Then just as I was inching up to her ears to start the tête-à-tête journey of girls, an Arafat noticed her on the streets of Accra. Courted her. And promptly put a circular metal on her ring finger, whisking her away to Madina, a suburb that was alien to me. In record fashion, she pushed out 3 kids. Literally! She had become a wife and a mother. So. I was stuck with my younger sister. Mehn. She was stubborn academy material, giving me grief when we shared a room. But as adults, we roll without fanfare. She’s got my back. I don’t need to look over my shoulder if she’s in the rear. Englebert Englebert School shared a wall with Nyaho Clinic in the rear. We had no gates. It was just one long block of about 8 classrooms overlooking a park. My mom enrolled my younger sister -,Anita and me there. I recall this day like it was yesterday… Crin… Crin…. Crin The bronze bell tolled. It was time to go home. Hastily stuffing jotters, exercise books, and pencils into school bags, grabbing plastic lunch boxes, we streamed out of the six-classroom block in a purple swathe towards idling Peugeots 504’s, Datsuns, Citroens, and Renaults parked on the asphalt road, where children piled onto interior seats, sweaty and dirty. Excited chatter filled the air. Car doors slammed shut and pulled away, one after the other. Slowly, the school emptied out, all the purple-clothed toddlers and teens, except for three: a 12-year-old whose uniform was torn in the rear, necessitating a patchwork fix. Her classmates had resorted to nicknaming her “apache duna”, to wit “patched butt”; her barely 9-yearold pudgy-faced sister, Anita, and tiny Nana Akua, a cousin. These three lounged against the electricity powerhouse that sat on the edge of the school’s park, sullen, hungry, and somewhat disheveled. The “Keep Off ” warning did not deter us. Every few minutes, three necks craned to see if an approaching car was the Datsun 160 J that their uncle who picked them up owned. Nope. Somebody forgot to pick us up. Not sure who. Appiah- The Driver? My Uncle? Finally, a decision was made: “Let’s walk home.” Then began our toddler steps from Englebert International School through the quiet residential community of Airport, passing through Jack and Jill until we reached the busy crossroad leading to Pig Farm. Afterward, we boarded a Trotro (public transport) with others. I am not certain if we paid a pesewa to the “Mate” who collected the fares, but our ragged selves earned us the seat we squeezed into. Not sure how, but we got dropped off at the Ring Road, where cars whizzed past like they were chasing each other, amidst horn blares. Now. Here comes the tricky part. The trio handheld on the left and right by the 12-year-old me begun to cross this busy intersection together. Halfway and holding tightly onto each other, Anita, unbeknownst to me, had espied a car fast approaching, so she tried to break free of my tween grasp and cross to the median. Cautious and blinded from what she saw, I tried to pull her back into safety. I lost my grip on this tug of war, and she raced forward only to be hit by this fast-approaching sedan. For an interminable minute, my sister lay in a supine position, while I screamed my lungs out, holding tightly onto Nana Akua. By a miracle, Anita stirred. With minor scratches and sprains, we were piled into the car that hit us and driven home to our anxious Mummy at about dusk. How that happened is hazy and remains a mystery. We met Mother, a fretting widow pacing back and forth when we were brought in. I can still remember her cry of relief and seeing her scarred face straighten up. This story has stayed with me. To this day, I get the jitters when I have to cross a twolane street. I am convinced we were saved for a purpose. You also are still alive for a reason. If you have not found this purpose, find it. Find it in your quiet moments or in the din and live that purpose. It will bring your life fullness, a savory quality, and sure-footedness. Regrets In 1993, I entered the Ghana Institute of Journalism. The Institute gave me a sense of direction. It also widened my network to include some fantastic Chics and Guys who have become part of my support system and family. For my required industrial attachment, I was sent off to US Information Services for 2 months, originally located around. But I stayed for 6 months. Looking at my background, Nic Robertson suggested I work more in the department that produces an in-house Newsletter, although I was given the freedom to roam through most of the departments. One time a US Navy ship - USSR landed in Tema, and I was sent to cover their arrival. Entering the ship and interacting with the officers, I fell in love with the possibility of becoming a Navy Officer. I was enthralled. I stayed on the ship the whole day. In the evening, we had dinner on deck. I knew I was sold on becoming a Naval or Military Officer. Years on, I landed on US soil. By fluke, I met a Military recruiter and started the process. In one of my final interviews in Gaithersburg, I feigned gallstone pain that I feared would impede my progress as a Military Officer. All because my colleague at work told me, “I would be tossed very far away from family.” Her exact words. That is how I missed out on being a Naval Officer in the United States. Lesson here: Not every dream in the incubation stage should be shared. In retrospect though… How would I have met Kwabena? How would Kofi, Abena, and Yaa have looked like? Would I have had them? Would I have had any? Where would I have been? 18 The Birthday Journal
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