7 partes Continúa They say a child who falls and rises again has strength the ground can never understand. I didn't know if I was rising or just pretending not to fall, but one thing was clear... the winds had changed. The first Monday after New Year's came in like a cock's crow before dawn: "The holiday is over. Tie your shoes of seriousness."
They also say the first 100 days of power reveal a leader's worth. For me, it wasn't in Parliament but in a dusty classroom, where your biggest manifesto was spelling your name right and answering without shame. Where applause came not from citizens but a teacher saying, "Good, Bekoe. Very good."
Yet my stammer was a curse, heavy as stone. My words came in broken waves. "Ma...Ma...Madam, pl-please...I f-forgot my b-book." I was mocked, pitied. And pity is worse than punishment. It silenced me.
One Harmattan morning, as Mom stirred groundnut soup, she sighed to her friend: "Ghana ayɛ den paa... nipa bɛyɛ biribiara de apɛ sika... even pastors are no longer safe. Politicians? They eat and leave us to suffer."
Then a radio cut in. 6th March. A grainy voice rose: "Ghana, our beloved country is free forever..." The words struck me. I whispered them again. And again. My mother turned, laughing, "Eei, woayɛ Kwame Nkrumah anaa?"
"Who is that?" I asked.
"Our first President," she said softly.
From then, those words became my seed. They were the only words I could say without stumbling. I said them to my pillow, my wall, even the goats.
One evening, I whispered nervously, "M-m-m-maa...I...I want to b-be...President one day."
She froze, then sighed: "Bekoe, don't joke with your life. Your stammer alone... who will vote for you? Be a soldier or policeman. You have the body."
It wasn't malice, it was love. That's what hurt most. Because when your mother doubts your dream, it begins to feel like a hallucination.
Still, I held on. Maybe courage. Maybe a cure. Maybe the day my voice would finally rise without fear.