“Sit. In. Programs! Fill every seat in front of you! Girls! What’s the problem? We don’t have time to waste.”

Around us, girls were filling the seats, leaving the two allegedly occupied seats in the row. 

My new friend, Karen gestured towards the speaker, “well, you heard her”. 

Aki Ola girl huffed and picked up the book she had used to reserve the seat for her imaginary honor roll. I wondered what it would be like to have her as a classmate.

Behind the podium, all that showed of the teacher’s navy blue dress was the pearl brooch pinned to her bust. 

Her permed hair was shiny and fell below her shoulders. Miniature versions of her brooch hang off her earlobes. 

She could pass for a final year university student. 

“So, girls, yesterday we got to know more about the school rules and we learnt the anthem of this great school. Can anyone remind us of the Anne’s commandments?

What came next was drowned out by the sound of my father's voice from registration day ringing in my ears. I remembered how we stood at the administration block, looking through the score list for science students. 

My identity through primary school had been hinged on being among the first three students in every exam. My parents had never been as big on roll in class as I was. And he could tell that I was bummed by my position on the St Anne’s list. 

“Twelfth position is not bad at all. Remember, you were competing with girls from all over the country. Besides, it doesn’t matter much, all I want is for you to be an excellent student.”

The sound of girls clapping brought me back to the room. 

“Can anyone come sing the anthem for us?” 

Another teacher interrupted. “Eh, Miss Amoako, in fact, a girl from eh, from all programs must sing. Yes, science? Science,” his scanned my section and pointed to no one in particular. 

His wardrobe was probably filled with short sleeved flannel shirts, as today’s was a grey variant of yesterday’s red and blue one. I pretended to be buried head deep in my jotter to avoid his gaze. ‘It seems, eh, you girls have decided to ignore me, eh?’ 

‘Yes, eh, you with eh, your hand up’, a girl behind me had volunteered. 

‘What's your name?’

‘Margaret’

‘This is the attitude we expect from Anne’s girls! Take initiative! Clap for her!’

“Okay, let’s eh, move on to Arts… General arts. After that, visual arts, so get ready.”

By this time, he stood in the aisle at the center of the room.

Many girls borrowed the confidence of Margaret. The girl from Home Economics seemed happy to be simply holding the microphone, with no regard for how pleasant her voice sounded. 

One of Jessica’s friends was offered up to sing on behalf of the business class. Her two friends from the opening assembly held up her hands. 

I would pay to see them in a class together. 

She held back her voice at the start, wrestling with the correct lyrics. When she got to the chorus, her eyes were closed and she belted out the lines from her soul in a hair-raising soprano pitch. 

The whole hall erupted in applause, her friends cheering the loudest. 

‘Go Laura!’

“We have potential choir members, I have taken note of you. Laura what?”

She whispered her surname into the teacher’s ear. 

“On to the business of the day”. Laura moved back to her seat shyly. 

Miss Amoako resumed her position behind the podium. “Today we have one of the finest and oldest teachers here to take you through how to study. I wish you would all learn and take note of everything he says.”

Ladies, the ever-green, Mr. Ludwig Quartey-Papafio, fondly called Mr. Papa!

‘Good morning St Anne’s’. The room muttered back an uncoordinated greeting. ‘I believe I’m speaking to living teenage girls, I said, good morning!’ 

‘Good morning Mr Quartey-Papafio!’, we chorused. 

‘Good. Generations of Anne’s girls have sat under my tutelage. I’m sure that includes some of your mothers; the likes of Yaaba Yartel, Naa Kwarley Quartey, Zubaida Salifu and the like.

I began teaching at St Anne’s with my wife, oh how she loved this school. She went to be with her Lord a little shy of two decades who. But I vowed to teach here till my last breath and till the golden bowl is broken.’ His poetic language and rich baritone made me hang on every word of his. 

He paused for a few seconds and fiddled with his belt, head bowed. 

‘May her soul rest in peace’ a different version of Papa from moments ago stood before us; more reverent and sombre than the boisterous military-like man from his first greeting. 

‘So’, as quickly as it came, it left and he was back to the default. ‘We begin.’

‘Who among you can tell me about the different learning styles. The Aki-Ola girls furrowed their brows and tapped their chins aggressively, pretending to think about the answer.

‘Yes, you in glasses with your hand up.’

A girl who looked like Catherine tapped the microphone lightly. She sat in the science section, just a few rows behind me. 

‘My name is Antoinette Taylor.’

She wore round-rimmed tortoise-shell glasses that covered almost half her face. 

Her elocution was impeccable, even though she used everyday words. 

Many students and teachers stopped murmuring to listen to this petite girl speak. 

The talk turned into a dialogue between the two as Antoinette's hands didn’t stay down even when he asked about calculus and quadratic equations. 

Mr Papa nodded approvingly at this girl.

All teachers but one who sat on the podium murmured amongst themselves. 

One woman behind him slept throughout this interaction and only stirred as we applauded his completion. 

‘Excellence is required of every St. Anne's girl, and such shall be wrung out of you at the hands of your able teachers. I wish you well.’

The time on my watch read 11:25 by then. 

The thick heat of the day condensed over our foreheads as beads of sweat. The sound of makeshift hand fans punctuated the murmurs of hungry girls. 

Miss Amoako’s heels clicked on the podium floor as she returned to it.

“I see many of us are deeply meditating on what we’ve heard," she ended with a nervous laugh. “It’s time to stretch, up, up!”

“Now, help me welcome Madam Gertrude Gakpey, our assistant head, academics, also known as Mama Acada.”

The woman who had dozed off scoffed as she waddled to the podium. She had a keychain in one hand and a stack of papers in another. 

“Good,’ she checked her watch for the time, ‘morning girls. Today, your journey begins properly. After I call all members of a class, all the girls will pack their belongings and head out. Your form master or mistress will show you the way.” 

She peered at the sheet before her, moving it away as she called, “Business class.”

 At the pace with which she spoke, lunch would be over before she got through with all the girls in one programme. She stumbled over the pronunciations of many names. 

With a tinge of frustration, she muttered. “Tell your parents to give you simpler names. What name is Bellezza? Huh?”

I recognized the names of my dorm mates and table mates as she went on.

The sound became more hollow as girls filed out.

Girls around me sighed out of relief when she finally called out General Science. 

“Science One..”

The class had an Abbey, an Aidoo, an Amanor, Bempong, a Hayford and a Mujeeb and two Mensahs.

“Ofori Bertha!” made me prick up my ears. 

Catherine squeezed my arm, “Ouu, you’re in Science One. Then you must be a shark. I hear they place only the top scoring girls there. My name is Addae-Mensah and if I haven’t been called it must mean that I am in science two or three. ”

Science one didn’t sound like a bad idea. 

I looked around the hall to see which girls were reacting to their names being called. 

“Quaye, Jessica Naa Dedei”

I heard a groan and turned to see infamous Jessica, sitting alone at the business section where her friends had been. 

“Senoo, Kafui Ama,” the textbook girl turned to her counterpart. “You made it to science one, all the best”

I hope I did not conclude too soon. 

 “Taylor, Antoinette Nhyira.”

By the time she mentioned the last name, the hall was replete with the sound of chairs moving simultaneously as I and my new classmates made our way out of the hall.

“Head to your classes, your first lessons will begin after lunch.”

Science Two.”

Bertha’s journey begins proper! She’s in for a fun ride, I hope.

If you’re new here, do catch on previous chapters here:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4, pt 1

See you next week!

The morning of 02/11/2015

Dear Diary,

I remember it said during our BECE leavers service, in Senior high, you will meet many different people from many different backgrounds. Both your similarities and differences may shock you. My science teacher repeated it many times and so did my mother. I guess with that in mind, my antenna is high, because I hoped I wouldn't be too jarred by the different personalities I'd meet. I’m afraid of joining cliques and mummy warned against following ‘troublesome’ girls. 

Another over stretched point was- choose your friends, don't let your friends choose you. I wonder what that means, but time didn't permit me to ask her what she meant by that, because didn’t friendship involve the other person choosing me too?

Today, we get assigned our classes, after another Bore-rientation day. We sat according to courses yesterday but I barely spoke to anyone around me, except to confirm something about visiting days being once every month that I missed because I dozed off. 

One thing my mother and chaplain didn’t fail to mention was that many of those life-long friends were found in senior high school. 

