By Togbe Dr. (Hon.) Reuben Hadzide
A picture I saw today stopped me in my tracks; four children, each trying and failing to touch the ear on the opposite side of their head. Playful. Innocent. Profound. In an instant, the scene pulled me back to Afuaman, barefoot and wide-eyed, on the very first day I ever set foot in school.
The memory poured in like morning rain on a tin roof. That day had begun with a bath, my mother scrubbing me with a mix of care, hope, and gentle urgency. I wore new shorts and a starched shirt that smelled like possibility. In my hand was a small wooden stool, my personal seat for the day. I wasn’t alone; a procession of neighborhood children, stools in hand, walked together toward our village school, a simple structure with a thatched roof and no walls. It stood open to the world, a promise waiting to be fulfilled.
My father, Afuaman’s first registered distiller of Akpeteshie, was already a legend. He brewed long before the colonial ban was lifted, working in quiet defiance. His registration papers were sacred relics in our home. He displayed them often, reminding us that every distiller who came after him had learned under his name and license. Teachers visited our house frequently, not for academic help, but for a sip of his famous craft. In many ways, my father’s distillery was the village’s unofficial staff common room.
But that morning, I wasn’t the son of a renowned distiller. I was simply a boy with a stool, a dream, and nerves tied into knots.
When I reached the school, the morning assembly was nearly over. Pupils from Classes One to Six marched in rhythm to a song I can no longer recall. I joined Class One just as Mr. Williams Kuegbesika, our teacher, called me forward. He pointed to my stool. I placed it down. Then came the test.
“Touch your left ear with your right hand,” he said.
I tried. I failed. My arms were too short, my body too small. But I didn’t stop. I bent my arm behind my head, twisted slightly, and managed, barely, to graze the top of my ear. Mr. Kuegbesika smiled.
“If you’re clever enough to figure that out,” he said, “you’re ready for school.”
And just like that, I was admitted.
Others were not so fortunate. Many were sent home, their arms too short, their ingenuity not yet awakened. That simple ear test was the gatekeeper to education, a rite of passage disguised as a stretch.
But the day’s lessons didn’t end at school.
After class, I returned home to a habit I had held onto far longer than children typically do: suckling at my mother’s breast. It was my private comfort, a ritual of closeness I refused to abandon. That afternoon, as I nestled beside her, my uncle Kwakutse walked by. He paused, stared, and delivered a few firm slaps to my buttocks. That was the end of it. The habit vanished in an instant, like smoke swallowed by harmattan wind.
Only years later did I understand why I had held on so tightly.
After my birth, my mother suffered severe bleeding and infection. She was carried from Afuaman through bush paths to Weija, and from there to Korle Bu. For three months, she could not breastfeed me. I survived on a humble porridge of corn, sugar, and milk, simple nourishment that kept my body alive but left an emotional void only closeness could later fill.
Perhaps that early absence created my attachment. Perhaps the breast was not merely food, but memory, healing, and the bond I missed during my most fragile days.
So when I saw that picture today, children stretching their arms to prove readiness for school, it reminded me not only of my clever reach, but of the tenderness that shaped me. The journey from porridge to stool, from a slap of tough love to a school desk, from bush path to blackboard.
To whoever captured that photo, you did more than freeze a moment. You unlocked a story, one my children will now inherit. Not just the tale of how I started school, but how I started life. How resilience, ritual, love, and a bit of ingenuity carved my path.
Let this be a reminder; every child carries a story. Some begin with the stretch of an arm. Others begin with a slap of love. All deserve to be told.
This is mine.
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