Right in the centre of the city, stood my new home. The majestic Atlantic ocean stretched in the vast unknown to the right, fishermen hard at work to find what their nets will capture and bring home  to the land beyond.The ocean’s breeze could be felt on my face as I looked beyond the turquoise water, it’s existence surreal as I stood at the balcony that would soon become the most cherished space in my new home. From up there my sister and I would be receiving salutations from familiar faces as we watched with curiosity the happenings in the neighbourhood. The view was picturesque.

Across the street directly opposite the house stood the market, a busy hive of activities where I would travel on many journeys to satisfy my insatiable appetite for Banku ( a meal made from fermented corn and cassava dough). It was in this place I first learnt the powerful act of bargaining. It was at this market, that gossip could easily spread, bump into friends you are never prepared to meet, yet, always welcome with a hearty greeting.

Soon, we would form our own band of customers who we would staunchly purchase from . Like the vivacious Sister Esi, the tomatoes seller, who with time would get to know our home and bring her garden-fresh vegetables to us. And there was the Alhaji ,the butcher with the dark patch exactly in the middle of his forehead from whom we got our fresh supply of meat without him asking how much we would buy. We bought the same pounds of meat for each market trip.

On our popular street, rallies  and parades were held. A triangular shaped pavement  at the side of the main road became a business centre for a few hawkers.

To the left- a pub. Vibrant and noisy . It’s colourful exterior décor attracting its guests. This place of entertainment became my family’s cross to bear. The excruciating noise that came from their outdoor speakers were almost unbearable. Old and new song records would blast from their sound systems and with time I built immunity to all that noise. My older sister detested it!

All other  paramount places were within walking distances-school, church, and library.Once I settled into school, I found myself a best friend whose house stood on a hill around a corner from mine.

Our new home was not perfect, but here, our family welcomed a new blessing -the arrival of my little sister who in herself is a miracle!

From my very early years, my father taught me to show gratitude, from writing thank you letters to uncles and aunties to saying it to him and my mother for their daily provisions.

Now I’m grateful for this powerful life lesson learnt and though still a  novice in this act of thanksgiving I hope I’m able to bless the next generation with it.

Today, I am grateful to him and my mother for their persistence in helping build my character.

Today, I am grateful to the doctors and nurses who went beyond their call of duty and became my family in the few days I spent in the hospital.

Today, I’m grateful for my extra-ordinary neighbours who have made my family’s life a little more comfortable.

Today, I’m grateful for the gift of sisters who inspire and challenge me to thrive and blossom.

Today, I’m grateful for the past, present and the future unknown.

And the list continues…

I remember the teacher who made me want to become a teacher and as a young girl I prayed: God I want to become like Ms. Onumah.

I loved her kinky hair turned Jheri curls with the shaving at the sides in her light brown teacher’s uniform which matched her students’ light brown shirts and deep brown pinafore or shorts.

Like her students, she sometimes wore sneakers on rainy days which always received ridicule behind her back.

My year was filled with acquiring a level of mastery into sums and products, appreciating the culture of different ethnic groups, I even gained some expertise in needlework and for the first time in my life lit a fire at school all in the name of learning.

These are not the memories I most cherish, rather I look deep into her nature and appreciate her tenacious, committed, inspiring, creative and energetic and kind presence.

Mrs. Onumah’s classroom was an epitome of graceful learning, her resources were meagre; she became the queen of improvising.

Her legacy has outlived the one year I spent under her tutelage.

Twenty-four years and still counting she remains ‘The Teacher”.

My older sister and I have been blessed with the gift of love that exuded from my paternal auntie’s heart. Mama as we affectionately called her was a generous woman-not only to my sister and me, but to all who came into contact with her. She was a busy entrepreneur who had her own small kiosk in the central business hub of Katamamto in Accra.

Mama was exceptionally good at cooking, making the best mouthwatering Ghanaian dishes and our joy every school day was to have her pack lunch for. Despite her busy life, she somewhat found the time and energy to magically make us fresh food daily. Her food was always quickly made ad yet delicious. Our home was always a haven for family, neighbours and even strangers alike.

Mama considered my sister and me as her treasures-her rare gems that she protected and loved unconditionally. She understood the power and impact of words and found a way to always magnify us. I can almost hear her high-pitched and booming infectious laughter talking to one of her market women friends.

“Well, as for my nieces they are nwurabafo, they love school and I recently bought a few books for them to read”.

She would say with an air of pride.

Ewuraba is the Twi word for lady and nwurabafo is the plural form.

She never missed an opportunity to pamper us -like the time my sister topped her class at the end of year examinations, she carried her back, tying her securely with a cover cloth, not caring what our neighbours thought. The few who were bold enough to tell her she was overdoing things received the “look” from her.

