“Most people collect souvenirs from their travels, your father leaves children as souvenirs.” – the echo of Mama’s words hung in Adwoa’s memory, a bitter honey on her tongue.
He was a whirlwind, Mama would say. A tornado of ideas and ambition, tearing through villages, across towns, all the way to the halls of Parliament. They’d met young, eyes alight with dreams bigger than their own bodies. Adwoa always imagined her father’s voice filling the room, drawing her mother in with its deep rumble and the promise of a better Ghana.
His fight for independence wasn’t just political – he was breaking free the way an eagle does, talons released from the clutch of the British Empire.
Mama had clipped her own wings for his sake, her own ambitions for a teaching career tucked under the neatly pressed folds of his shirts. Yet, like a shadow, a faint yearning lingered behind her smile.
Then came Harvard.
Letters were the only bridge across the Atlantic. Mama’s neat script recounting ordinary days – a leaking roof, Adwoa’s first tooth, the neighbour’s son caught stealing mangoes. His words, in return, were like comets blazing in the night sky. He wrote of professors and philosophers, buzzing ideas of democracy swirling in his head. Between the lines, Adwoa could almost taste the distance, a slow, widening ache.
When he returned, un-tanned and brimming with newness, the man who got off the ship was familiar, yet subtly changed. He plunged back into politics, the roar of crowds replacing the quiet of their home. They moved to the capital, a bustling, dusty heart of the young nation. There were fancy dinners where stiff-backed women with foreign accents seemed to find Daddy more fascinating than Mama, with her soft voice and careful English.
Nights stretched long, the clack of his typewriter echoing into the darkness where Adwoa and her siblings pretended to sleep. In the morning, rumpled suits and newspapers strewn across the floor spoke of battles won and lost. His victories felt like a nation’s gains, but also a little like something stolen. Mama’s smile grew tighter, her hands always busy, always moving. In that whirlwind, love didn’t vanish, but perhaps it frayed a little. Or maybe, Adwoa would think long after, it was simply hidden behind the bigger, brighter fire of his ambition.
The year Adwoa turned thirteen was a year of milestones and fractures.
Her body, once a familiar landscape, betrayed her with sudden curves and bleeding days she still didn’t quite understand. Her father’s attention, once warm and paternal, now flickered with a disquieting glint. His boisterous laughter seemed to catch on her curves, the pride in his eyes tinged with something she couldn’t name – possession, speculation.
One hot, humid night, a scream shattered the fragile peace of their house.
Snatches of conversation followed – harsh whispers, the sharp clink of glass shattering against the wall. It was as if the polite dance they’d all performed was over. No more skirting around the shadows that lingered in the corners of their home. Mama had finally named the beast: infidelity. Adwoa cowered in her room, her own blossoming womanhood suddenly tainted, feeling complicit by the mere fact of her changing body.
The next morning, their home was a hushed battlefield. Mama’s movements were mechanical, her touch absent as she went through the motions of making breakfast. Her eyes were bottomless pools where once joy had sparkled. Adwoa found her on the back porch, not weeping, but staring out at the garden, the vibrant blooms now seeming withered and sad. The betrayal had stolen their lifeblood.
That night, over a cold, untouched dinner, her father announced a “diplomatic trip.”
He’d always loved to travel, a whirlwind seeking an audience, a spotlight his small town could never give him. Adwoa wondered if he saw this trip as a balm, a distraction to heal the wounds he’d created. Or perhaps, in his grandiosity, he believed they’d all admire his conquests the way crowds admired his speeches.
The trip became a blur of dust-filled villages and fevered nights in makeshift lodgings. Mama, once the heart of their home, faded with each mile, the strain of hiding her broken spirit etching itself onto her face.
Then came the first baby. Not round and healthy, but thin and wailful, born not in a doctor’s care but to a young woman with haunted eyes in a dirt-floor hut. He was named Yaw, a tiny stranger with his father’s high cheekbones, a living reminder of a love shared elsewhere.
Another town, another woman, another child. A girl this time, named Ama, with skin the colour of rich, dark earth and hair that curled like her father’s smile.