I know that a chunk of those friends would include my classmates and I can’t wait to meet them. 

Will there be another person called Bertha? Will I be in another race for the top five in class? Would we even get along well? Well that’s up to me to find out. 

Nana Yaa is finally done dressing and our servers are here. That’s our cue to leave the dorm.

‘Did you hear what’s on the menu for today?’, Nana Yaa asked and answered herself. ‘Millet something and croissants. I heard some girls talking about it in the bathroom.’

Araba and Ewurabena exchanged a look laughed. ‘Please, ignore those things, we’re having hausa koko with bread today. You can pick powdered milk and groundnuts if you have them.’

‘Oh I haven’t offloaded my trunk yet’, Nana Yaa sulked. ‘I can give you one of my Nido sachets, 'I offered.

‘Oh thank you Bertha, I’ll give it back when they open the trunk room!’

The aroma of the pepper-infused millet from the hausa koko and freshly baked bread greeted us on entering the dining hall. My stomach growled as I made my way to my table. Before the dining hall prefect could say ‘Amen’, lids flew off the beaten out of shape pans filled to the brim with Hausa porridge. I had given up my role as table head after that dream. A girl called Dokua had gracefully taken over serving food.

At the edge of our table, one girl, Olga or so, slouched, folding her arms in mini protest. ‘But the menu in our dorm said millet porridge with powdered cinnamon rolls’. 

I held back a giggle.

Dokua smirked, ‘Did you really believe that? Here? In a government senior high school?’ She took the words right out of my mouth. My giggle turned into a full blown laugh at how Dokua dragged the word government. ‘I'm sorry,’ Olga folded her arms and slumped further. While other girls gulped down their porridge and went for second helpings, she withdrew her flowery bowl and pouted throughout the meal. 

‘I can finish this bread in two bites.’ A girl with freckles and matching brown hair squeezed the loaf. She was right. 

The bread roll was just an inch higher than my fist. 

Freckles girl and Dokua shared Olga’s uneaten loaf and offered me a piece. 

The bell to end dining chimed. 

Right after the prayer, our servers dashed to wash our dishes in order to make it on time for assembly. 

After the general assembly, one girl from my table approached me as I headed towards the hall for orientation. She clung to a book binder that covered her whole chest. Just like myself and the other freshers, her hair had been cropped to her scalp, yet she sported a light fade that looked stylish. “You’re in science, right? I saw you yesterday.”

“Oh yes, I am.”

‘You’re at the new block as well? What house are you in?’

“Quarmyne”.

 I found out she was in Yankson house, on the floor beneath mine. 

“So what class do you want to be in? I hear this year there are two new classes and that S1 and S2 have been beefing for years. But now there’s a third science class.” 

My new acquaintance spoke so fast it took me a while to process everything she said. 

“Pardon my manners, I’m Karen.”

“I’m Bertha, it’s nice meeting you.”

The hall was filling up fast by the time we got there.

The Old Assembly hall was a long room that held the history of St Anne’s, down to the shutters that were opened to let natural light and air in. It was probably enormous when the entire school’s population was one hundred, including staff. It spanned beneath four classrooms. Now, over four hundred form one girls were arranged on benches and metallic armless chairs. 

General science students were placed in the front section and we headed toward the back of that section. 

A teacher standing on the elevated platform repeated into the microphone. It would be impossible to see her from the back had she stood on the same level. 

“Fill the seats in front. Yes, you two. The one with the book and her friend.” We froze, realizing she referred to us. 

Two girls occupied the seats closest to the aisle. 

As we lowered our backs into the seat the first girl leaned over her companion and asked, “First ten?” She looked up at us, one eyebrow raised. 

“Huh?” Karen looked genuinely confused.

The girl sized us up proper now - were you among the first 10 on the school placement list?” One had on her lap a copy of Aki Ola Emath which looked like it was fresh out of the printing press. The name ‘Osei-Mensah’ was in blue ink across its fore edge.  

We looked at each other, both shaking our heads. 

“Then you can’t sit with us,” they said in unison.

How would you respond if you were Bertha or her friend?

What advise did you hear going into secondary school?

New here? Catch up on Chapter 1, Chapter 2 & Chapter 3 here.

Part 2 soon come!

But it’s different tonight.

Pubs and drinking spots are emptier than they were a week ago during yuletide.

Churches are full to the brim, each one seeming to make room for overflow.

You can decipher the mood by the people’s compliance to the unspoken dress code. White, from head to toe- 31st night best.

I hope they return.

Trotro drivers work over time. Shuttling passengers tirelessly in a north- south cycle.  The different lead to the destination - to cross over into the new year.

To be baptized in the new year proclamations and sweat from dancing off the shackles of the previous year- as tumultuous, prosperous or muddled as it may have been.

Opare the driver is tempted by road rage.

His mate has some unkind words for the offending truck driver, but they’re all carried away by the cold December breeze.

The bait is dangling in his face, but he’s not going to enter the new year with a curse on his lips.

“Driver, abotare, abotare”

He’s thinking of joining his church-going passengers to renew their commitment to God.

Maybe this year will be different.

Eden was one of them, traveling from the north to the south of Accra for service. She’s grappling for the new year feeling, trying hard to come up with her New Year’s resolutions, but she gets nothing.

But I will return..

Not to the job that sucked the joy from her eyes.

Not to the same flat, the new year would mean renovations- even if that meant simply rearranging her furniture and taking her Christmas decorations off.

Not to the same old habits. She had started exercising better and touching grass more.

Her new year-new me started before Christmas.

I hope it stays…

At the start of this year, I finished a book I first picked up somewhere in 2025.

With this, I first started very slow, till I found my pace and sailed through it.

I expected something more whimsical and light based on the cover and the title, Welcome to Lagos.

But I was mostly wrong. It started on a heavy note, from the point of view of a soldier and platoon leader Chike, who wristles with his conscience over the destruction of communities filled with innocent people, leading him to literally drop the gun and abandon the army in the face of one attack, followed by one of his subordinates, Yemi.

They set off in the night on a journey to Lagos, home to neither of them and they encounter people who will become their companions and family members in Lagos.

Every character had a backstory neither knew off, yet they had converged on one trip to a city that was alien to but one of them, leaving behind the familiar territory of Bayelsa in search of something different—safety, greener pastures and a clear conscience.

The story weaves together impressively, exploring the city and all it presents to them through the different perspectives of Chike, Oma, Isoken, Fineboy, Chief Sandayo, Ahmed and to a smaller extent, Yemi.

The characters live on the edge, navigating the boisterous city in a convoluted journey of finding unbelievable luck after ill fate, and then having it snatched from under their feet in the most jarring way.

A core theme that runs through is the corruption that robs the masses of a better life, to fund the lavish lifestyles of leaders, elected or not

I found some parts predictable, with plot twists that were not too sharp, save for one bombshell towards the end.

It had a fairly realistic ending, though I got stressed out leading up to it.

In all, my first read of the year was an enjoyable one that I’d totally recommend.

I’d love to hear your thoughts if you’ve read this book.

See you in my next post!

PS: Fun fact: for many reasons, Nigeria is on my list of countries to visit someday soon🤭.

I don’t have ONE word to describe the year, but I have a whole article, because 365 days, 12 long months, and 52 weeks cannot be fairly summed up in a single word.

It was a year unraveled unlike I expected. I did expect it to be different- being my first educational gap year since 2002🫠.

Different things happened at once at the start of the year- mourning, moving and beginning my first real job within the first 14 days.

I was frustrated because of an over-stretched government-mediated delay. My mates and I waited and waited and wondered why our story is always so different.

I scrambled at different webinars and courses to make up for the time I felt I was losing.

At some points, I had to convince my self that there was nothing to wait for, just so I wouldn’t be disappointed if it never came through.

Boy, the thoughts desperation can make you think!

(It did, literally at the 11th hour (month))

The frustration made me wonder what life would’ve been like had I taken certain opportunities offered to me at the start of the year.

2025 has tried me and worn me out in some ways.

I’ve felt everything;

From inexplicable joy,

To the fulfillment of service and the joy of fellowship,

Through to the crushing of delays

And being let down by myself and other people.

I have struggled to accept the good and celebrate my wins because the ups seem to pale in comparison to the downs but I will name them anyway:

I took an intentional purpose discovery course this year and I am proud to say that I gained much needed clarity from it.

