When my brother gained admission to KNUST after his WASSCE results were released, we were over the moon. The first son was going to university and educate his way into a better future. The only problem was the fees.

My father did not have the money. It was something we all knew, but we chose to focus on the joy instead of the worry. A few days later, he went to a microfinance bank to apply for a loan. Every time he returned home without the money, our hearts sank a little more.

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By then, Level 100 students had started reporting to school, and the deadline for paying fees to secure admission was getting closer. My brother walked around the house like a ghost of himself. My mother kept encouraging us to pray.

“Have faith,” she would say. “Today your father will get the money and bring it home.”

Maybe our faith was too small, or maybe God was taking His time. On the very last day, my father was told that the person who needed to endorse the loan documents was unavailable. If he could get the forms signed at the regional headquarters, then the money would be released.

The headquarters was in another town, about three hours away.

My father travelled there, got the signature, and returned to the bank. While waiting, he became so hungry that he did not even have money to buy water. Luckily, my mother had prepared food. He had barely started eating when the manager called to tell him the money was ready.

So my father got up and went all the way back.

At home, my brother was restless, waiting for him.

I was very young then, but I still remember the moment my father came home with that money. I cried. My mother cried too. We hugged each other and thanked God because we finally had what we needed. My brother paid the fees, and somehow we found money here and there for the other things he needed before leaving.

What I remember most was the joy on my father’s face when my brother finally left for school. If you have ever come from a family that struggled financially and watched an older sibling gain admission to university, then you know that kind of joy. It was the same joy I saw in my father. I want to believe his cheeks were hurting from all the smiling.

There were the late nights coming home from work. There were the occasional visits to school just to check on how we were doing academically. There were the simple questions that carried so much love

“How are your academics going?”

“Do you need anything?”

“Come and sit by me. Let’s eat.”

Those little things meant everything.

My father loved me. He loved my mother. He loved his children. His love made home feel safe. His love taught me how I deserved to be loved. His love made it easy to come home.

That memory of my brother packing for university while my father moved heaven and earth to make it happen is still imprinted in my mind. Every Father’s Day, I see it again.

I see the little girl proudly telling everyone, “My brother is going to university.” What they did not hear was the other part of the story, the part where we had no idea how it was going to happen.

My father made it happen.

Even then, I knew that whatever dream I decided to chase, my father would do everything in his power to support me.

Today, my father is no more. He lives in my heart, but not in this world anymore. Still, I choose to celebrate him. He was a man whose love was impossible to miss. It was evident in the sacrifices he made, the distances he walked, the burdens he carried, and the countless ways he showed up for us every single day.

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I loved him then, and I love him now. I hope wherever he is, he is happy. Happy Father’s Day to my father in heaven.

How are you, my friend?

—Hope
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