Adwoa Okorewaa : Wellspring of A Matriach

My grandmother, my muse and my anchor, lived a beautiful rich 92 years until she was called to eternity . Now that she’s gone, every memory of her shines brighter, especially those tied to the simplest, yet most profound, acts of her love .

One of such consistent acts revolved around my childhood and adult struggle with food.Growing up, I was an incredibly picky eater. It wasn’t just about the taste; the texture, the smell, and even the presentation of food could send shivers down my spine and turn me off completely.

This pickiness often led to me being punished or scolded by my parents for refusing a meal. Sometimes, a mere scent was enough to make me physically ill. For instance, the smell of goat meat which is a known delicacy in West Africa being prepared would fill me with such nausea that I would sometimes throw up for days. As a result, whenever goat meat was on the menu, I was kept indoors or far away from the kitchen, a lonely exile from the family meal.

My grandmother, who lived a couple of hours away, was keenly aware of my unique eating habits. She knew, with an understanding that transcended words, that I preferred my cornmeal , proteins, vegetables and my favourite palm nut soup prepared in very specific ways. She even knew precisely how I liked the small, fresh fishes used in our special “Ntitii” sauce to be cooked. It had to be the perfect mix of spiciness, freshness and taste. Her heart, ever so tender, worried constantly that I would go hungry or face my parents’ disciplinary hand.

So, with a devotion that still brings tears to my eyes, she would often make the journey to bring me the food she knew I would eat. It wasn’t unusual for her to arrive early in the morning, a beacon of comfort, with special meals wrapped in local leaves or with some perfectly fried fish , 3tsew and accompanying soups. Her visits were a sanctuary, a quiet promise that I would be nourished, body and soul.

One of the most vivid and cherished memories unfolded on a morning when I was in junior high school. The local cornmeal porridge had been prepared with milk, a combination I found utterly repulsive. As was often the case, I refused to eat, and after a few spankings from my father, I was told I’d go to school hungry. I remember the sting of tears mixed with the pangs of hunger as I sat in the car with cold stares from my sibilings to school that day.During the morning assembly, a former classmatein primary school but in a different class, Sabina Appiah , approached me. In her hands, she held a package of hot porridge and some puffy puff, a local pastry. My confusion quickly turned to apprehension; I had been taught never to accept food from strangers, especially with the unsettling wave of kidnappings around that time. I asked her why she was giving me this meal, which, ironically, was my preffered kind of porridge. Her answer left me speechless: “Your grandmother gave it to me for you.”I was stunned.

My grandmother lived hours away, obviously had teaching to do at her local school that day and the roads were notoriously bad. So this was not possible…I thought! Sabina then recounted the extraordinary tale: She had been waiting for a car at the main transport yard in “circle” when a woman in a teacher’s uniform approached her. My grandmother, with her uncanny intuition, had recognized Sabina’s Achimota school uniform. She asked for Sabina’s name and class, and then, with a knowing glance, told her she was almost certain I hadn’t eaten breakfast. She entrusted Sabina with the food, a silent testament to her boundless concern.Still slightly disbelieving, I asked Sabina to describe the woman. Her description was unmistakably my grandmother. She even mentioned my grandmother saying she was from “Agona Kwanyako.” The pieces clicked into place. I took the food, ate it, and felt an overwhelming wave of relief wash over me.Yet, a lingering fear remained.

I thought it was a strange twist of fate, and I worried my parents would punish me for taking food from a stranger. I kept the incident a secret for two weeks, until my grandmother came to visit. The very first words out of her mouth when she arrived were, “Did you receive the breakfast I sent to you through your friend, Sabina?”Everyone in the house was surprised, having heard nothing of it. My grandmother then explained that she had been on her way to the Ministry of Education that morning when she spotted Sabina. A profound instinct told her I needed that meal. In her incredible generosity, she had even bought a meal for Sabina too!

My grandmother’s love wasn’t just for grand gestures; it was a consistent, personalized devotion. She would often come by early in the morning to Accra just to drop off food items, condiments and special meals for me. She came early in order to make a return journey back to Agona Kwanyako that very morning to start teaching at 8:30am! Even as I grew older and visited her, she would prepare my favorite dishes exactly the way I liked them, going out of her way to ensure my comfort. This was one of the most intimate experiences I shared with her, a memory I hold closer than ever now that she’s gone. She was thoughtful, loving, and possessed an extraordinary ability to make me feel seen and cared for, even when I felt like the “weird” one, the odd one out.

This is just the first of many stories I hope to share about my grandmother, about our unique relationship, and the countless memories I have of her. Her presence was a comforting constant, a personalized connection that went beyond the everyday interactions she had with her other grandchildren. Her love was a force, a quiet strength that shaped me. Her passing leaves a void, but the warmth of her love, especially those gestures stepped in faitb and godliness, continues to nourish my soul.

Adwoa Okorewaa’s life teaches us the profound power of personalized love, unwavering resilience, and the lasting impact of thoughtful gestures. May her spirit inspire us to cultivate such empathy and consistent support in our own relationships, building trust and connection that truly endures.

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This story is a powerful testament to the impact of intentional, personal acts of love. What’s one memory of a loved one going the extra mile for you that you’ll always cherish? Share your story in the comments below! Let’s honor these quiet heroes who shape our lives.

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