I yapped quite a bit on LinkedIn from a pharmacist’s POV😉.

I held a very fulfilling virtual writing class that ran for 3 weeks with 2 of my amazing writer friends. It gained much more traction than I anticipated, all glory to God.

I got inducted as a pharmacist.

I also took part in the most impactful mastery program in the second half of the year.

I have been provided for in many ways.

I have received mercy countless times.

I have experienced healing from sickness.

I have received direction and great support.

I have been loved and helped.

I have experienced favour before God and man.

I found strength through prayer even when I struggled to find time to pray.

It’s been one of many paradoxes, and a few things remain true; this year has not been the sweetest, but God remains the constant. I have gone through 2025, only through Christ who strengthened me.

And I’m just happy to see 2026.

“Even though the fig trees have no blossoms, and there are no grapes on the vines; even though the olive crop fails, and the fields lie empty and barren; even though the flocks die in the fields, and the cattle barns are empty, yet I will rejoice in the Lord! I will be joyful in the God of my salvation! The Sovereign Lord is my strength! He makes me as surefooted as a deer, able to tread upon the heights. (For the choir director: This prayer is to be accompanied by stringed instruments.)”

‭‭Habakkuk‬ ‭3‬:‭17‬-‭19‬ ‭NLT‬‬

PS: It’s the end of the year and things are looking brighter, at least, but I ask to have a word with whoever put the light at the end of the tunnel and not the beginning. Please meet me at the front with your boxing gloves.

Do have a blessed 2026🤍

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I realized I can do it. Simple. Actually starting it brought more clarity that sitting and wondering if I could keep up or if I could finish what i started

There was wave of self doubt that I had to work through at a point; who even sent you? Are you sure you can even write?

And yes, I may have sent myself, infact - the inspiration was soi random: I was watching a YouTube Vlogmas Short and I thought, ‘hmm why don’t I do a 12- day blogmas challenge.’

And I will only get better by exercising my writing muscle.

For the purpose of accountability, I roped in Joel as my Blogmas Partner to keep me in check and that did the trick for me.

Before I started, I drew calendar of sorts, one which by the day evolved without altering the main goal of 12 posts in total by the 25th of December.

The screenshot of intended posts looks very different from the actual posts.

But having a plan that could be altered was better than having no plan at all.

For example: I planned to share chapters of a whole different fiction series. But it just didn’t feel ready. Life at St. Annes had however been sitting pretty in my drafts, waiting for her time to shine and it felt just right to share at the time I did.

Over the last 2 weeks, I’ve experienced growth on my Substack that I genuinely didn’t see coming this fast, but which I am grateful for.

I’m grateful for everyone who has found me here as a result of this- stick and stay.. you’ll love it here.

I’m grateful for every OG subscriber esp those who read every single post. I see you and I appreciate you!🫶🏾

I’m grateful for the gift of creativity and ability to weave my words together and give my deepest, most random and sometimes intrusive thoughts a (mostly) cohesive voice.

Merry Christmas, again!🤍

See you soon🧡

Here’s my attempt at answering that

The Incarnation is no mere myth or mystical retelling- it’s the story of God becoming man to save the world from sin.

At the Incarnation, Christ, the Savior of the World, and King of kings in Whom all things consist, was Born.

Born with a mission fore ordained..

Born to live, not for Himself..

He humbled Himself and became man.

We give, we eat, we receive gifts, and eat again.

We put up lights, we party till late or simply spend our days resting.

We spend to look good; Bronya Hair, Bronya Ataade, Bronya Shoes- and rightly so.

Yet in all this,

May we not reduce the season to just the vibes.

Christmas exists because of God’s love, wisdom and kindness.

He loved us so He gave His Son.

The Incarnation is a beautiful marker that God dwelt amongst us so that we may see Him and know Him.

A celebration that the Saviour was born to fulfill prophecy and to save His people from their sin.

As you share love and kindness, remember that He first loved us.

As you celebrate, jubilate over the reason for the season.

Christmas is just the beginning of the best news ever…

a prelude to the best love story ever told…

One that leads all who believe on an eternal journey of triumph!

Glossary-

Bronya- Christmas Season

Ataade- Dress/Outfit

Blogmas is almost over🥹. I highly recommend binge-reading from day 1😉.

See you on Day 12/12🤍

Have yourself a very Merry Christmas!🎄

I was chosen to belt out Fiivee Gooldd Ringss in the 12 days of Christmas song and I did that with much gusto.

I knew something was special about the season when after school play time extended even beyond supper time. Special lights were up and, even the air felt different.

Cakes, ‘minerals’ and Piccadilly biscuits seemed to never run out

We raced each other and laughed over bruises till the sun set and yet none of our mothers came out to yell for bath or bed time.

When we were tired of racing, the eldest of us brought out sticks that sparkled when you lit a match to it. As if the thrill of the season was not enough! I heard the term Knock out for the first time. They were banned in our area, but we heard them crackle and pop in the distance .

Our parents finally gave in and called us back in, right after I saw the biggest of those sticks. It was wrapped in plastic with the inscription; Christmas time!

The next year, Christmas cheer was reactivated.

The term was ending at school, and our teacher taught us songs about the birth of the King and made us colour strips of paper and link them together in a chain.

She pasted pine tree-looking cut-outs on the classroom doors and hung our handiwork from the fans.

Shimmery strings in green, pink and gold were strewn across the green chalk board. They rustled when there was a breeze and everyone in the class was fascinated by their dance.

On Wednesday, ‘Our Day’, the school was abuzz with music. ‘Felix navidad!’, followed by words I didn’t understand seemed to be the DJ’s favorite.

Men with big stomachs in red and white pajamas and black belts gave out sweets and everyone followed them around the school for more.

Father Christmas! Father Christmas!

On the way home, from school, I would describe to my mother how my French teacher had transformed into a big man with a white beard and shared toffees for everyone .

At home, she had hang up the shimery decorations around living room.

A silver one danced around as the blades of the fan spun.

In the corner of the dining area was a tree twice my size and shaped like the cut-out in my classroom. Coloured lights were draped over it.

The next day, there was no school and my aunts came over. They baked cakes which made the house smell as good as they tasted.

I came to look forward to bringing out the Christmas decorations and shopping for more each year. Usually by the 23rd our lights and trees would go up.

They stayed up days into the new year, reflecting the lingering Christmas cheer.

Our attempt at Christmas decorations this year has been a single string of fairy lights. It’s 23rd and I dare say it’s not too late to deck the halls with rows of holly.

This year, I have in-fact not renewed my Christmas cheer subscription, however, the idea of celebrating the birth of my Lord and Saviour at work AT WORK doesn’t sit well with me at all.

I guess I’ll be living vicariously through those who have been waiting for Christmas since August.

Life has come at me so fast that the highlights of my December have been events, weddings and the Secret Santa🤭🤭.

Happy Christmas Eve Eve!

The evening of 31/10/2015

Dear Diary

I think I might carry you with me wherever I go. 

I missed you a lot during orientation and dining today. It’s prep time now. Can you imagine some girls have already cracked open Core Maths textbooks? There’s even a girl reading Sarps Series Chemistry. Maybe I should’ve brought my sister’s Aki Ola book instead of my novel. Someone might think I'm learning something as I’m journaling- Or what if they think I’m writing a letter? Oh well. 

We will have prep in the dining hall till our classes are assigned. Orientation is tomorrow and honestly, I can wait. I would choose sleep over that any day. I’m tried. Oops, I mean tired, see?! I hope my book can keep me up till 9pm. 

The dining hall was a bungalow with wide windows all over. 

Dying fluorescent balls were stuck to the ceiling and competed with cobwebs for space on the roughly plastered white ceiling.

The freshly scrubbed terrazzo floors matched the table designs. Girls sat facing each other on wooden benches.

On an adjacent table, I saw the three girls from the hall

The girl in the middle, Jessica, the most boisterous one, reached for the ladder. She was plump and hairy and moved swiftly, pursing her lips as she worked the laddle through the bent-out-of-shape aluminium pan. I’m sure these pans were used by the sisters who started the school. 

Her friend tapped her and pointed to the other tables including mine. She sat down shyly, realizing that no one else had been served. 

Three senior girls approached the center of the hall, one calling the room to order by ringing a small bell.