Adwoa became a silent observer, her heart splitting with each new addition to their fractured, traveling family. It was as if a part of her father died with each new birth, replaced by a coldness, a distance behind his eyes that made the once-familiar stranger to her.
Back in the city, their once orderly home became a pantomime of unspoken truths.
The half-siblings grew like wildflowers among the neatly manicured rosebushes of his political life – tolerated, occasionally acknowledged, but never truly belonging. Mama became an expert at choreographing their movements – this dinner here, that family outing there – all to avoid awkward collisions of lives that were never meant to intertwine.
Adwoa’s siblings were a constant echo of her father’s sins. She saw it in Mama’s tight smile when little Ama toddled in, in the way her brother Kwesi’s laughter rang hollow when their father’s attention was fleeting and divided. They were whispers of other lives, lives she might have had if their father hadn’t been a collector of loves he couldn’t fully cherish.
But the children were innocent, and Adwoa, despite her own pain, couldn’t help but soften towards them. In Kwesi’s bright eyes, she saw the same yearning for a real father that she felt. She helped Ama braid her unruly curls, a quiet act of rebellion against the perfect control their mother demanded.
As Adwoa grew older, the whispers of her father’s affairs became public knowledge, a scandalous undercurrent to his political ascent.
Yet, Mama stayed.
Society women whispered behind her back, a chorus of pity and quiet condemnation. Adwoa didn’t understand. Was it pride, or a stubborn refusal to let him truly win? Perhaps there was a strange comfort in the pain they knew, a warped kind of stability only built on shared betrayals.
Years flowed into decades, marked by political milestones and children whose faces became familiar fixtures on the edges of their lives. Adwoa left for university, first in England, then across the ocean to America. Distance became her armor, a way to escape the suffocating expectations of her homeland, to craft a life that wasn’t defined by her father’s shadow.
Yet, no matter how far she ran, the past clung like a burr. Sometimes, in the faces of strangers, she would see flashes of her siblings, glimpses of paths her own life could have taken. Her father’s legacy stretched across continents, woven into the very fabric of Ghana and into the ache she carried with her, a complicated grief mixed with a reluctant, grudging admiration for the complex, flawed man that was her father.
Adwoa never truly knew her father. He was a figure woven from snippets of memory, Mama’s guarded stories, and the shadows that fell across their too-quiet home. The whispers of his other children, those with different mothers and different lives, were never far from her own existence, a constant reminder of absences. But the most potent source of insight came later, with trembling hands and a heart too full of ghosts.
Mama had always been a keeper of things – neat piles of faded photographs, birthday cards, bundled newspapers marking important dates in his political career. Yet, the most treasured trove was hidden in an old wooden box under her bed. Letters. Stacks of them, yellowed with age and laced with a script so familiar, so achingly Mama’s.
Night after night, Adwoa became an archaeologist of emotion, carefully unwrapping decades of love, longing, and disappointment. In her mother’s youthful hand, the early years bloomed with a bright, almost naive joy. There, her father was not the whirlwind orator, but a young man with eyes full of dreams both personal and political. Her letters spoke of laughter over shared meals, books debated long into the night, and a burning faith in his potential.
Then came the change, so subtle at first she nearly missed it. The distance during his time at Harvard stretched into something colder, the warmth replaced by formal phrases. In his responses, his own ambition began to take precedence, the ‘we’ slowly becoming ‘I’. There were mentions of new friends, a woman named Beatrice with a sharp wit, and veiled references to a life that excluded Mama.
The betrayals bloomed within these pages, not in grand declarations but in silences. Missed birthdays, apologies veiled as political commitments, letters tinged with the stale scent of unfamiliar perfume. Mama’s voice, initially fierce with pain, began to shrink, the ink fading as if she were running out of words, running out of fight.
It hurt, of course, but more than that, it was a strange revelation. Adwoa had been formed in the aftermath of this paper war – the child of a half-broken love, the sister to shadows. But now, there was nuance. Her father was not just a callous man, but one so consumed by his own brilliance that he didn’t see the collateral damage. Mama, too, surprised her with a stubborn resilience, a refusal to become an embittered footnote to his history.
