Adventures Of Growing Up As A Child In Ghana, “Sending Be What”

3 min

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Reflecting on life throws a vivid picture of my childhood days in Ghana. The adventures that sidelined growing up in Ghana are so entrenched in my minds that I can never forget them.  In fact, I miss being a child in Ghana and this makes me wonder if others do have their childhood adventures and experiences so well engraved in their minds too.

Do not get me wrong, it was hectically difficult growing up as a young boy in Ghana, but the experience was so good that I will never regret it. I certainly know most of our readers on GhanaCelebrities.Com had different childhood experiences, grew up at different parts of Ghana or in different countries but it would be grippingly amazing if we can all share our little unforgettable childhood experiences.

A common thing almost every Ghanaian parent has is the edge to give his or her child some sort of quality education. My mother was fanatical on this and my teachers did worsen the burden by bombarding my mates and I with countless home works.

Since I am talking about the fundamental of my today (education), I would try to chip in the various unforgettable experiences during my childhood educational days which we might all have experienced. I hated home works and I know most of my friends did too. I wouldn’t be surprise if you hated those home works as child.

The most annoying aspect of these home works is the fact that every subject teacher gave one out and some times, you can be burdened with about 4 different home works, all due for assessment the next day. (And this is when one is just at the primary school…)

As much as I hated home works and the teachers who gave them out most, these were not in isolation. I also hated Sunday evenings. The mere thought of Monday being at the corner, meaning I would have to go to school for another 5 days was enough to depress and give me sleepless nights.

Even if I was tired on Sunday nights and wanted to sleep, the early Monday morning English Dictation class (…something like spelling galore..) followed by “Maths-Mental” where you were randomly asked 2×6, 4×9 and others were enough to keep me up all night. Ah! Indeed, I hated Sunday nights.

As unstoppable as its coming is, Mondays always came and went, no matter how much I hated them. They were full of sorrows and caused depressions upon depressions to my life such that I developed thick skin to the winds Mondays blew. Anytime I couldn’t spell a word like “Umbrella”, “Hippopotamus” or “Xylophone”, I was given 4 strong lashes at my back.( …No wonder my Gf thinks I have a rough behind even though I have never been to jail before…)

It wasn’t always bad at primary school; some beautiful times I always looked up to and even wished I could push the clock’s hand forward to such days need not to be left out. Do you remember “Our Days”, these are the days I enjoyed most. My mum who is the best chef I have ever known always hooked me up with some delicious rice & stew, enriched it up with some salad and talia (local spagehtti) alongside my Fanta, Pepsi , Coke or Malt (..I had a choice you )

When these days came, smiles were always on my face. With my food, drink and digestive biscuit packed in a basket, I would make my way to school. Remember this is my food, cooked by my own mother and yet the wife of my school’s Proprietor would hijack all our food till 12 noon.  As our tongues engorged in our saliva mouths, ready to fast eat our food, the area boys would also be on standby ready to parasite or beg.

At around 12 noon, the hijacked food would be granted Amnesty by Her Imperial Majesty, Madam Proprietor’s wife but it cannot be eaten. My teacher will shout out “Class Stand, eyes close, the Lords prayer…”

As we recite the Lords prayer wrongly since we never knew the right words, my teacher would be moving from table to table with the biggest plate and spoon I have ever seen in my life taking bits of everyone’s food, catching up on our eggs and meat. (Geez! It hurts!)

Let me throw out a bit of light on life outside schooling hours. I was born on Tuesday and as such the name is Kwabena, if I am lucky some will call me Kobi and the old ones who claim to have come to the hospital when I was born will give out Kwabena Agyapong. (Digging out all the hidden names)

Every micro second of my life out of school was about “Sending”( Asoma soma nkoaa). Kwabena, go and buy me Maggie cube when the person just came from the market. On my way back after securing the item sent for, the next house neighbour knowingly how scorching the sun is out there and knowing that I am just coming back from the shop would also give me another send.( Kwabena, get this money and go buy me some milk if not charcoal from the charcoal seller, the woman who had some weirdo dogs in her house)

“Sending be what”, my slippers (charley watey) never lasted long, my feet was always dusty and legs were always tired from all the sending-ranging from going to buy bulbs to calling area girls for area boys. I was literally the hood freelance messenger. Neighbours were sending me on errands; Uncles were doing it and “Grannys” were also doing it.

Basically, everyone older than me had the prerogative to use my services. Oh! Growing up in Ghana was adventurous, perplexing and loving but the sending was too much… What was your experience?



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Chris-Vincent Agyapong Febiri, Esq
I am Chris-Vincent Agyapong Febiri, a Lawyer, a Thinker, a Minimalist, a Writer, and something like a Legal Polymath based in the United Kingdom.