“Dining hall rule number one: no food is served until the prayer has been said. No food touches the floor. No food leaves the hall. On your feet girls! Repeat after me; bless us oh Lord,”

‘And this Thy gift which we are about to receive from Thy bounty,” we recited to end the prayer.  

 “You may serve.”

All over, girls snatched the lid off the pans to serve their tables. One girl dropped a ladle full of food on her table. Another girl held it in place and took over to serve.

My attention was broken by a tap on my upper arm. “Can you serve the food?” I scanned the eyes looking at me. 

It seemed all the smallest girls in the school had been gathered on this table. And in this land of the blind, I had become the one eyed king. I opened the pan and peered at the big clump of soft boiled rice I was to share for ten girls. I would have to give each person precisely a ladle and a half piece of fried fish had been split into 10 small pieces. 

The stew was runny, and I looked for clumps of the rumoured flour used to thicken it.

My lessons from junior high on using a fork and knife came to my rescue. The food tasted better than it looked and only then did I realize how hungry I had been. 

I barely looked up until my plate was emptied. 

A girl at the end of my table broke the silence. She looked at me through her square spectacle frames. “Is there more food?”

I lifted the lid and showed her the pan. Looking into her sad eyes, I replied, “No, sorry.”

“Ah but there is more food in there. You liar!” exclaimed two girls at her side. “None for you.” The girls were mightier than they looked. In moments, the ladle was out of my hands and their plates were filled and I hung off the edge of the bench.

Where did that food come from?

“Cling! Cling! Cling!!”

The low murmur dissipated and only the sound of cutlery hitting plates broke through. 

 “All form one girls should note that they are prepping here, in the dining hall, until their class rooms are assigned.” The prefect who led the opening prayer now yelled through a megaphone held by one of the deputies flanking her. The other blew air in her direction using a handheld fan.

“Their tables must be cleared by their servers after the closing prayer.”

When did she develop this British accent?

“And you must be up and out in the next…,” pausing briefly to check her watch,  she continued, “five minutes”. 

It was 6:45 pm.

“You may return to your dorms briefly to pick up a book. Prep starts at 7pm. No lateness will be tolerated ” She ended, stressing on ‘starts’.

 The seriousness in her tone ascended with each statement. I recalled Abena’s words that some prefects acted like they were members of staff. 

As if prompted by my thoughts, Abena appeared at my side just as the closing prayer ended to pick my plate and cutlery.

“Who did this?” Abena sounded frustrated. Plates had been piled up in heaps above mine and my table mates were nowhere to be found. 

 “You can’t leave the table like this, you have to wash them.”

“ All?”

“Nanka who should do this for you?” Abena’s tone startled me. 

“The sink room is so packed already. You’d have to use the special taps.”

“Huh?” My eyebrows showed my confusion before I uttered a word.

“The special taps, over there”.

I looked in the direction of her hand to see a sink at the north end of the hall. I could swear that wasn’t there before.

“I can’t help you. They are your dishes. Hurry up.”

The time on my watch read 6:45 pm. 

The sink looked larger up close. The ten plates I dumped in measured up to its depth. The tap had a lever faucet like the one in the kitchen at home. 

Soapy water flowed as I lifted it up and rinsed each plate under it. I didn’t bother about getting the plates clean. I just didn’t want to be out of the dining hall. 

Water from the plates seeped into my dress. I hope I can change in the dorm. 

“The girls would sort out their plates the way they left me to sort out the washing.” I muttered, dumping the all plates except mine on a table nearby.

Abena stood akimbo as I approached her.  

“Bertha! Finally, I thought you’d never finish. And why are you crying again? I’ll have the house prefect change you as my servee.”

Why did she shout my name when I was within arm’s length?

And why was it just 6:49pm? I swore I had used up at least ten long minutes to heave the plates to and fro. 

I recalled her words from this afternoon about St. Anne’s turning its girls into Time Benders. 

Brinngg!

The sound of another bell cut her voice off. 

“It’s almost time for prep. You’ve made us all late.” “I’m sorry, Sister Absy.” She hesitated, “You, it’s fine. Since you haven't started lessons, you can go through the students’ hand book. Or read the novel I saw on your bed. Don't let anyone pressure you with their textbooks, they barely understand it”. Rabs laughed. 

“There she is!” The light at the double door entrance was blocked by some figures. 

“Bertha Ofori!” The mini entourage inched toward us. 

Two girls I recognized from my table followed the senior house mistress. 

“But Bertha, I told you to keep your name out of Ms Boadu’s mouth.” I turned to see Steph wearing the house dress she passed on to me. 

I hope she’s here to take me away. “Steph I’m sorry.”

“What right have you to hoard food from your mates? And to use the special taps?” Mrs Boadu interrupted what would’ve been a sentimental moment between sisters.

“Girls, take her!”

“But Ms Boadu-”, I failed at explaining what I barely understood. 

“Follow me, you will be detained in the St Anne’s cells.”

“Please, Mrs Boadu.”

Her minions held me by each arm and pulled. 

“Abena, you said I’ll be fine! Steph, you too!”

They both shook their heads and watched me be whisked away by girls I was a head taller than. 

“No. No. Nooo!”

“Oh Bertha is stressed”, came Araba’s voice. Finally someone empathized with me. 

“Bertha!”

The hands holding me had been replaced by repeated taps on my shoulders. 

My eyes opened unwillingly to behold the belts of three St Anne’s girls. They each held in place two purple checks and one blue one. Abena, Araba and Nana Yaa looked back at me. 

Araba drew her hand away, sighing. 

“Get up. Prep is over.”

“Bertha, you must be really tired. Who were you fighting in your dream?”, Nana Yaa giggled.

If you’ve read to this point, riddle me this, when did you figure out exactly what was happening?🤭

The St. Anne’s journey is just beginning 🤍. More of it in the coming year, Godwilling!

Blogmas continues though, 3 more entries to go.

If you love this, consider subscribing and sharing with a friend or two 😉.

See you!

Still 31/10/15

Prison has been interesting. Well, given that it’s only been over two hours since my parents and sister left me. I couldn’t cry when they hugged me and drove off. Not until I returned to the dorm I felt a sudden wave of sadness. I wouldn’t get to see them as often as I wished and I wasn’t exactly free. Boarding school sounded like prison to me. Uniforms, fixed meals, continuous labour. Part of me wished I was in a day school. I don’t know when I slept, but my pillow was moist when I stirred. 

Steph says I’m pretty much to be assigned to Quarmyne house. 

We have one general bathroom on each floor and it’s apparently the newer block- I can’t imagine how the other block looks like. Five other Form one girls were assigned to this dorm. I remember seeing the names Lydia and Ewurama, I don’t remember the rest. 

I got the l last bottom bed, I’m glad.. apparently the form 2 girl who slept here has flown out of the country. Her name, Adwubi Twum-Barima, is still stuck to the bed.

I have a ‘server’ now, Abena. She’s coming now. She helped me lay my bed and told me to rest. At 5, the headmistress has a meeting with form one girls and then there’s dining and then prep. I hope I am not too tired to write back when I return.

“I’ll get you water for your bath. If you’re hungry, I can pick you snacks from your locker. Or did you bring food from home?” Abena’s dorm was next to mine, yet she spoke like she had just run from the administration block.

 “No, the snacks would be fine.” 

I could get used to this prison if this was the modus operandi. As part of the welcome custom, Form Twos were mandated to do this for freshers for a few days to help us ease into life here. They called it the ‘grace period’. What followed, only God knows. Not having my sister around to defend me from mean seniors was daunting. 

I don’t know when the first tear fell, but Abena noticed and sunk unto my bed, patting my shoulder lightly. “Aww, poor thing, you’re missing home already. When your friends come, you won't feel as lonely, don't worry”. 

I managed a nod, sinking sideways into my pillow.

After soaking the dry side in tears, I came up and took the box of kalyppo and milky magic biscuits Abena held out. 

“I’m okay, thank you.”

“When I first came I cried right from the car to the dorm”, she continued. “But I guess I’m fine now, I made a friend, Rabs, who made fun of me. And helped me out. It’s not as bad as you think. And honestly, St Anne’s is a really great place.” She lowered her voice and looked around, “save for the difficult staff members and prefects who forget they are students themselves.”

