On January 24, 1998, exactly twenty years ago, my sister, Efua Annan, died. Efua was my closest friend, my confidante, we shared a common goodness, and we lived a very short life, after which she passed.
Efua was such a proud sister; she had always paraded herself as the sister of the first and the only university student in the village, taking all the salutes associated with that pride. She was the Badu (the tenth child) of our mother’s 12 children, and I was the 12th born. The eleventh child, Efua Kyikyibi, had died before her 2nd birthday. So Efua and I had become soul mates, sharing nearly everything together; we ate together, we slept on the same bed, she cooked while sending me on errands, we hunted for ataaba, mangoes, alakatewu, we were chased by dogs, she counted on me to ward off the boys in the village, and in some instances, we engaged in farting competitions. Efua and I lived like twins, although there was a wide age difference between us.
We ended up being separated, in the course of time. She was married off at about 14, and sent to a village far away from Winneba, while I was sent to the Lake, effectively snatching our childhood from us, with Efua enduring marriage while I endured work.
Within ten years, Efua had given birth to six children. Her first born, Kow, died before he was one. The second born, Kofi, survived. The third born, Kwesi, died before he was one. The fourth born, Kwesi Kyikyibi, survived. She gave birth to her fifth born, Abena, who died before she was one, and finally gave birth to her sixth child, Abena Kyikyibi, who survived.
After Abena Kyikyibi was born, I wrote a letter to Efua, warning her, that I was uncomfortable with the pattern of her children’s survival and deaths. I went on to predict that if she did not take precaution, the seventh death could happen to herself.
I arrived from school on January 19, and by 6am the next day, Efua and I had joined the rest of the siblings, to discuss preparations towards the funeral and burial costs of Efua Odobirba, our mother (did you get that one?). The woman was not dead yet, yet, we were summoned by the family to discuss monetary contributions towards her funeral and burial rites, in anticipation of her death…
Anyway, we were the youngest, so we were supposed to keep quiet. After the meeting, Efua and I took the children to the beach, where we used to plug coconuts together, when we lived together. I climbed a couple of coconut trees, and plugged many, to the excitement of the children. Kofi and Kwesi will run after the rolling coconuts, as Abena kept gathering those already under the trees.
By 7pm, Efua and all of the three children, were in my room. While Kofi was looking through my books, Kwesi was just jumping in and out of the window, as Abena kept murmuring saliva on everyone. Efua and I opened our entire lives up for that evening’s conversation. I knew she did not like what she was going through, and I had been privy to many of them, but that day she told me stories that made me wish I could go out there and smash the hell out of a certain idiot.
As we kept the conversation unformatted, one theme that run through Efua’s version was her gift to me; her children. She kept on emphasizing, and re-emphasizing, that she had brought her children to the world as a gift to me, and that I should do whatever I wanted to do with them. If I wanted them to go to school, I should let them go, if I did not want them to go to school, that one too would be fine. The important thing is that I should know that she had given me the full authority to take whatever decision I wish to take, regarding her children.
The next day, Wednesday, January 21st, I woke up to Efua’s complain of headache, but she had been given a local medicinal root, peteku, to chew. After the initial exchanges, I dashed to Woarabeba, a small fishing village, for fishing. I came back late in the night, but Efua and I stayed on to cook the fish I brought, after which I gave her all the money I had from the day’s fishing work.
The next day, Efua’s situation seemed worsening. My brothers had therefore decided to take her to a local prophetess for spiritual protection and healing. I protested that at least, she should be sent to the hospital first, for diagnosis, but as it were, I was too young to have a voice.
The fourth day, Friday January 23rd, I visited Efua at the spiritual center, probably ten times, from morning to the evening, for I had a disturbed spirit. I saw my sister strong, but fading rapidly. During my last visit to her, I had a confrontation with my brothers, warning that if they did not send Efua to the hospital, and anything happened to her, none of them would know peace.
But they subsequently had an assurance from the prophetess that everything was fine, and that there were worse situations that were healed, insisting that she was not going to release her until she was totally healed.
The spiritual center was about 500 meters away from our home. The next morning, Saturday January 24th, as I rushed to enter the compound of the spiritual center, I saw this prophetess, standing under the mango tree, with my sister seated on the ground, nearly pinned between the prophetess’ legs, with my sister soaked in water, with her mouth wide opened, eyes not properly closed, neck hanging towards her thighs, two hands stuck in the prophetess’ palms. As the Prophetess attempts to move away from her, Efua seemed to be falling to the ground.
At that time taxis were not common in the village, so about half of the village members had rushed to Winneba main town, in search of a taxi to rush Efua to the government Hospital, which was about one kilometer away from Sankor, our village.
I rushed to town, in fruitless search of taxi.
As I ran, from Sankor, to the hospital, shouting Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus for 45 minutes that I run to the hospital, it was all about the shout of Jesus, Jesus. I had to pass by the back of the hospital, before being able to enter the emergency. Just when I passed by the entrance of the mortuary, I saw my sister, Efua, wrapped with her own cloth, ABCD (that was the name of the cloth), green and yellow, lying on the coroner’s stretcher, as she was wheeled into the cold mortuary, my Angel, the end had come, it was no longer a confusion, it had actually happened.
I don’t have enough space, I don’t have enough energy, to write the rest. But today is exactly 20 years, I have lived every single day reminded of Efua; the life we shared, the sister that she was, and our common hope, all took flight in a flash. All the joy of living to see an educated brother, all of that was gone, living your children, Kofi (barely nine years), Kwesi (barely four years), and Abena (barely one year), without any memories of you.
Today I am not sure if I should say I am celebrating you, or I am mourning. Our mother, Efua Odobirba, died exactly two months after you had died. Your son, Kwesi, struggled a bit, through school, to complete secondary school a couple of years ago. Abena, your youngest is in the University of Ghana currently. Kofi is done with his Masters degree. Efua, I am proud that I stood in for you.
James Kofi Annan