My Mother’s Grief
My father was my rising sun; free, hopeful and generous. My father was the rock on which my feeble back leaned. He was the comfort in my heart, the joy of Sunday nights. He was what I looked forward to at dusk. When sickness came like an earthquake, shaking our world, my rock shook and shredded his edges, my rock grew weary and my back slouched. My infant mind did not know to cry because my rock taught me hope. He would usually say that the sun always finds a way to rise after cloudy days. He was light at the end of the dreaded awful tunnel, his light once lit my path till he was taken from me, then everything went dark. My once luminous world was replaced with a gloomy universe.
He was my first love—mine. He also had his first love—my mother.
My mother was intended to be what we’d describe today as a ‘rebound’, a ‘gift’ my grandfather promised my dad after he got his heart broken by one of the hot girls from Osu (a suburb in Accra)
Marriage was arranged. They had not met but my father took the pain to know this woman who was supposed to recuperate his soul. He would lurk around the corners of Labadi (a suburb in Accra) to stalk his supposed wife to be. She was a pretty young business woman, gracefully voluptuous, fair and wore a smile warm enough to melt a volcanic rock. She befitted her name;Rose. There was something about her that made him keep coming back every night to stalk. He fell in love at a distance with this alluring woman.
He already knew her before their engagement—she didn’t. She didn’t know who she was going to spend her life with but she let her budding curiosity comfort her. She was chaste. She didn’t know anybody and has not known anybody else since then. He was her first and still remains so.
Connecting The Dots 
Fascinating.
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