Her parents’ story wasn’t a fairytale, nor was it a simple tragedy. It was a complicated tapestry, with bright threads of genuine affection woven alongside fraying knots of loss and regret. And Adwoa, with history laid bare in her lap, finally felt a strange sort of peace. Her own life, her choices, became clearer, informed by the echoes of the past. Her past, her legacy… all these from the spaces in between letters.
One particular letter stood out, a single folded sheet in Mama’s neat script, dated March 6th, 1962. Ghana’s Independence Day, a celebration of the nation, yet within these lines, Adwoa read only the quiet collapse of a personal dream:
Dearest Kwame,
The fireworks were lovely, as always. Bright bursts of color against the dark sky. I stood on our balcony with Adwoa, she clapped and laughed, and for a moment, I felt a flicker of that old joy. But then I looked around the crowds and realised you weren't there.
Another Independence celebration, another speech I heard on the radio instead of beside you. Remember when this day was about us, too? About the future we'd build together? It's foolish to feel this way, I know. You have your grand purpose, and I am… well, I am here, tending to what's left.
With love, as always,
The date, like a red-circled indictment, spoke volumes. March ’62 was when little Ama was born – the girl with the dark earth skin and her father’s easy grin. The fireworks, the celebration, the crowds – he’d been performing his role as a rising star of the new Ghana, while another woman, a woman he had never even mentioned, laboured in some unknown room.
The sting of that revelation wasn’t merely in the betrayal. It was the casual cruelty of it. That even on a day imbued with national pride, when unity and hope were meant to eclipse all else, he had compartmentalised his life with such ruthless ease. In Mama’s carefully chosen words, Adwoa read the pain, but also a dawning anger, a fire still flickering beneath the ashes.
She found his response tucked beneath, dated a few weeks later. It was longer, filled with justifications disguised as logic. He spoke of the importance of his work, of how building a nation demanded sacrifices. His words were like polished pebbles, meant to soothe, yet they felt slippery and false in Adwoa’s hands. There was a single mention of ‘circumstances beyond his control’, and while no names were spoken, his meaning was clear.
These two letters were like snapshots of a turning point. Before, his infidelity had been a rumour, a shadow whispered in corners. But with this cold exchange, it became a hard truth, a divide they could never ignore. Looking at these pieces of paper, Adwoa saw not just her history, but a map unfurling. This was the moment, she realised, when Mama’s love finally bent, perhaps didn’t break completely, but shifted into something more self-preserving, less all-consuming. And Adwoa understood.
In the weeks following that quiet epiphany, Adwoa became obsessed with dates and cross-references. Each letter was a puzzle piece, its true meaning revealed in the context of others around it. She mapped out his political tours against the hazy memories of new siblings unexpectedly appearing in their lives, calculated gaps in correspondence against birthdays marked on Mama’s old calendars.
It was as if by decoding the past, she hoped to unlock some secret key to understanding her own heart. Her father, it seemed, wasn’t just drawn to other women, he was drawn to brilliant ones. There was Beatrice, the Harvard academic whose letters buzzed with intellectual sparring that matched his own. There was Yejide, a Nigerian journalist whose sharp wit and political fire were reflected in his increasingly global ambitions. These weren’t mere dalliances; they were a testament to his hunger for minds as restless and ambitious as his own.
Did a part of him feel trapped by Mama’s quiet domesticity, once so charming? Did those fleeting moments when he looked at Adwoa with that unsettling intensity stem from seeing in her the potential he’d stifled in the woman who raised her? The questions echoed without comfortable answers, yet within them lay a strange power.
One moonlit night, perched on the edge of her bed, Adwoa did something Mama never had the courage, or perhaps the cruelty, to do. She sorted the letters by name. Beatrice. Yejide. Three more names she didn’t recognise, women scattered across continents bound by a shared mistake.
Each bundle of letters was its own tragedy in miniature. There were the echoes of youthful passion, replaced over time by a tired familiarity, then silence. It was like watching a slow-motion car crash, and Adwoa realised – he’d never stopped. Throughout his life, right up until his heart gave out at a podium during a fiery speech, there were always whispers, always suitcases packed for impromptu trips, always new faces appearing briefly at family gatherings before disappearing again.
