It was one fine evening around 7 pm on a Thursday. Mma Ramatu, popularly called Erinya—our beloved mother—was preparing shito for the next day’s Friday waakye. I sat beside her, observing the bubbling pot, when I suddenly told her:
“Erinya, Ai ga kwai sukuu.” (“I want to go to school.”)
“That’s okay. On Monday, I will send you.”- she said.
That moment became a turning point in my life. It was 31st August 1995, and on Monday, 4th September 1995, at the age of 10, I carried my stool and followed her to Wamfie Islamic Primary School.
What a miracle!
Why a miracle? My father, Amadu Zabarma, was an unwavering opponent of school. His philosophy was simple but harsh: “Every person that holds a pen is a thief.” Because of this belief, none of my eight elder siblings had ever stepped foot in a classroom. Even though my mother valued school, she couldn’t challenge his authority. Mma Ramatu her self missed school in a miraculoys way. According to her, they went to class and they were sacked for not wearning uniform.
“Are you the one going to learn or your uniform? No one is going back again” – their father told them.
Coming back to my story, why did I attend when Amadu Zabarma resisted school with all his might?
By 1995, Amadu Zabarma had grown old to enforce his decisions. Yet, even with his waning authority, my journey to school wasn’t straightforward. Every day was a secret battle.
In the mornings, I would wake up, bathe, and iron my uniform. But I dared not wear it in the house for him to see. Instead, I folded it carefully and stuffed it into my pocket. If my father ever saw me in uniform, the consequences would have been unbearable—for both me and Mma Ramatu.
The process repeated after school. Before entering the house, I would check if my father was outside in the compound. If he was, I’d quickly remove my uniform and hide it in my pocket again. Once safely inside my mother’s room, I’d place the uniform down and prepare to repeat the ritual the next morning.
Football: Another Forbidden Dream
Once I’d put down my uniform, my next task was to retrieve my football. Playing football was another activity my father loathed. He’d often say, “Playing ball is playing with a human head.” So, I had to deflate my ball, sneak it through the roof, and head outside. I will go behind the house, pick it up, and send to vouganizer to put air into it. And then head to the football field. When it is time to come home, I will deflate it again, passed it through the same hole I got it out, into my mother’s room again.
The irony!
By 2003 when I completed Junior High School, I had become exceptional in both academics and football. If I wasn’t the best in the entire district, I was the second best – in both academic and soccer. Unfortunately, my health didn’t allow me to pursue a football career, so I focused entirely on academics.
On 6th of August 1996, around 9am, I was informed about the demise of Amadu Zabarma at the age of 82.
And on the 13th of January 2019, around 9am, I was informed about the demise of Mma Ramatu, at the age of 85.
May God have mercy on all departed souls.