Mamma Mia! Ma clung to Pa’s favorite shirt, clutched so hard at it, as rivers of tears streamed down her face. The burial was over, now everyone was gone. They told her to give Pa’s things away, so she would get over him, they helped her to give Pa’s things away. But this one shirt, with the scent of Pa, she couldn’t give it away. Looking at her son laying on one side of the bed, she wondered to herself, who would teach him to be a man? And her daughters, lying haphazardly on the floor of their bedroom, who would show them how a man should treat them? Drivers changed. Mom sat at the wheel now, plodding on with one teen lad, three children. With her short legs, she barely reached the accelerator to be able to move fast. However, with time her limbs became stronger, her eyes sharper, and her focus widened, taking in the journey and working very hard to avoid obstacles on the highway. Until 2023, I had no clue Owusu was Mom’s maiden name. I’ll wager my siblings are clueless about it too. For as long as I’ve known my mom, she was Pauline Gyankoromaa Dakwa. Her father’s name completely omitted as she fully immersed herself in her husband’s name. Part of the reason why I don’t wipe “Dakwa” out completely. At 31, Pa died suddenly, and her world, and that of us, came tumbling down, two blocks at a time. It changed her circumstances, wounding her forever. Thankfully, the foundation held. That is how the family survived. Kyebi Presbyterian Church invited Pa to come and help them outdoor new instruments they had bought for the Church. He departed Accra with the two women who pulled at his heartstrings - the one who birthed him - Grace Amma Ofosua Dakwa (I thought I had started the “Amma” revolution) and his Pauli to Abompe. As fate would have it, a head-on collision on his return trip killed him and his mother on the dawn of 21st May 1978 at Asuboi in the Eastern region. The accident. It maimed Mom for life. However, she put up a show for her children and the world. The teeth she showed when she smiled were not hers. They were dentures. At the end of every day, she would remove them and drop them in a small iridescent cup filled with some liquid that sat on her vanity sink in her bathroom. By the crack of dawn, she would brush them and click them into place with her “let’s play ball smile.” When I found out, I would go by her bedside early, prod her awake, and watch her impulsively reach out for her “teeth” as she mumbled. Then, I’d burst out laughing. Her insults were unintelligible . Her face showed the scars from the traumatic accident. Her elbows too. It told the story of a sore that healed but left a jagged edge. Her lower lip became thicker. Her heart was hardest hit. What with losing her husband and mother-in-law in one fell swoop. Trauma. Calamity. Distress. Disaster. At 31, she was a widow with 4 children under the age of 14 with a conglomerate to run. When I could speak, the whole community called her “Auntie,” so I joined them. My friends too called her the same. It wasn’t an anomaly then to call Mothers “Auntie” with a twang. Auntie. She was like a human Christmas tree. She gave everything until she was left with nothing. I remember getting her Josef Seibel’s from a trip. These were comfort shoes that cost me $99.95. She gave them to her cousin because she needed comfort shoes. I rolled my eyes at her. Auntie was industrious - working her fingers to the bone doing everything possible to bring comfort to her four children and extended family, even at her peril. She sold Banfo bissi, a brownish Charlewote, etcetera. Auntie was a fine mix of compassion, laughter, aroma, prayer, chilled Guinness, wet eyes, strength, and an undaunted spirit. Eventually, she started a canteen in her home in Adabraka. She was a great cook. Her soup was efie nkwan ankasa. Now. Some days, the sales didn’t go as expected, so she’d dodge the creditors when they came at her. One time she stood her ground when Auntie Akwele, the fish seller, showed up. Mama was drinking her daily chilled Guinness and reading her daily Graphic. This dialogue ensued. “Ei Auntie…” And before she could finish… Mama said “Eka fuour didi wati,” meaning debtors eat too. Then she asked her “wobe num den?” To wit… “what will you drink?” She said “beer.” Mama offered her a chilled bottle, and they sat there talking like old friends sharing their struggles - my mom in broken Ga and Akwele in broken Twi. The Late Pauline Gyankoromaa Dakwa My Parents James and Pauline 12 The Birthday Journal
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