He had loved grandly, selfishly, leaving a trail of hearts – and lives – in his wake. Some women, like those early years with Mama, had bent with the tempestuous winds. Others, Adwoa suspected, had splintered under the force of his relentless need. She wondered which she would have been, had she been born in a different time, to a different mother, in a world less harsh. Wondered, too, who she was now because of how things had unfurled.
In the end, the puzzle was never truly complete. There were too many missing pieces, too many silent voices. But the spaces between those letters held their own truth: her father, the nation-builder, was also a man built on fractures. And in those fractures, a whole ecosystem of lives sprouted – some broken, some resilient, all undeniably his legacy.
The final years of his life were a blur of names and dates in Adwoa’s reckoning. The women, once distinct with their own personalities and ambitions, faded into a pattern: bright flames ignited, burned, then ultimately dimmed. But one letter, weathered and tucked into a forgotten corner of Mama’s box, broke that cycle. It was not in her mother’s hand, nor one of his usual conquests. Instead, it was on simple, lined paper, the script shaky and filled with misspellings.
Dear Mrs. Efua, it started, and Adwoa felt her stomach clench.
I am writting because I do not no who else. My name is Esi. I worked for your husband in Kumasi for many years. He was kind. He helped me and my children when my own husband…well, it is not important. I do not want to cause you troubles, but there is a child. A boy. His name is Kofi, born six years past. No one knows but me, and now you.
The letter went on, a simple and heartbreaking plea. Esi was struggling, the kindness of Adwoa’s father now gone, leaving her alone and afraid. She didn’t ask for money, just… acknowledgment. A chance for young Kofi to know where he came from, to have a connection to his half-siblings, who, by this time, Adwoa was sure numbered in the dozens.
There was no date on this letter, no way to know if Mama had ever read it, ever responded. Did she hide it away, the proof of this final betrayal too much alongside the others?
Grief hit Adwoa in waves – for this woman, Esi, with her quiet despair, for yet another child born into shadow, and for Mama, who had perhaps borne this final blow in the silent isolation she’d perfected over a lifetime.
Had her father loved his children, all of them? Had he kept track, remembered their names? Or were they merely fleeting sparks left in his grand, world-changing wake? Adwoa found herself wishing Esi had asked for something, demanded something. It would have been simpler to despise her father if there had been malice to counter the negligence. Yet, all she found was a tired sort of echo. He built nations while splintering hearts, not because he was evil, but because he never quite learned that they were one and the same.
She would never know what happened with Kofi, whether any connection was forged, whether another child was added to their impossible, sprawling family. But sometimes, late at night, she imagines herself tracking him down. Not out of duty, but a strange, twisted curiosity. In him, maybe she would find the final piece of the puzzle, or maybe just another mirror, reflecting back the intricate, bittersweet legacy of the man whose souvenirs were lives he carelessly shaped.
Amidst the neatly stacked piles of unanswered pleas and fading love letters, a single envelope stood out. It was addressed to Mama with her formal titles, the ink in her father’s bold, familiar strokes. Adwoa hesitated, a sense of violation settling upon her. This felt different, a relic not meant for her eyes, and yet, it was here, nestled in history’s debris.
With trembling fingers, she broke the brittle seal. The date was etched into her mind – March 12th, 1978. It was weeks after his infamous collapse on the podium, the speech left unfinished, his grand narrative abruptly cut short. Inside, the words blurred at first, then sharpened into focus:
My Dearest Efua,
Perhaps it is foolish to write this, knowing what stands between us. But in these quiet hours, as my body betrays me, it is your face that haunts me. Yours, and the children. I built a world, Efua, a world I believed in. Some would call it greatness, others mere ambition. But as I sit here, with the silence pressing down, I realise greatness is hollow without its foundation. And you, my steadfast, stubborn Efua, you were my foundation.