Her voice was still sped up and something about her reminded me of Steph, maybe it was the St Anne’s effect. I guess I would be fine- eventually. 

“Absy”, she turned toward the voice at the dorm entrance. 

“That your server?”

”Yup.”

“My servee is coming to this dorm too. Help me pick a bed for her”.

The girl sounded like someone trying to tone down an American accent. I saw her clearly as she planted herself on the bed to my left. She had crinkles by her eyes and wore a uniform that flattered her figure.

“Hi! I’m Araba, you must be Bertha.”

The rolled the ‘r’ in my name in a way only my parents did- the right way.

Clink-clink-clink

The sound startled me but only drew my senior to the verandah. 

“All form one girls must be seated in the assembly hall now. Servers, if your servee is improperly dressed, you will weed the field. Lateness shall not be spoken off.”

Araba rolled her eyes and mimicked the prefect’s last statement. “Give us a break! Oh just so you know, there’s a distinct sound for each activity. This one you just heard is for school gatherings.”

I only had to change into my playdeck sandals to catch up with a tiny bevy of girls ahead with freshly shaven hair and bright blue check dresses moving in groups of two and three. Every foot was clad in similar brown sandals.

The assembly hall doubled as the school’s chapel

Seats were arranged in three columns all the way to the midpoint of the expansive hall. A wooden crucifix the size of a grown man faced us. The gallery that ran around the upper level of the building was empty. The head mistress sat on the raised platform stage flanked on each side by teachers. To the opossum end side sat girls I assumed were prefects. I counted about 20 of them. 

“To your left and your right are girls from all parts of Ghana, and even beyond. Some are girls of the Accra soil, which we find ourselves in. Others from all the way up north. Regardless of whether you come in a taxi or with a convoy…”

Her voice was drowned out by chatter behind me.

“Did you girls see the finance minister’s daughter?”

“I heard he’s just an MP”. 

“Eii Naa Dedei Abbey! Even if he were an MP,  is it just?!” A third girl interjected.

 “I wonder what house she’s in.” Girl one continued. 

“Don’t call me Naa Dedei. It’s Jess to you.”

 “I hope this Jess turns over a new leaf.” 

I turned to make eye contact with them, in hopes that they would be quiet but Mrs Quagraine beat me to it.

“It seems some of you are ready to join me make addresses.”

I glanced back to see the girls straighten up. The one in the middle, Jess, extending her trembling hands over her friends’ laps. I was yet to find my own school mates in St Anne’s. 

“Where was I?”, Mrs Quagraine continued, casting her squinted eyes across the room. The trio sighed in unison. One girl even made the sign of the cross. 

“Over here, one thing unites you; and that is the St Anne’s uniform, representing the Faith, Wisdom and Virtue our school stands for.”

“All the girls here are your sisters, and you will regard them as such, particularly your seniors.

For example, your School Prefect is Sister Josephine to you, not just Josephine. Understood?”

“You will hear me say this a lot- you must not just pass through St Anne’s, let the school pass through you.”

Three girls, who sat in a row of the school heads I presumed to be the head girl and assistants, mouthed the last parts to themselves.

“With time, you will meet all your prefects. These are your head girls, they will address you shortly.”

The three girls wore vests over their uniforms, each with a name tag on it. Their vests were white had light a light blue border on which glass buttons were lined. 

“Good evening girls, you’re welcome to St Anne’s. Being a student of this noble school is an honor. 

I have the privilege of leading you as your head girl. For the academic year, we would request your commitment to maintaining the high standards of the school. Please make things easy for my prefects and I,” she paused, scanning the room, ‘so we can make things easy for you.”

Her words bounced out of her mouth well timed in her velvety voice. 

‘Thank you’. The other prefects clapped. 

A girl in front of me said, ‘how I would love to be a head girl some day’. She had a high pitched voice and sat with her back as straight as a rod and took noted of everything being said. 

“You may ask questions, the prefects will send the microphones around. Josephine, sister Joesphine, turned to the other prefects on her right and nodded.

Two girls got up briskly and undid microphones from their stands and moved through the aisles. 

A stocky girl who had a husky voice headed towards the microphone on the right aisle. 

“Please, I don’t like the house and dorm I was assigned, can I change it?“

Girls murmured and craned their necks to catch a glimpse of who spoke. 

A teacher with a thick ‘abortion’ belt sitting beneath a full chest, slapped another teacher on the side and laughed.

The senior house mistress, waded towards the edge of the platform and lifted an arm to call the room to order. I recognized her from registration this morning.

She did not need the microphone to carry out her message. ”Miss Mary Duwuona! Your house is fixed. Dorm changes happen once every year. Let me say this,” she squinted and looked around the room. You could hear a pin drop. “Any girl found sleeping in another dorm, even if it is a step away, should consider herself no longer a member of the boarding house. Remember what the Head girl said. Make things easy for me and I will make things easy for you.”

Poor Mary scurried to her seat. 

Ms Boadu prided herself in keeping the sanctity of the boarding house. 

Unlike Mrs Quagraine, who had a tenderness underlying her stern tone, this woman was intimidating, through and through. Steph warned me not to get my name onto her lips. 

“Any more questions?”  She smoothed her skirt.

“I thought as much.”

Looking at Mrs Quagraine for a go ahead, she returned her gaze to the girls. “You are dismissed. You may head to the dining hall for supper now. It’s almost 6pm.”

“Remember the golden rule of St Anne’s dining. No food touches the ground, and absolutely no food leaves the hall.”

“I hear she trained at a British school for matrons, which is why she’s so prim and proper.”

Even this Jess’ voice had been reduced to a whisper.

We sat in place as the Form two servers swooped through the side doors in to look for their assigned servees.

“I hope we aren’t late for dining, I’m starving.”came Araba’s servee, Nana Yaa. Her hand grazed over my shoulder as we looked out for our servers like children who had lost their mothers in Makola.

..to be continued

Have you lived any part of this in your own boarding school story?

I think the girls are in for a ride, see you on Blogmas Day 9!

It’s a story that follows the journey of Bertha and her friends in St Anne’s High School, an all girls’ school in Ghana.

I don’t have a title for this story yet, but I do know the heart of it. Let’s go with Life at St Anne’s, for now.

I’ve loved those stories since I was younger and I determined to write one somewhere during my years of senior high school.

If you’re a Ghanaian (or not) and you remember Judacan Adventures, Twelfth Heart and Trinity High, please say hii.

Enjoy 🤍.

Day One at St. Anne’s

31/10/2015

It's 5 am and I've barely slept. Steph says that's how it feels on your first day of school. The jitters and anticipation of the new life in your dream school keep you awake. We stayed up till 2:00am packing and cross checking all my items. The majority of that time Steph used to tell me about her first day at school and her time in form 1. Being the amazing big sister she is, Steph came all the way from her school campus to help me and give me a lecture on surviving in St Anne's Senior High. I had heard so many stories while she was in school, but I couldn't make much of them, not until now when I was about to get in. Oops I have to go now, mummy is calling.

“Steph, Beearr! It's okay with the girls-girls, come and eat or else we will be late!”

Mummy and Papa were at our heels to leave the house right after breakfast. I was in no hurry to leave the comfort of home into my 'prison' for the next three years, as Steph called it. 

The arrival of first years began at 12 noon, but my parents insisted we left home for the 40 minute drive to school by 9am. 

My mother, a teacher herself, believed that being the most punctual made you stand out. My father was her co-crusader in her hyper-punctual agenda. 

My chopbox and trunk remained unlocked. It stood beside a metal trunk containing my clothes. 

“Remember how the senior house mistress made Mummy offload my provisions because ther were too many.”

I winced at the reminder that I wouldn't be taking half as many provisions as Steph did. But the past 5 months at home with my father had taught me a lot about contentment. I was glad to have him alive. 

“Here”, she handed me a large blue polythene bag she brought from her university campus. It was filled with provisions.

"I mistook it for your laundry", I gushed, peering at the contents. 

“But Bear, when have you seen me do that?” 

I shrugged, “there’s always a first time.”

“Hurry up, let's put them in your chopbox, I don't want mummy asking me how I got the money.”

 “Ei Steph, Oreos?! Your hair braiding business is making you rich oo. Coco pops! Groundnuts, more milk! Ah Steph, is that supposed to be Exeter corned beef?”

 “Whether Ester or Exeter, it's still corned beef, right?”

