 hours a day,” Missy continued, “she always reminds me to take my time, to be content with my lot, and not to race with anyone—because we’re all running our own race.” “Don’t forget her love for wrestling,” Junior cut in, grinning. The group erupted once more. “She knows all the wrestlers’ names too. She’s such a happy person—the only time we really saw her sad and broken was when Mama Emma passed. Her aunt as well.” Awo, who had been listening quietly, smiled as the spotlight shifted to her. “I love Mum’s sense of humour—she can turn even the most serious situation into something that makes you laugh, and I think I’ve picked that up from her. I also love her devotion to God. “I remember all the church retreats Mum took us to—the ones where we had to sleep in classrooms and manage without proper facilities for almost five days. I also remember how she took over teaching the children in church about the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Our home became the go-to place after Mass. And Mum never missed a school program—she was the parent chaperone for my class on the only external excursion I had in primary school. Mum has always been there.” “Yes,” her siblings echoed. “She was like that with all of us.” “Mum always tells me I’m a gift from God to her,” Awo went on. “She says I was a very good baby and toddler, too. She’s always quick to tell me how proud she is of me. She gets very happy when she sees us serving in church—it makes her feel fulfilled and proud. And she takes such joy in our life achievements. But she also feels our pain; when any of us struggles, she carries that sadness too.” By now, the basket of goodies was nearly empty. Awo and Junior—the lastborn, the man of the house—both eyed the last crispy chicken thigh. Junior stretched his arm toward it, but Awo raised a playful warning. “Don’t even think about it, my guy, that piece is mine.” “Eiiiii!” everyone shouted. “You, this woman!” But Awo only grinned, grabbed a tissue, carefully placed the chicken on her plate, and—ignoring the stares—poured herself one last glass of sparkling red grape juice, downing it in a single gulp. The sight was so comical that the whole Johnson clan collapsed into laughter again, bumping into each other before pulling into yet another group hug. “Okay, you win!” James Paulinus Kobena Kwansa Johnson, Junior, said at last, clapping for her. Then, of his beloved mother, he added warmly, “I agree with everything everyone has said about Mrs. Jay. It is my desire that we have her around for many more years.” Raising his glass, he declared, “Cheers to Mrs. Jay—and to many more years with her!” “Cheers!” The rest of the Johnson clan hollered, glasses raised high in a joyful toast to their matriarch. The Birthday Journal 31
Awo Growing up, Mrs. Jay didn’t have a salaried job or a business, yet she always managed to have money to take care of our needs. I guess that’s why she feels sad whenever she sees any of us struggling. On the other hand, nothing makes her happier than seeing us serve God in the church in any way. It makes her feel truly fulfilled and proud. 32 The Birthday Journal
Jnr Mama is kind-hearted at her core, always showing compassion in all she does. One of the moments that made me most proud was witnessing her bravery during her medical rounds. What inspires me the most is her prayerful lifestyle. The Birthday Journal 33
as parents, we look upon our family today with hearts full of gratitude. What began with the eight of us has blossomed into something far greater than we could ever have dreamed. With each new member—Jude Kweku Annan, Ebow Darko Dawson, and Oral Afrifa-Appiah (the in-laws)—welcomed through marriage, our blessings have multiplied. Our children have, in turn, brought even more love into the family, and the joy of watching our grandchildren—Walter, Kayla, Kirsten, Gabriel, Oral Nathan, Lisbeth, Estelle-Maris, and Adalyn-Faith—grow has been the sweetest gift of all. From our small beginning, God has given us an ever-growing family, and we feel truly blessed to witness the love and legacy continuing through the generations. Our Ever-Growing Blessings 34 The Birthday Journal
Kayla Oral Nathan Walter Gabriel Lisbeth Kirsten The Birthday Journal 35
Adalyn-Faith Estelle-Maris 36 The Birthday Journal