I wronged you. Not with malice, but with a blindness I cannot excuse. I sought out my reflection in those brilliant women, a desperate attempt to validate my own restless mind. Yet, it is your quiet strength that now echoes with the most potent truth. Forgive me, if you can. Or simply know that in my final hours, it was your name on my lips, not the roaring of the crowd.
Your husband, always,
Kwame
Adwoa read the letter again, and again, trying to find a lie within the words, to feel the cool comfort of anger. He’d been selfish to the very end, his confession framed not as apology, but another grand pronouncement. Yet, a sliver of doubt lingered. Was it genuine remorse, or simply a dying man trying to tidy up his story, seeking some final absolution?
The truth, Adwoa realised, didn’t matter. His intention was unknowable, lost within the spaces of a heart that had stopped beating long ago. But the effect…the effect was undeniable. A lifetime of carefully cultivated resentment wavered. It didn’t excuse his sins, but it painted them in a new shade of grey, adding a layer of messy, human frailty to the myth of the man she’d spent her life trying to understand.
The next morning, Adwoa did something unprecedented. She drove to Mama’s quiet bungalow, the letter tucked into her purse like a live coal. Her mother, now bent and fragile with age, greeted her with surprise. In the stillness of that familiar living room, amidst the fading photographs and the too-quiet air, Adwoa simply placed the letter on the table.
Mama stared, brow furrowed. And then, after an eternity, she simply nodded, a single tear tracing a path down her weathered cheek. They didn’t speak of it, neither of them ever did. But in that one shared moment, amidst all the wreckage of the past, something shifted. Perhaps not forgiveness, perhaps not understanding, but a grudging acceptance of complexities. A testament to the fact that even the most fractured stories can have a warped sort of beauty, when pieced together amidst the echoes and the shadows.
In the years that followed, Adwoa would often remember that single tear, that unspoken exchange with her mother. It never led to a heart-to-heart, no unburdening of decades of pain. Mama wasn’t one for grand confessions, and Adwoa herself preferred the refuge of careful distance. Yet, there was a change, a softening of the brittle edges.
With the shared secret of his final letter hovering between them, some of the tension seemed to dissipate. They’d sit on the porch in a companionable silence, sipping tea while Adwoa’s own children frolicked in the garden. Mama would smile, a genuine, unguarded smile that Adwoa hadn’t witnessed in years. It was as if, at long last, they’d made a truce with the ghosts.
Adwoa found her own life mirroring some of those long-ago patterns, albeit with sharp twists born of her own stubborn will. She loved fiercely, but with hard-won boundaries. There were men, passionate and bright, but none who ever fully owned her. Her career took her across continents, a whirlwind to match his, but one she deliberately charted and controlled.
Her children were her anchors, their laughter a balm to the lingering ache. Sometimes, with her little girl on her lap, Adwoa would recount stories of Ghana, not of the politician and his grand speeches, but of the way the sunlight painted the bougainvillea a fierce pink, of the sweet-tangy bite of mangoes bought from the noisy market. It was her way of weaving a different kind of legacy, one rooted in the ordinary brilliance of a life her father had never truly seen.
The siblings – the ones she knew of, and the imagined others – became an odd source of comfort. She wondered about them: Kofi, the son of a woman with trembling hands; Ama with her ready laugh; Yaw, thin and defiant. Had they survived the complicated echo of their father’s life? Built empires of their own? Or did they, too, carry the weight of what might have been?
In her quieter moments, Adwoa imagined a grand gathering, a sprawling, chaotic family reunion. She’d stand at the edge of it all and watch her own children mingle with this tapestry of faces born of a single, ambitious man. Some, perhaps would resemble him, others their mothers, and all would carry his legacy in their blood and bones, for better or for worse.
It was a fantasy, of course, one destined to remain within the pages of her imagination. Their paths were too scattered, the wounds too deep for some. Yet, the thought of it made her smile a knowing smile. For amidst that strange assembly, they would finally understand the true meaning of their father’s ambition. His legacy lay not in the history books, not in the carefully crafted speeches, but in the lives he touched, shaped, sometimes broke, and ultimately brought into being. They were his souvenirs, his scattered, echoing poem. A poem, Adwoa thought, that she herself was still in the process of writing.
