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
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