to cheek to slow music when the mood was apt, and disagreeing if they had to - a testament to the fact that even the teeth bites the soft inner cheek every now and then, unintentionally. It is never reason enough to rip out the cheeks or axe those white enamels. Writing about him in this fashion without really knowing him, yet knowing him and feeling every bit like him leaves a hollow pang in my heart. Is it weird to miss something you didn’t have? I miss the fact that I would’ve been a Pa Girl. We would’ve done morning coffees and evening sips, laughing raucously together. I miss most the guiding hands of a father. But, Thomas. He gives me glimpses of him. Thus, he became the one to give me away when a suitor found me. A great father outlives his death. DAKWA I needed a passport-sized picture, so I walked into Modern Photos at Circle in the early 2000s. On a whim, I said to this older man idling by the counter, “My father was into photography. If he were alive, he’d be bigger than Modern Photos.” Unbeknownst to me, he was the owner of Modern Photos. He peers at me, asking , “Who’s your father?” I smile. And with a chest bursting with pride, I hushed out, “Dakwa Fotos.” Instantly, the man straightened up to his full height, beaming. “I knew your father. He was a good businessman. He did a lot for the community, etcetera.” Before he could complete his reminiscent thoughts, I had grown 20 inches tall, gloating and preening. A suffused glow on my face. Na my Papa dat. I got free photos that day. As I walked to my car, emotionally choked, I couldn’t help but think that Pa’s polished name was sorting me out, even though he was 6 feet under. Dakwa! I hold onto this name. It’s not just a name. It’s my ROOT. It’s an identity. Mine. It points an erect finger to where I hail from and who sired me. There is something in a name. traipse through forest trails at the outskirts of Osino through to Abompe, where he laid red bricks to build a structure he marked as home. This 60 plus-year-old man speaks of Pa excitedly, working up a spittle like a 12-year-old, making gesticulations about him washing and polishing his white Mercedes Benz C230 and spring-cleaning the home with ABBA blaring loudly in the background as he sang along in his high-pitched tone. He flew two German Shepherds to his home, Peace and Mine. Nobody bathed and fed his dogs but him. I grew up to see a facsimile rendition of this through Thomas. Seeing the radiogram sitting in our dining area with a few records lying flat in there proved that Thomas’ tales were legit. This media piece became a relic that was used as a table or a holding area for knick-knacks. I wonder what happened to it. It’s sad how we lose important pieces of history as we move from place to place. Together with Pauline, they ruled their little Dakwa empire - doing good whenever they could, dancing cheek The Birthday Journal 11
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