Time, that great eraser, continued to smooth some of the sharper edges. Mama passed away peacefully, surrounded by the grandchildren she’d adored. Adwoa returned to Ghana then, not as a visitor, but with a sense of tentative homecoming. Her father’s old home, once a place of shadows and complicated memories, felt simply old. Walls once vibrant with noise, now held a quiet melancholy.
It was there, in his dusty study, that a final surprise awaited. In a hidden drawer, Adwoa found a stack of letters – not the romantic sort, but a lifetime of political correspondence. Notes to foreign leaders, drafts of unfinished speeches, scathing critiques of rivals. Amidst the brittle pages was a single sheet of paper, her own name scribbled at the top: “Dearest Adwoa.”
He’d started a letter to her. No grand confession, no sweeping apologies. Yet, the simple address, the uncompleted lines, were more eloquent than any finished declaration ever could be. It was an acknowledgement, however late, that she wasn’t just fallout from his grand design, but a person worthy of seeing, of knowing, of loving in her own right.
And that night, sitting on the familiar porch under a sky filled with unfamiliar stars, Adwoa began to write her own letter. Not to him, that would be a futile conversation. It was, instead, a letter to her scattered siblings – to Kofi, to Ama, to the others she might never meet.
She spoke of shared memories: the scent of dust on a harmattan wind, the taste of roasted plantains, the echoing boom of her father’s voice. She shared not judgment, but a simple truth: their lives, for better or for worse, were woven together by a force beyond their control. And she extended an invitation, not for a tidy family reunion, but for connection, should they ever desire it.
With every word, the shadows seemed to lift. She found herself not just remembering, but creating a new narrative – one where the broken pieces were still sharp, but formed a mosaic of their own intricate beauty.
Dearest Siblings,
Perhaps these words will never reach you. Perhaps you'll stumble upon them by chance, or maybe they'll simply gather dust alongside all the other unfinished things he left behind. It doesn't truly matter, does it? The act of writing is for me, as much as it is for you.
I'm Adwoa, the eldest daughter, the one who spent the most time in the eye of the storm. I remember him, of course. It's a strange thing, to remember a father who belongs to a whole nation, a father who left his mark not just on us, but on this entire country. Remember the harmattan mornings, the dust so thick you could taste it, the way it clung to his suits as he left for another speech? That dust is in our blood, I think, a reminder that we are all made from the same earth.
Ama, if you're out there, do you still laugh like you did as a child? That open-mouthed, fearless laugh your mother said wouldn't last. It was how I always found you among the crowds... following the sound of joy to where you were. And Kofi, I wonder if your hands are clever like Esi's, if you learned to fix things or build them up from nothing, like she did. And the others, whose names remain shadows to me... what echoes do you carry of the man who brought you into being?
I won't lie. It hasn't been easy. There's a loneliness in being one of many, a strange ache for a father who could never truly be mine alone. But you know what I've learned? Our stories don't end with him. They branch out, twist in unexpected ways, become our own. I have children – two bright, stubborn things who look nothing like me or him, and yet, there are moments.... moments where I see a spark of his restless energy in their eyes.
I don't need you to forgive him. I don't even know if I have. But there's a strange space opening up, a space between anger and love, where maybe, just maybe, there's room for a complicated kind of understanding. Maybe we can build something from the wreckage, or at least find solace in the fact that we're not alone in it. Should you ever want to try, know that I am here. We won't rewrite the past, but perhaps, together, we can write a different kind of future.
Your sister, in a way only we can truly understand,
Adwoa
***
Adwoa never sent the letter, of course. Some truths are better left unvoiced, some connections destined to only exist within the spaces between words. It was enough that it existed. It was enough to fill in her own missing pieces, to redefine the spaces in between the legacy she’d been born into, and the life she’d fiercely carved out. In the act of laying bare her own complicated inheritance, she felt a lightness she hadn’t known in years. It was a strange sort of homecoming, not to a place, but to the tangled, bittersweet, and utterly unique truth of her own heart.
Her story, like her father’s, would always be messy and incomplete. But in the spaces between letters, in those silences she chose to fill, lay a quiet kind of power.
