11/05/2025
Dad returned from a funeral in the village and got sick. It started as a fever or something like a fever. It was 1984, and access to fast medical care wasn’t that easy. Everyone around him speculated about what the issue was. They used local herbs to treat the disease, but a week later, it got worse. He got paralyzed on one side—he couldn’t move his left hand or his left leg. They rushed him to the nearest hospital, which was about 25 kilometers away. The situation worsened each day until he was discharged from the hospital. They said it was a curse. They said it was witchcraft: “They got him when he went to the village.” Others said, “They don’t want him to do well in life; that’s why they’ve cut his success short.”
The hospital didn’t work, so for over a year, they moved him from one church camp to another. What medicine couldn’t do, we tried prayers too, but little or no improvement was seen in his condition. My mom started selling assets. Everything she laid her hands on, she sold to raise money for my father’s health. Three years later, he was still the same—or worse. There was no money. There were no assets left to sell. There was only life to face.
My senior brother and I suffered before we could eat. We lived in a compound house then, so we relied on the benevolence of our neighbors to get food. My brother would help pound fufu for neighbors before he could bring a bowl home for us to eat. Mom was suffering. She was only forty, but life sucked the youth out of her and left her dry—so dry that any wind at all could break her down. When life became too tough, my brother had to drop out of school. His reports weren’t good enough, so Mom said, “It looks like we’re wasting the little money we have on you. I’ll take you to Agya Addo’s shop so you can start learning fitting. If you don’t like that, tell me what you want to learn, and I’ll take you there.”
I was sacked from school one day. Fees hadn’t been paid. I was studying vocational skills, and the fees for our final practicals hadn’t been paid either. I had little hope as I walked home. Mom wasn’t doing well. Dad had been sick for years and wasn’t contributing anything. I thought it was the end of my education too, so I started thinking of becoming an apprentice for a seamstress nearby. When I got home and told Mom I had been sacked, she said, “Bear with me. Tomorrow, we’ll go to the market. You’ll sell with me and see how much we can raise.”
For a whole week, I went to the market with her. What we raised amounted to nothing. I wasn’t the only one who needed money—Dad also needed money for his medicines. I was tired—too tired to even raise an arm—so I told Mom, “If we can’t get the money, we don’t have to kill ourselves. I’ll learn a trade.” She slapped my head and said, “Don’t be stupid. You’re smart. I won’t allow you to rot like your brother. You’ll finish school and get a good job. We are not giving up.”
One dawn, I woke up needing to urinate. We lived in a compound house with only one washroom for the whole household. I shared a small corner room with my brother, while Mom and Dad slept in the room next to ours. It was dark outside, so I was a little scared. I dashed into the washroom and bumped into two people—a man and a woman. The woman’s face was against the wall while the man was hu***ng from behind. It was dark, so I didn’t see them clearly until I heard my mom’s voice. The woman was my mom, and the man was the landlord.
I even forgot why I had gone out. I ran back to bed, hoping I’d wake up the next morning and realize it was all a bad dream. I couldn’t sleep. The image haunted me—my mother’s voice, her face against the wall, the landlord behind her. When morning came, I was scared to get up. I didn’t want to see my mother. I didn’t want to hear what she had to say. I stayed in bed until she walked in and asked, “Won’t you get up? Aren’t you going to the market with me today?” I got up, telling myself, It didn’t happen. It was just a bad dream.
There was dead silence between us on the way to the market. We both kept looking away, walking together but separately. Just before we reached the market, she held my hand and pulled me close. We stopped. She said, “You’re not a child, and I know you understand what you saw this dawn. But let me tell you this—you don’t understand everything. It’s hard, but I had to do it so you wouldn’t grow up and do it yourself. Your dad is dying, but I had to do it for him too. I can’t tell you everything, but I hope you understand.” She turned her face away and wiped her tears. She didn’t want me to see them, but I did. She walked ahead, leaving me behind.**
When we returned from the market, she said, “Get ready. You’re going back to school tomorrow.”
The next morning, she placed the fees in my hand and gave me extra money to keep. She said, “If you learn hard, you won’t have to go through what we’re going through now. Go back and be great.” On my way to school, I cried. The image from that dawn never left me, but Mom’s words were stronger: *“It’s hard, but I had to do it so you wouldn’t grow up and do it yourself.”* I completed school. I wanted to work immediately, but Mom wouldn’t allow it. She said, “Get an education. You’re smart.”
When I got admission to university, I asked, “Can we do this?” She said, “What haven’t we done? It’ll be difficult, but we’ll still do it.” In my second year, just before exams, I heard my father had passed away. I cried like a baby. I couldn’t go home until after my exams. When I finally saw Mom’s face, the images from that dawn returned. I wanted to blame her. As she got closer, I wanted to say she was the reason Dad died. I thought, *You cheated on him with the landlord. If I saw it, maybe he knew too. That’s why he went early.
At Dad’s burial, I watched Mom from afar, judging her, cursing her in my head. Everything she did seemed like pretense. Afterward, she told me, “He’s gone now. May he rest in peace, but you can’t rest. Remember what I told you. You can’t grow up and be like me. You can’t suffer the same fate. Be better—for yourself. But for now, I’ll bear the suffering for you.”
After university, a man who promised me a job made advances. He said, “The competition is tight. Everyone wants what you want, but I can give you the opportunity. What will you give me?” I said, “My first salary.” He replied, “I don’t need your money. You know what I need.” I did—but I remembered Mom’s words: “It’s hard, but I had to do it so you wouldn’t grow up and do it yourself.” I thought, Mom paid the price. I won’t pay it twice. I told him, “If you won’t give me the job, I’ll look elsewhere.”
I moved on. He kept bothering me, later saying he wanted to marry me. I said, “But you’re married.” He replied, “My tribe allows a second wife.” I nearly slapped him.
I found a job ad in the Daily Graphic, applied, and was called for an interview. Afterward, a panelist stopped me: “Don’t leave. I’d like to see you later.” I thought he’d help me get the job. Instead, he said, “You’re beautiful. The company needs someone like you, but others are more qualified. If you do something for me, I’ll help you.”
He wanted s*x. I said, “Keep your job.” It struck me then—in this world, something must often be given to gain something. Mom was right. I had an education to rely on. She had nothing but herself. I refused to follow that path—her sacrifice was enough.
I struggled for a year without work until a friend told me about a scholarship. I applied and won a fully funded master’s program in Denmark. When I told Mom, she said, “This is beyond me. I’m old and broken. No one wants a broken thing, but I’ll ask relatives.” She begged uncles, traveled to each one, and raised the money in two months.
I left for Denmark in 1991. In December 1993, after finishing my thesis, I got a letter: Come home. Your mother has died.”
I broke down. How could she leave just as we were about to reap what we sowed? If I’d been home, I wouldn’t have let them take her body. But the dead must be buried. The living carry on until their time comes.
After the funeral, I told my brother, “Get ready. You’re coming with me.” It took time, but eventually, he joined me in Denmark.
Mom is why I don’t judge people. Goodness can come from sin, depending on the heart’s intent. Some sin for pleasure, some from weakness—but some, like Mom, sin from helplessness. She faced that wall so I wouldn’t have to. When I pray I say, “Dear God, Don’t judge her deeds. Kindly judge her according to the intentions of her heart because her heart was well placed."
𝑻𝒐 𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒔𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒔, 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆'𝒔 𝒂𝒏 𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒆.
-Silent Beads
