When I ponder the wonder of womanhood, It takes me back into time, into childhood, when I loved to hear stories, like Robinhood. Mama told us a lot, yet we longed for more. Sister Benigna, Miriam, Kwame Nkrumah came to the fore. Her days at Holy Child are stuck on her memory like a postage stamp, She gleefully shared, as we listened like children in a camp, Some were inspirational, some were frightening, some were discouraging.

Mama has gone through a lot, and tends to look at the darker side of life,” Blessed are the pessimists, for they shall never be disappointed”, she would say. When as a little boy I grabbed a stick and used it as a microphone, There was no stopping, I rapped out Basketball by Curtis Blow, Have Mercy by U Roy, Could you be loved by Bob Marley. I imitated Malcolm X, Luther King, Kwame Nkrumah, and Harry Thompson as a football commentator.

Mama appreciated my talent and sometimes sang along, with Bibi and Yaw developing their rapping talent on their own. (RAPPERS DELIGHT)But for the most part, it was much nuisance to her. I was untamed, like ”tiger, tiger, burning bright in the forest of the night what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry.”When Dada went away because he feared for his life, Mama became our father, because it took one year before we got to know where Dada was. Soldiers came, “where is your Dad? Mama had to find an answer.

We feared the worst when the soldiers finally came with Issa Dadienko. it was him who had tried to scare dada, to blackmail him, to threaten him before he vanished. Surprisingly, the soldiers started to ask Mama about Dadienko. What followed was a horror movie not fit for a kid like me to watch. The beating of Dadienko was brutal, and his cries louder than the sound of a siren or the cry of a muezzin. They left with Issa Dadienko, but his blood formed a landmark on the floor.

They called it a revolution. Yes, it was. Because it changed our family life forever and I am sure that of many families. Then I heard about the killing of Jimmy Pee. He admired my sharpness as a kid and above all my love for sports and current affairs. He used to bring me football and ping pong bats. It was when I saw his photo in the papers that I got to know his real name was Kyeremeh Djan, a relative of Boakye Djan. 

His crime, plotting a coup de tat with the Gokka brothers. One thing I learned from all this at this early age is that no matter its imperfections, military dictatorship cannot be a substitute for the worst form of democracy. It also gave me a tolerant and forgiving spirit. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. soldiered on even as the soldiers had made life take on a new meaning.

She sought help from Dada’s friends to find us a new school. No help came, because dada’s friends were people who would party with you in good times and take away the from party when things get tough. Mama told us to be careful in choosing friends. She sold her precious jewelry to finance our education She retired from work prematurely to enable her to collect her ESB (please don’t call it ex gratia) in order to make all her five children plus other relatives she was supporting get somewhere in education.

The long walk to Adampasu and Abepotia during the green days took a toll on her mobility. Mama has paid her due She must get her due, Her love still sticks like glue. Silence makes her blue talking to her is the clue situation she will never rue. My dear women, you are all my mothers. I salute you. Man, whether you are a man or a boy, You are a baby. Woman, whether you are a girl or a woman, You are a mother.

All men never grow out of babyhood. We are breastfed for strength as kids and still breastfed as adults as a preamble to the deed that takes us to the mountain top of pleasure and brings us down in a sensual parachute. What more can I say? You come from heaven, woman, So be proud of yourself. You are manna in a mama.