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
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