Adwoa Okorewaa : Wellspring of A Matriach

Memory, reflection, and legacy flowing from the enduring wisdom of my grandmother, Adwoa Okorewaa.

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  • The Unseen Curriculum: When My Grandmother’s Lessons on Mozart Came to Life

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    There’s been a constant presence in my thoughts lately: my grandmother. Her absence is a quiet space I’m still learning to occupy, a silence that echoes just how much she was the guiding light of my life. It’s only now, with her gone, that I’m truly beginning to see the full extent of how she shaped me.

    My grandmother was obsessed with knowledge. Books, newspapers, even old scrolls —if there were words on it, she believed there was something to be learned. She wasn’t just a collector; she was a teacher, finding lessons in everything from history to cooking and using them to create her own training materials. Her books were her most prized possessions—bought, gifted, or written by her own hand. She wrote every day until the very last weeks of her life. It was her primary passion, her purpose.

    Growing up, it was a common sight for us to be woken at dawn, as early as 3 or 4 a.m., to read and learn. We grumbled, we cried, but she was unwavering. Her belief was that the brain was most receptive at that hour, and no matter your age, if you were under her roof, you were going to learn. This started when my siblings and I were barely four years old. It was incredibly frustrating at the time, but the impact of those early lessons would reveal itself decades later.

    It wasn’t until I was 35 that I truly understood the depth of her teachings. My husband and I went out to a jazz club in Accra, Ghana. We ran into an acquaintance who was there with a musician who sang in an orchestra.As we talked about his career, the conversation drifted to classical music, specifically Mozart.

    To my own surprise, I found myself participating in the conversation, not as an observer, but as an equal. We spoke about Mozart’s collections, his last compositions, and the raw emotion embedded in his work. I was discussing the psychological frame behind his music, the very notes and their meaning. The musician, amazed, asked if I had studied music. “No,” I said, and that’s when it hit me. I was talking about Mozart, a composer I hadn’t thought about since I was a child.

    Then, a vivid memory came to me: my grandmother’s books. When I was just seven years old, she had a literary collection on Mozart—his biography, his pieces, their composition, and their unique interpretation. She had made me read them, and unconsciously, that knowledge had stayed with me for over 30 years.

    We talked for over an hour, and when the musician’s friend asked how I knew all of this, I said, “My grandmother taught me.” He was astonished that a woman who wasn’t a musician herself had taught me so much about a subject. But that was her genius—she believed that if you read a book, you should understand it. She would make me read and then explain the content, whether it was history, science, or, in this case, music.

    When I got home, I called her immediately, bubbling with excitement. I told her how everyone was shocked and how I was amazed that I could hold such a conversation. Her response was simple and profound: “This is just the beginning.”

    She taught relentlessly because she believed that every lesson would one day inform our lives, our contributions, and the value we brought to the world. She gave us a rounded view of life, not just for the present, but for the future. Her teaching methods were designed for the knowledge to stick, to become a part of who we were. I’ve realized how many other things I’ve learned from her have surfaced in unexpected conversations—from farming to the philosophies of ancient greece!

    It’s hard to process her absence, but I know she is smiling wherever she is. She always said her wish was to continue teaching and writing until her last breath. Her passion was to pass on knowledge, and she fulfilled that mission every single day.

    Through her, I’ve gained skills and a perspective that continue to define my academic and professional growth. I don’t just see things as they are; I see their history, their meaning, and their potential. My grandmother was truly unique, and her legacy of learning is the most precious gift she could have ever given me.

    In her absence, I’ve come to understand that her teachings weren’t just about accumulating facts; they were about a holistic approach to life. My grandmother’s unwavering belief that every lesson would inform our future is a testament to her profound love and vision.

    Adwoa Okorewaa was a master architect of a life well-lived, and I am her most grateful student.

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    👉My grandmother’s lessons on Mozart were an ‘unseen curriculum’ that taught me about life’s rhythm. What’s a lesson you learned from an unexpected source—like a song, a book, or a simple routine—that has shaped your life? Leave your comments below!”

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  • The Invisible Thread: How My Grandmother’s Love Found Me, Miles Away

    Adelaide Adwoa Okorewaa Barnes (née Anaman)

    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.

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    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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    Your likes, comments, and shares truly motivate me to keep writing. If you enjoyed this story, please consider giving it a like! And if you’d like to read more, I’d love for you to subscribe to my blog