Witnessing the journey of self

My life began like many others, guided by a map I didn't create, spending half of it retracing its folds as if never having opened it to a world beyond my own. Elsewhere, a seductive liar, flirts with the heart in countless languages, promising sweeter coconuts on distant trees, deeper wells in strangers' yards, and truer songs sung far from home. For years, I quenched my thirst with this lie, viewing my ambition as the measure of my journey.

One day, an elderly Ewe woman from Newtown's edge imparted wisdom: the lagoon does not abandon its home to seek water, it merely remembers where the sea already is. It took time for me to grasp this concept, but now I understand its profound truth. In moments of grief, like the flooding of Accra, one realizes the wisdom of allowing the lagoon to remember its sea.

There lies a timeless wisdom, passed from hand to hand like warm bread from an oven unknown to many. This saying, that the wound is where light enters, has been a constant companion, offering warmth and sometimes its sting. My grandmother's proverbs often echoed this sentiment: God does not close a door without leaving His hand on the frame – the same door, same hand, different words speaking the same mercy.

Some cities disappear, existing only in the pronunciation of names. Like forgotten Keta, submerged beneath the waves. Yet, these lost homelands are not mere stones or papers – they are the ache of words that still taste of home, regardless of where the kitchen burned or moved.

Exile is not always a border crossed but can be found at an empty table. Grief, when unburdened, becomes a lagoon finding its sea, deserving space to arrive, like an elder from Anyako who taught dignity not through lectures, but by example. He carried his losses like trees bear scars of lightning, not as shame but as a biography etched in bark.

True sophistication lies in knowing when to speak and when to listen, when to break or keep silences. The griots' words remind us that the axe forgets, but the tree remembers. My journey has taught me the value of being remembered for one's actions, not merely the words spoken.

Labour holds its own scripture, as seen in the fishermen of Anyako, mending nets passed down through generations without complaint. Their faith is disciplined, planting seeds knowing the rain may not come, yet they plant because the act itself is an answer. Love, too, is a quiet, patient force, spending itself to illuminate the path ahead.

The Japanese teach that a broken bowl, mended with gold, becomes ornamental. I have learned to see my own cracks not as scars, but as ornaments, shaping the vessel of my life. To the young me, I would say: do not equate your worth with the opinions of rooms you will leave behind. Walk towards what strengthens you and let the rest fall into place, like birds on a wire, not by decree, but by nature's order.

Forgive those who wounded you, not out of obligation, but because resentment's chains grow heavier with each year. The lagoon teaches that the water that drowns can also carry us home – do not flee what teaches, but embrace the journey, even as a swimmer angles across a current, letting the water aid in our arrival. Finally, cherish your people, not the notion of them, for their essence is far more profound than any polished image can capture.