“Thank you so much, God bless you!” I pulled her in for a hug while trying to hold back both tears and laughter. I’d not experienced a kind gesture like this in my 15 years of life. I made a mental note to write in my diary for the 100th time how great a sister Steph was.

The items occupied the empty spaces in my chopbox. My locker keys, chopbox and trunk keys all hung off a beaded key holder my mother got for me from the Easter fair at church. “Always carry your keys with you oh,” I could not leave them behind with Mummy’s words ringing in my mind.

It was now Pa’s turn to call out our names. 

He had missed Steph’s first day of high school, but being laid off from his job after falling ill gave him more time to spend with us. He was recovering well now, but his employers decided to lay him off and ignored his requests about a severance pay.

The illness had hit the family quite hard and so my parents had to ration a lot of things to keep up with Steph’s and my schooling.

Until Steph's intervention, my chopbox had been stocked with what my mother considered essentials; two Olonka of Gari, two packs of 'Hyemema' biscuits, one strip each of Cerelac and Nido and a big jar of shito.

Half a pack of kalyppo and drinks alongside a pack of biscuits came from some loose change after buying all that the prospectus required and salvaging some others from Steph’s time in St Anne’s. 

I definitely felt grateful, but I wondered then if they would last until the first visiting day.  As if mummy could read my mind, she said "Just try and manage these things. The dining hall food at St Anne's is very decent, remember when Steph was there and so you won't have to rely so much on provisions. Don't worry, pray God blesses us, next visiting we will do you show!"

A wry smile was all I could give in response to her promise , “Thank you, mummy.”

We made it out of the house by 10am. The car ride was anything but silent, a typical Ofori family trip - Mummy and Papa giving advice on focus, time management and choosing ‘studious’ friends, over the sound of R&B tunes from Doreen Andoh’s show Joy Fm were playing. 

A signboard showed that my new school was after the next left turn. My heart raced and my palms felt moist. I was at the same time giddy thinking about all the new friends I'd make as we adjusted to boarding house life. I tried to take a few deep breaths to steady myself. It already felt lonely thinking of a place where my parents and sister weren’t just one shout away. My parents could be overbearing, but I would miss them a lot

I fiddled with my backpack zip to cross - check for the fifth time today. In it were the students’ hand book, catholic hymnal and two new notebooks. The content that mattered the most to me were my journal and my novels. Candyfloss, a book I had read almost every year since I got it 3 years ago and a copy of Confessions of a Shopaholic, which I traded with my friend Beatrice the day the schools were released. 

A few container shops had sprung up on the way to St Anne’s. An abandoned warehouse that stood since Kwame Nkrumah was Prime Minister and throughout Steph’s three years there had been cleared to make way for springing apartments. 

Harbourtown was home to St Anne’s High School, at south of Accra. The school was meters away from the beach and the waves of the sea could be heard from the dorms. The congestion eased, the road narrowed and life seemed more laidback in this part of the cit, which was once Accra’s most developed area. The unmissable blue and white billboard came into view. “Honourable Acquaye of HarbourTown welcomes all freshers to St Anne’s High School.”

“Can you girls see, we aren't the only parents trying to beat time.” My father sounded worried. Steph and I exchanged a knowing look. The clock on the dashboard read 10:53 am. 

“I hear the intake this year is higher, even for St Anne's.” Mummy replied. 

We joined a slow moving line of traffic toward the school's gate. There was a main gate, the majestic gate with the school's crest and a sign board

St Anne's Senior High School-

Fides, Sapentia, Virtus.

Visiting days, last Sunday of every month.

Time: 3-5pm

Donated by the 2008 year group.

Things may have changed in the town, but St Anne’s stayed the same. 

Through the second gate, was a paved compound. on the north end, a vast field spread out, where cars stopped briefly to offload trunks, jutebags and chopboxes and then were led to park. It was alleged that the field got bigger when people walked on it during the day and shrunk at sunset. 

At the east end were three bungalows, probably belonging to the school heads, a singular Senior house mistress. Adjacent to it, in an L shape, each surrounded by a wall were three storey buildings. Each floor was assigned to a house.

I held on tightly to my parents' petition for God to protect me and help me excel as we prayed before exiting the car. 

On the paved ground, in front of the last bungalow was a notice board covered in sheets lists bearing the names of prospective inmates, I mean students.

“Bear, come with me.” Pa said, leading the way toward a desk labelled “Registration”.

“Good afternoon sir”, three senior girls with small Afros chorused. The breeze sent a chill down my spine and reminded me of the buzz cut I got yesterday. These girls had been in school for a month already and they had grown mini afros. 

A girl with a neatly shaped asked, her name and programme, please?

“Science… Ofori.. Bertha, right?”

“Quarmyne House.” Please move to the white desk for your house kit.

…to be continued!

A delusional sliver of hope where in those brief moments, you get to decide the outcome.

Grief makes life around you pause. You’re guilty that life goes on when someone you love doesn’t get the chance to be in it.

It makes laughter seem like a paradox

At times, it’s the only sensible thing to do to keep the tears from falling.

Other times, it fills you with guilt.

How dare I laugh when they’re not here?

I’m comforted that In Christ, we don’t grieve alone and our grief isn’t unto a dead end, because death is not final. We have a Saviour who defeated death on the cross.

“For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of an archangel, and with the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And thus we shall always be with the Lord.”

‭‭I Thessalonians‬ ‭4‬:‭16‬-‭17‬ ‭NKJV‬‬

“Precious in the sight of the Lord Is the death of His saints.”

‭‭Psalms‬ ‭116‬:‭15‬ ‭NKJV‬‬

“The righteous man perishes [at the hand of evil], and no one takes it to heart; Faithful and devout men are taken away, while no one understands That the righteous person is taken away [to be spared] from disaster and evil. He enters into peace [through death]; They rest in their beds (graves), Each one who walked uprightly [following God’s will, living with integrity].”

‭‭Isaiah‬ ‭57‬:‭1‬-‭2‬ ‭AMP‬‬

—-

We wish time makes the facts untrue.

It separates us from the pain, momentarily.

But the reality that they’re absent from the present hurts.

We realize that we are gradually learning to navigate life without them. Not that we can’t, but we choose not to.

For fear that we will forget them

But I doubt that is possible

I doubt our hearts forget

It’s impossible to un-etch them from our hearts.

—

The worst kind is the one you don’t see coming

One minute, you’re preparing a late supper

The next, you get a call from a friend telling you about the accident. You hope against all hope that it’s fake news, or that it wasn’t fatal.

Your phone rings again. It’s another friend. Before you answer, you know.

But you still pray and hope and know.

You answer and then start laughing, afraid that you’re probably losing it.

Maybe it’s not true.

And with that, you are involuntarily enrolled in stage one of grief. With the dry, jarring hope that they’re at the end of acceptance.

And they truly are- in their memory and what we make of it.

—

But you see the flyers,

Attend the vigil.

And then the funeral.

Seeing their lifeless body being carried away shatters you, but you gain closure- so it really happened.

—

Grief is not wanting to move on without them

But life keeps moving on

You can’t stop moving

Until we meet again.

Keep resting, Josephine 🤍.

It was partly inspired by the fact that my contemporaries have decided that while for the rest of us, ‘tis the season to be jolly, ‘tis also the season to get hitched. (Elated for them, btw!)

But it has also inspired some thoughts about love and relationships. And as such, for today’s blogmas, here’s some relationship advice you didn't ask of for, but should definitely consider.

In no particular order of importance , I’d start off by saying; get rid of assumptions.

That a person is sweet to you does not mean that they like you or are interested in a relationship with you. Some people are very friendly and have impeccable social skills. It’s in your best interest to discern that.

The person who does will make their intentions  known in clear communication and back it with aligning action.

In the same vein, love is a matter of knowledge and conviction. It is built on knowledge and a desire to grow in it. And so it takes precious time to know, grow and develop rhythms with your person.

A friend once used the words, ‘I love you with conviction’ while addressing her partner. It sounded pretty serious and a bit funny then, but with time I understand it better.

The bond of love is built on connection and it takes conviction to choose to be with someone you’ve fallen in love with and to consistently invest in that relationship.

Last but not the least, be very honest* with yourself and your current/potential partner about how you feel and what you want. Do not avoid tough feelings, and don’t say what you don’t mean. Hearts are precious and deserve to be treated with value.

