22/02/2026
Chapter 1: The Polished Pebble
The air in our home, nestled comfortably in the vibrant heart of Accra, always hummed with a quiet sort of ambition – the good kind. Not the desperate scramble, but the steady, sure feeling that with hard work and God’s grace, wonderful things would simply unfold. We were not among the super-rich, but we were solidly middle-class, a privilege that meant books were always piled high, the aroma of waakye or banku often wafted from the kitchen, and most importantly, every single one of my questions was met with patience, a proverb, or a thoughtful discussion from my parents, Mama Afia and Papa Kwesi.
I was the second of four children, sandwiched between my elder brother, Kofi, whose boisterous energy was matched only by his protectiveness, and my two younger sisters, Adjoa and Yaa, who looked up to me with a mixture of admiration and playful rivalry. Our home was a lively tapestry woven with laughter, occasional squabbles, and an unwavering belief in education and community.
Even as a tiny Abena, I found myself drawn to details, to the logic beneath the surface of things. Mama Afia often laughed recounting how I, barely taller than the kitchen stool, would organize her colourful beads by size and shade, a task she said no one else in the house had the patience for. Papa Kwesi would beam, his eyes crinkling at the corners, declaring I had "a mind as sharp as a newly sharpened cutlass." And so, a mind as sharp as a newly sharpened cutlass I diligently cultivated.
Primary school, Adom Preparatory, felt less like a daunting new environment and more like an extension of the encouraging world I already knew. The classrooms, bright with morning sun filtering through their large, open windows, were stages for endless discovery. The scent of chalk, exercise books, and sometimes the sweet, earthy smell of fresh kenkey from a vendor nearby, still brings a rush of nostalgia. It wasn't long before my hand, swift and eager, was almost always the first to shoot up, my answers often met with approving nods from Madam Mensah or Mr. Nkrumah. I loved the feeling of understanding, of connecting the threads of knowledge. Learning wasn't a chore; it was a thrilling, intricate Adinkra pattern waiting to be traced.
My name, Abena, became a familiar tune at the end-of-term prize-giving ceremonies. "For the neatest handwriting, for outstanding effort in Mathematics, and for Best in English..." The announcements would echo through the assembly hall, but inevitably, my name would be called. I'd walk up, a joyful nervousness fluttering in my chest, clutching the glossy-covered books, feeling the warmth of my parents' and siblings’ proud smiles from the back rows. Kofi would give a loud, encouraging shout, while Adjoa and Yaa would clap their hands raw.
But my stage wasn't confined to academic excellence. I found my truest delight in performance, in embodying stories. I distinctly remember the weight of the elaborate headscarf and the dignity I felt embodying the Queen Mother in a school play adapted from an Ananse story, my young voice resonating with authority as I advised the cunning spider. The audience's gasps and laughter were a powerful affirmation. Equally exhilarating were the times I joined my classmates in vibrant cultural dances, our bare feet pounding rhythms into the dusty school grounds, our movements telling ancient stories of harvest, celebration, or war, draped in colorful kente cloth. Poetry recitations and dramatic plays were my true joys, where the applause wasn't just noise; it was a communal embrace, telling me I belonged, that I was good at this.
The primary school teachers, with their gentle smiles and patient encouragement, seemed to see something special, something precious, in this eager little pebble. They nurtured it, believing in a future I couldn't yet fully envision, a future where the seeds of confidence sown in our comfortable Accra home would blossom into something magnificent. And because they believed, my entire family believed, and I believed too.
And that brings us to the end of Chapter 1, 'The Polished Pebble.' I hope you enjoyed this first glimpse into Abena's world – her bright beginnings, the warmth of her family, and those early moments of discovery and performance.
This is just the beginning of her journey, and there's so much more to explore, so many layers to unfold.
I truly appreciate you joining me for 'This Year and That.' Be sure to watch out for Chapter 2, where we'll delve deeper into the challenges and triumphs that shaped Abena's next steps.
CLICK ON THIS LINK TO WATCH THE VIDEO VERSION
https://youtu.be/8yReYp5M8C0?si=OB7Gyh8-Hq8Z49nR