She would embrace us and bury us in her bosom, never letting us go till we were out of breath and giggling our hearts out. This became our bedtime ritual.

One evening, our Mama was late coming home. We waited patiently, then impatiently as we heard the news anchor’s voice reading the 7 o’clock news on our black and white TV we were privileged to have. I grew restless and my poor sister had run out of excuses to give me for our Mama’s lateness our hearts ached for her, this was the first time she had been gone to the market for that long a time. Unable to wait any longer, we pleaded with my older cousin who was watching us allow us to wait outside for our dearest aunt. She yielded. We found an old, partially broken bench and placed it at the entrance of our door. Sitting on the bench, I placed my head on my sister’s lap as she also put her head on my back. We formed our own layer of protection, comfort and warmth. We could hear the annoying buzz of mosquitoes in our ears.

I can’t recall how long we waited, but long enough for us to have dozed off. We awoke to the gentle tap on our shoulders and the welcoming smile of Mama beaming at us. With joy she threw her arms around us, neither questioning or chastising us, she knew all the answers -we loved her just as much as she loved us. It was mutual!

It’s been ten years now since my dear Mama passed away, but her memories are so fresh in my heart and I miss her so desperately. I celebrate and cherish her gift of love and devotion to my sister and me and recognise that the few years spent with her have become a foundation of our success.

Standing in front of my bedroom mirror, I quickly glanced at myself in the mirror and realized that my dress indeed was stunning. Well-tailored, perfect fit and the best part of all;

no need for another strenuous trip to my seamstress for any form of alteration. Smoothening my palms over my Ghanaian print fabric, I looked at the beautiful soft shade of royal blue with its exaggerated designs. The shade matched my skin colour excellently, with its added elegance of side pockets. Yes, my dress was nice! I smiled a victorious smile of satisfaction at the latest addition to my wardrobe.

“Mama, yourself is nice”, that was the soft voice of my 4-year-old daughter Naa. Still standing in front of the mirror of my bedroom I paused out of amazement yet wanting to know more about what my little one truly wanted to say. She tugged onto the hem of my dress and shyly shifted her way beside me. Quietly, she twirled her index finger around a loose braid hanging down her ear with a twinkle in her eyes. She gazed hard and strong at our reflections absorbing every detail her young mind could hold. She looked both fidgety and beautifully clumsy.

“Medase”, I replied with a long sigh in Twi and gave her a quick hug.

My heart couldn’t let the conversation rest. I needed to dig deeper into her thoughts, find out more on what she truly wanted to articulate but her 4-year-old tongue couldn’t.

“Naa, why do you say that?’’ I continued in Twi, kneeling beside her our eyes all this time fixed on our reflections in the mirror. Our glances deliberate and conscious.

“Mama, Grandma Taifa is a big mama, you are a small mama’’, she said thoughtfully with an air of secrecy at the belief of holding some piece of knowledge she alone was privy to. Giving her an approving nod, I beamed to myself.

“Mama, do you think I will be like you or Grandma Taifa when I become a mama?” she asked innocently.

Grandma Taifa is my mother-in-law. She can be described as a giant; big hips, big butt, thick boned, very tall. What we term in Ghana as “thick-tall”. Naa and her brother Nii have coined nicknames for their two grandmothers by virtue of the towns they reside in. Mine has been named Grandma Takoradi.

Her question struck me swiftly, it’s importance becoming all too clear. I sat down on the floor of the room my thoughts running with the speed of light. I gently pulled her onto my laps enveloping her with my arms. I connected and pulled “appropriate” words to my lips.

“Piesie, I don’t know”, I hushed with an assuring smile,” you could be small like me or big like Grandma Taifa”. I continued with purposeful pauses between words. Piesie being the pet Twi name for firstborns; a name I occasionally called her by. I had a million things all clouded in my mind but none could come out of me.

“Mama, it doesn’t matter if myself will be like you or Grandma Taifa because I know myself will be nice “, Naa whispered casually.

At that moment, I did not see a 4-year-old; I saw a sturdy, strong and powerful girl like the palm tree- who will be resilient to the many challenges of life. Slipping my hands through hers, I looked lovingly into her beautiful black eyes I squeezed her tight into a warm embrace my nostrils filling up with the strong smell of the shea butter and coconut oil cream in her hair, the sweet smell of the talcum powder fresh on her skin. Yes, that was my Naa! Silently I prayed. I hoped that this spirit of self-acceptance would never die in her. And the wave of pride that washed through me by her innocent declaration remains to me un-describable.

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton