Kenkey houses that had the Akweley’s and Oko’s. They treated me as family, asked me about my Mom, giving me “tishinu” - the thick liquid that formed when they cooked the Kenkey for sale. It was meant to be medicinal and cure fever. But, I loved to scoop on sugar and drops of milk. It was a full meal. To this day, I love its cousin “Maskk3”. Our home stretched from Manyo Plange Street and went downhill to Watson Avenue. We were hemmed in by the Quarcoopoomes, where I played ampe, cooking with tomato cans. The park in front of the Amaamo and Ayalolo Cluster of schools was a stadium of sorts for the young men in the area. It bred greats and provided students with a training ground at Castlebridge and Ayalolo Cluster of public schools. Our landscape was pitted with families like the Wus. Growing up, I knew nowhere else except Adabraka. There was the occasional foray into Dansoman to see Dina Kesson. Otherwise, Adabraka remained a happy place for me. Memories assail me every time I drive through. Every so often, I go back there, purposely on an errand. Other times, in dodging traffic on the main Kojo Thompson road, I’d drive through the familiar streets that look narrow to me now. Adabraka had character. It housed some beautiful people who’ve gone on to become something. It is where I met Kwabena Atakora Nsiah on a random late afternoon in 1991. Kin Climbing onto the banister, I held onto the metal rail, lay my whole body on it, and then, w-h-o-o-o-o-s-h! I let myself go down, down, until I was on the ground, then I climbed up to do it again. My elder sister turned to give me a cold stare for my inappropriate behavior, but did I care? She was all girly, girly, and I was the tomboy. Before I knew it, my younger sister was clambering up the stairs, ready to go and replicate my move. “You see what you are teaching her?” my eldest brother scolded. Growing up in Adabraka was a blur. Somewhat. It was as if I snoozed and scenes flashed past. Then, slowly, I pushed the covers off me and woke up. And focused. And I began to focus on what mattered. Family seemed to matter. And friendship tag-tailed. And the kitchen was hot and busy with all sorts of fragrances. And I saw things for what they were. I recall streams of people flowing in and out of home. And it was “Sister this” and “Braa that”. But most had no lineage with me. Turns out mom was a collector of persons with stories that made her eyes moist. So if you had a good story, your bed and breakfast were assured. However, I recall living in the shadows of a fair, dainty, and beautiful older sister. Not that she turned ugly. This lass was eerily quiet, with a countenance that was not ordinary. I inherited all her “sister thank yous”. To wit, “hand me downs”. My mother would sew or purchase two of the same dresses for us, and I would end up wearing both because she had passed on what didn’t fit her anymore to me. To this day, I never buy the same things for my girls. Maybe different colors. But never the same. I don’t recall us bonding like glue where she would give me “boyfriend filla” and be all girly and frilly. She seemed to float around with an ethereal quality, while I tumbled around in pure tomboy fashion. Yet our gap was a mere 5 years. I can feel her eyes dance with laughter. Afia Ofosua, Yaa Gyankoromaa, Amma Ntowaa Amma Ntowaa, Afia Gyankoromaa (our late Mom), Yaa Gyankoromaa The Birthday Journal 17
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