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
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