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Two Scares, One Grief aA small twitch. I touched my face. Did my mouth just move on its own? I downplayed it. Maybe it was just in my imagination, but as the day went by, I felt a slight pulling, first from my cheek, and then around my mouth. I hurried to my room and picked up a mirror. Yes, something was happening to my face. Every now and then, the facial muscles on one side would make jerking movements. Then my right hand began to make involuntary movements. My God, I thought to myself, what is happening to me? I made a mental note to visit the doctor, but before long, I began to feel confused, as if an aura had come over me. Then my body began to twitch and jerk, and I lost consciousness. One of the children found me on the ground. After rushing me to the hospital and undergoing a CT scan, they discovered a growth on my brain. I had to have surgery in Accra. Initially, I was shocked. How long had the growth been forming? I had not felt any discomfort before. Was I really going to need surgery? The brain is one of the vital organs and is very delicate. Would I feel normal afterwards? Would I become a burden on the children? Many thoughts ran through my head. It was not an easy time, but I knew I had a God who had carried me thus far, so I brought my burdens to Him. By His grace, the surgery went well, and I recovered quickly. A couple of years later, when I noticed my breast and nipple becoming whitish, my daughter, a medical doctor, advised me to get a mammogram quickly. It was discovered that I had breast cancer. I did what I had done before—I took the case to my God and began treatment. I remember the children were shaken, but I remained calm. God had done it before, and He would do it again. Once Journey of Hope and Healing 40 The Birthday Journal
again, I underwent surgery and chemotherapy, and I beat the cancer. The end of my cancer treatment was supposed to be a joyous occasion, but it was marred by the death of my elder sister, Ama, to whomIwas closest. Itwas adeeply difficult time for me, especially as she had been looking forward to a double celebration—the end of my treatment and her 70th birthday. We had even planned to go on a holiday together after my surgeries, and the children had already paid for the tickets. On the very day I completed my last radiation session— 19th January—I received the devastating call that she had passed. It was all so sudden. She hadn’t been sick. In fact, we had spoken earlier that week. It was only on Wednesday that I missed calling her, and I told myself I’d reach out on Thursday after my session. But that was it. What was meant to be a season of joy turned into one of deep grief. I had been looking forward to celebrating both her birthday and the end of my treatment, yet God had other plans. Through it all, I give it to God. My faith has kept me going. I first learned about God in Sunday School. In our home, going to church wasn’t a choice—it was a requirement. “ The Birthday Journal 41
God… and God Alone My faith has kept me going. I first learned about God in Sunday School. In our home, going to church wasn’t a choice—it was a requirement. If you didn’t go, you wouldn’t be fed. I became a chorister even while still in school, singing my heart out in praise. From a young age, I began reading my Bible and praying—not to pass exams, but to truly understand God’s word. When I left home for the first time to attend boarding school at Ghana National College, my mother gave me her old, torn Bible. She told me, “This is all I have for you. Read this book and understand it. Let it be your guide.” That torn Bible became my greatest treasure. I kept it until I finished school, and only then was I able to buy my own. Since then, I’ve bought a few English ones, but my heart always returns to the Fante Bible. I connect to it more deeply—it speaks to me in the language of my soul, in the rhythm of my people. When I read it, the words do not feel distant or foreign; they feel like home. Every verse carries the voices of my grandmother and mother—praying, teaching, and reminding us of God’s faithfulness. I love to see my children serving in the church in any way they can. It fills me with pride and fulfillment. All my life, I have trusted God, kept my faith strong, and lived a prayerful life. And through it all, the Fante Bible has been the anchor that steadies my heart. My first family 42 The Birthday Journal
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A Season of Gratitude 44 The Birthday Journal
Seventy Plus One and Thankful aAs I turn 70 + 1, my heart is full. I am thankful for every person who has touched my life and for every moment God has given me. I prayed for a husband who could care for me, my children, and our extended family—and God answered. Fiifi is loving, funny, and wise with money. Together, we have shared countless laughs, danced through life’s joys, and leaned on each other through challenges. I am so grateful for my children and grandchildren. Every birthday, every school achievement, every milestone—they bring me joy like nothing else. Celebrating them has always been one of life’s greatest pleasures. For me, these moments are about more than the accomplishment; they are about sharing in their happiness, encouraging them, and showing them how much they mean to me. I want them to know they are loved, supported, and celebrated every step of the way. Life has not always been easy. Sixteen years ago, when I faced my first serious health challenge, I had to trust God completely. I did, and He carried me through. The love and support of my family made all the difference. “ The Birthday Journal 45
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