*ps be kind in your honesty.

The fact that love is ‘as strong as death’ - strong enough to make people move across country and change names - fascinates me. It’s one of the most beautiful things ever and it must be done well and done thoughtfully.

If you’ve gotten this far, you’re a real one😉

Consider subscribing and sharing this if you haven’t 😌.

Thank you, see you on blogmas day 5!😉

It takes me a lot to not type ‘Vlogmas’🫢

Subscribe

but one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and reaching forward to what lies ahead

Philippians 3:13 AMP

Here are 3 things you cannot change:

The direction of the sun rising and setting

The exam questions sitting before you in the hall

The past

As long as time flies, we all have ‘a past’. Things, good or bad that have transpired, orchestrated by us, toward us or around us.

The most remarkable ones leave us with memories. Memories which may trigger tears, of joy or of sorrow.

They may make you familiar with this inner monologue:

I wish I did better in that exam.

Maybe life would be easier had I got into that school

What at all possessed me to take that very bad piece of advice?

Maybe I would’ve had a better job if I were more prayerful

Why didn’t i just hold my tongue there?

I regret wasting money on those shoes.

And if we allow it, the train of regret can go on and on and on.

My relationship with the past is a muddy one.

I ‘visit’ it ever so often, or rather, it haunts me any chance it gets. One word, one smell, one signboard and it all comes rushing back in.

There is, however a bright side to this rear view.

There have been aspects that I’ve healed from through conversations with friends.

Past situations that I think about with relief, because boyy am I grateful that that is not my present reality.

Reveries that fill me with gratitude, because there’s no way I came out by my own strength.

While there remain things I wish I did better, my view of the past is gradually becoming one of acceptance.

Acceptance that are just things you cannot change because you cannot turn back the hands of time.

Accepting responsibility where you need to.

Accepting the healthy way to approach the past- not repressing memories or denying it altogether- but rather carefully unraveling, and courageously confronting. It’s accepting to move forward with intention - not paranoia, nor fear- so that it does not repeat itself.

Muddy or not, here’s a prayer to help transform our hears about the past:

Lord I offer my days to You, use them for Your glory - past, present and future.

Help me receive the grace, courage and peace to move on from it

Free me from the fear of the past

And help me redeem the time as I move ahead.

Today’s post is a flash fiction I wrote three years ago, reimagining real events that happened in Ghana in 2015.

Sapeiman! Kutunse!

Pokuase! Amasaman!

The time was 5:42 pm on 20th October, 2022.

I tried to concentrate on finishing my book over the hailings of the trotro mates.

When I lifted up my head to hand the blue note to the mate, I realized we were beneath the Kwame Nkrumah Circle overhead in slow-moving traffic.

We had passed the site of the explosion and for the first time in 7 years, I did not have flash backs of the event that left me with a dent in my shin, the last of my wounds to heal. 

My mind, however had just now fully healed, I realized. But it too, left behind a dent- the memory of the explosion.

My heart did not race faster than a car on a free highway and it did not feel like it was being squeezed to death by fear. That, to me was a relief; that I could remember without fearing that it would happen again.

I felt a tap and then the ache in my back from sitting on the poorly inclined seat. A fellow passenger was alerting me to receive my change.  

“Yes, 5 cedis, ridge,” he said. I chuckled internally at my internal musing over how trotro mates unprovokedly christened you by the note you handed them and by your destination. 

‘How is the fare now 4 cedis?!’ An enraged man yelled. ‘You cannot cheat me here o.’ The conductor barely looked his way, focusing on giving out change to whom it was due, when he gave a response he was probably worn out giving to enraged passengers. ‘The fares have gone up. No be my fault. If you want fight, go and fight your government.’ He said government omitting the middle syllable, “govment”. 

I would laugh my heart out when I gisted my friend about it later on iMessage. Now, my phone was on 12% and power save mode and tucked away in a purse in my black work totebag. 

I was tickled, but I wouldn’t let it show here. 

The gray clouds had almost covered the purple background of the slowly descending night, I remembered how much they resembled the unrelenting rainy sky on that June night. The clouds had been giving their all to the earth and there was nothing pretty about the smoky gray sky. 

To me, it was just another rainy night. I would get home later than usual with my clothes partly soaked from the rain. I would blowdry my only wig, a 10-inch bob, so I could wear it the next morning to work. I would sleep with my duvet on and the fan on high because the weather was set for a cool, good night’s rest. 

But this day, the traffic started far before the expected site and dragged even longer. Later, I heard the driver announcing to his mate and by extension all the passengers that there was a flood at Circle station. 

Cars were barely moving and I began to feel uneasy. My knee was uncomfortable from the angle at which I arched them, with my foot on a spare tyre underneath the seat. My heartbeat was very audible to me and my blood seemed to be flowing at the pace of the cars around me; all stuck in my throat.

Lord Jesus, please keep me safe, I prayed. I opened the Bible on my phone to Psalm 91. 

I typed an SMS to my mother about how I’d be late because of the traffic. I flipped back to the Bible app and read the verses mindlessly. 

The usual smells of smoke from car fumes, khebabs and kelewele were mixed with something else today,  petrichor from the rain and petrol from the filling station near by. This smell was stronger than usual. Was there a problem?

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Inside my bus, people complained about the rain and the traffic.  A woman who sat in front of me let out a chesty cough. All these noises were rendered indiscernible by the loud crashing sound we heard ahead of us- in a moment, the sky was orange and the flames swiftly consumed the bare land beneath. The sound of an explosion shook our car. People asked God to collect them in different languages. The shock had me frozen in one spot. 

There was a frenzy as everyone tried to make their way out of the trotro. ‘Tried’ because the rush of adrenaline blinded them and the water was now high enough to cover the car tyres. Cars all around were emptying of people. 

Debris fell on the car bonnet and we were shaken. I was finally aware that I was left in the car with people at the backseat trying to break the window to escape. It worked and they were out.

“Maame wo da so hye ho? Wo be wu oo!” “Lady, are you still in there? You will die o!”

The mention of my name made me alert. Now, I was so filled with fear. I don’t remember whether it was through the window or through the door I got out,  but what I know is that I found myself shin high in water, clutching my bag and trudging through to safety, wherever that was.

My feet hit hard on a pavement and I toppled over, only saved by planting my palms on the ground. The feeling of the ground and not water meant I was somewhat away from the flooded region. Wet, absolutely flustered, but definitely safe and alive. 

PS: this is not based on a personal experience.

Mini Glossary

‘Trotro’- minivans/buses used as the most common form of public transport in Ghana

‘Mate’- bus conductor

‘Maame’- A word for ‘Woman’ or ‘mother’ in Akan doubles as a name for many Ghanaian women

‘Kelewele’- A popular deep-fried street food consisting of plantains marinated in a mix of ginger, pepper and other spices.

Here’s an old poem from 2020, a reminder to breathe and connect with the One who is our Source

Hang on to the Almighty's breath of Life;

From sun up to sun down,

Breathe

In come light, peace and rest

Out goes the confusion and tension of Life;

From sun up to sun down,

Breathe.

Welcome to my TED Talk Titled: It’s Not Over!

On the 2nd of August this year, a core memory was made.

Anendlessocean’s Octagon tour made a stop in Accra and I got to attend.

(I had the time off my life, by the way )

Being the super-fan I am, I was determined to leave with a souvenir, most preferably a T-shirt, but I ended up with a cream tote bag- a ‘Za’- themed tote bag.

The feeling? Joy without an end!

Maybe I’m exaggerating, but you know that feeling you have when you get something new? That’s it and it lingered for a bit until …

…a bright orange pen leaked onto my off white-bag. I was pretty bummed because it was avoidable and the stain was so obvious.

I stopped using the bag as much and even when I did, I hid the stained side (which was the side with the design🫩).

But then I realized that the stain was transferrable- the clothes I wore with it got a faint orange stain.

On the bright side (pun intended), it was 100% washable - it didn’t last in my clothes after a wash.

That’s when I thought, ‘It’s not over for my bag’

(Tell your neighbour, ‘it’s not over!’).

Here’s where the life lesson comes in.

I was hesitant to clean it because I didn’t think I’d succeed. The fear of failing at it and having a permanent stain paralyzed me before I started.

Nothing changed until I made the move.

It didn’t take half as long as I feared and in a few washes, I had my bag (~98 percent stain-free).

You can take other lessons from this, but here are mine;

Fear paralyzes, but clarity comes from motion. Most times, the thing you fear is really not as hard as your mind frames it to be.

So I’m thankful for my restored bag and all that led to it.

And I’m thankful for all the steps that you and I are going to take with that lesson in mind.

With the year ending, take this (you and me both) as a sign to not just think about things, but to move forward and to not give up without ever trying.

Thanks for coming to my TED talk- see you on Day 2 😉.

Merry Blogmas to you and yours🫶🏾.

The year was 2007. The cedi, Ghana’s currency, was being redenominated. Adverts flooded our screens giving us details of the new notes and coins. A significant segment showed how to identify fake notes. The real notes had certain indents and strips and more importantly (in my opinion), a hidden image that was only visible under a fluorescent light.

Eighteen years later, I still remember that (the songs included) and I apply it when necessary.

Counterfeiting is not restricted to money, it shows up everywhere - including the handling of God’s Word. In the Bible, we are constantly warned to beware of and reject false teachings and we are shown different ways to identify them.

• By the fruits of these teachers, we will know whether or not they are of God. (Matthew 7:20)

• Whether or not they declare Jesus as Lord, will reveal if they have His Spirit. (1 Corinthians 12:3)

• If what they teach is as the scriptures state or not. (Acts‬ ‭17‬:‭11‬)‬‬

That last one is the focus of this post and one significant mention of this in scripture is with the Bereans.

The Bereans were a people from the town of Berea who heard the word being preached. They are spoken about in the book of Acts and in the most significant one, they were being commended.

“And the people of Berea were more open-minded than those in Thessalonica, and they listened eagerly to Paul’s message. They searched the Scriptures day after day to see if Paul and Silas were teaching the truth.”

‭‭Acts of the Apostles‬ ‭17‬:‭11‬ ‭NLT‬‬

The Bereans are commonly referred to when talking about scrutinizing what you hear. We are encouraged to ‘Search the scriptures to see if it is so’ just like they did.

For example, if someone tells you that the even the Bible says ‘God helps those who help themselves’, or that ‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness’, you can do a quick Google search to verify. (Psst- the Bible does not say that).

Doing this helps you to be a better student of the Bible, and to strengthen your understanding of Biblical truths.

It’s harder to do this when it’s someone that we are frequently blessed by. Bear in mind, no man is infallible and it’s a healthy mindset for every minister to acknowledge that fact and backtrack when they realize they are wrong. After all, the goal of preaching and teaching is to equip the saints.

The goal of emulating the Bereans is not to become skeptics, nor is it to poke holes into any one’s ministry. In fact, they searched eagerly.

Rather, it is to weed out misconceptions, clarify questions and solidify our understanding of the truth, so that the purpose of the Word of God would be completed in us- for correction, rebuke and instruction in the way of righteousness. For Christ to be formed in us.

You may not be able to do a google search every few seconds in the middle of a preaching, but here’s how you can practically search the scriptures:

• Take notes at church or when listening to a sermon and highlight the things that are especially confusing to you, if any.

• Set a time to go over your notes and cross-reference the scriptures used. The Bereans are mentioned to have done this daily.

• Using commentaries and discussing with other Christians is of great help. It’s easier to gain clarity through our connections and interactions. No Berean was singled out; they searched the scriptures in community.

Searching the scriptures after hearing a message is not dishonour, it’s responsibility.

Paul the Apostle was unarguably one of the most popular itinerant ministers of his day, moving from church to church and having his inspired writings included in the canon of scripture. Yet his teaching was subject to some form of scrutiny.

God takes the teaching of His Word seriously and holds teachers to very high standards and thus the Word must be handled with utmost care. Everyone who preaches the text must remain faithful to it.

Dear Christian, I’ve said all this to say; let’s borrow a note or two from these people and search what we hear, regardless of the popularity and acclaim of whoever preaches. It’s ensuring that you as a Christian know the Bible for yourself and are properly grounded in truth.

(Remember over here, being a Bible Nerds is encouraged 😉).

Yours with love,

The VOIce of Influence

Catch you in the next post!

Deep Bible scholarship is not reserved for pastors and theologians alone- it’s for every Christian. 

The Bible provides us with a lens and a standard of truth and we must be acquainted with it. We cannot afford to be Bible illiterate as Christians, especially not now.

To survive in a dark world, you must draw near to the light, uphold the light and dispense that light.

As Christians, we owe the knowledge of doctrine we have today to centuries of faithful people who have shared true doctrine and combed out false ones that have sprung up across the millennia- right from when Jesus gave the commission in Matthew 28:19-20.

We live in the prime time for the fulfillment of the scripture that men would follow people who teach what they want to hear. Sound doctrine seems archaic and boring and feels like it’s of no use if it’s not centered on us and our advancement in life. 

Particularly with the advent of tiktok-theology and Youtube shorts-sermonettes, many takes on the word of God are flying around, but not many are true. Scripture can easily be taken out of context either innocently, out of ignorance or for personal gain of the one professing the falsehood.

Social media cannot be your only source of information on any topic, let alone theology. Bear in mind that content is usually skewed in favor of the personal biases of the person sharing it, sometimes at the expense of accuracy. 

It puts listeners in the situation of Ephesians 4:14; tossed about by every wind of doctrine- which, I must say, is one of the worst ways to live. 

Scripture must be read, interpreted and taught correctly, as was inspired by the Spirit who was present then and is in us now.

Having a wrong view of scripture leads to a wrong view of God and what pleases him and that can veer you off track. 

Using a scripture wrongly creates a gap for its original context and may lead to missing an important detail of God’s nature. 

I've had a few conversations with friends on the topic of false teaching and how widespread and easily accepted it is these days.

It gets scary to hear biblically incorrect statements being preached behind the pulpit and received by listeners hook, line and sinker and no one can perceive what is wrong with it. 

“And the people of Berea were more open-minded than those in Thessalonica, and they listened eagerly to Paul’s message. They searched the Scriptures day after day to see if Paul and Silas were teaching the truth.”

Acts of the Apostles 17:11 NLT

We must emulate the people of Berea and analyze all that is preached to us. It is not being dishonorable, it’s being responsible. 

We owe the Holy Writ our faithfulness and loyalty to what it teaches. 

Breathed by the Spirit, these words save and sanctify us. These words reveal to us the mind and character of our Lord. We must be faithful and seek out what it teaches in totality and hold fast to it. 

Since the Old Testament, God has made clear His desire to have faithful men and women who will teach their children about Him and to carry His word across generations and in this day, may He find it in us. 

Yours faithfully,

the VOIce of influence 

PS: The next posts will cover some common Bible study jargon and break down these complex, but essential terms, see you then!

Nothing beats the feeling of getting immersed in a good book.

This was how Midnight Library made me feel.

I was drawn in by the blurb (and the cover, to be fair🤭). Imagine being able to offload your regrets, sign me up for that!

This story hit quite close to home - just like the main character thoughts of conversations I didn’t have, relationships that withered, alternate career paths often linger in my mind and I think a lot about how different life could’ve been if I had done things differently

Nora Seed was at a crossroads, saddled with regrets from her 35 years of living and dissatisfied with the life created as a result of her choices. And in the moment she thought it couldn’t get any worse, she got another chance. Many others, in fact, to live through what her life could have been and let go of many regrets while at it.

I love when I can see through the mind of character, and resonate with their deepest fears and feelings.

This book was like nothing I've read before; a trifecta of therapy, philosophy and fiction.

I read with my pencil in hand, underlining quotes that stood out to me.

It explored the multiverse theory - one where there are infinite versions of ourselves living in the universe. It’s not too far off from the reality that our lives could be on complete different trajectories as a result of one decision.

The genre is speculative fiction- an evolving kind that transcends the boundaries of sci-fi, fantasy, and typical fiction. It does not fit into any particular mould and the world is as the author decides.

I saw a number of negative reviews of this book that shocked me — many people hated the book for the same reasons I liked it.

To me, it was a good enough to yap about and make a whole post on. Different strokes for different folks, I guess.

In all, I really appreciate how it all came together at the end as well as the fact that it was an alternative to doomscrolling.

If you’ve read this book or any other by Matt Haig what did you think about it? Is this a book you would like to read?