There is a proverb among our elders: “The river that forgets its source will soon run dry.”
Today, as I stand in a place in life I once only imagined beneath the wide skies of my childhood, I remember my source. I remember the red earth of Binaba. I remember the dust that clung to my feet as a young boy chasing cattle across endless fields. I remember the songs of the wind, the crackling of dry grass under hooves, and the quiet conversations I held with my dreams when no one else could hear them.
My journey did not begin in lecture halls or libraries. It began in the grazing fields, where the sun was my clock and the earth my companion. As a cow shepherd, I learned patience from the slow movement of cattle, endurance from the harsh seasons, and responsibility from knowing that what was entrusted to me depended on my vigilance. I did not know then that those fields were preparing me for life’s greater journeys.
Education itself was a test of mind, body, and spirit. From primary school through Junior High, I trekked five to ten miles daily just to sit in a classroom. I walked dusty footpaths during the dry season and waded through muddy trails in the rains. Some mornings began before sunrise, and many evenings ended with tired feet dragging home under fading light.
Often, birdsong, rustling leaves, and whispered prayers were my only companions, as I hoped the effort would one day bear fruit.
Our schools, like many in underserved communities, had few teachers, scarce textbooks, and limited guidance. Lessons were often left untaught. Yet, scarcity became the birthplace of my determination. When teachers were absent, curiosity became my instructor.
When textbooks were insufficient, self-belief became my library. I learned early that sometimes the greatest teacher is the refusal to surrender to circumstance.
I remember returning from long school walks to assist my parents on the farm, only to study later under dim lantern light. Exhaustion battled ambition, and understanding a single concept often felt like climbing a mountain. But as our elders say, “No matter how long the night, the day will surely break.” I held firmly to that belief, trusting that perseverance would one day translate into purpose.
In Binaba, life is measured not by wealth but by resilience. My parents, humble peasant farmers, are the true authors of my story. Their hands, roughened by farm tools and seasons of toil, wrote chapters of sacrifice long before I could read or write my own name.
They planted seeds in the soil, but more importantly, they planted belief in my heart. Even on days when harvests were uncertain, their faith in my education never wavered. Like the baobab tree that stands firm through storms, they stood tall so I could see beyond our horizon.
Our elders remind us: “No matter how tall the tree grows, its roots remain in the ground.” My roots remain in Binaba — in the laughter of children playing in dusty compounds, in the communal spirit of neighbours who share even when they have little, and in the wisdom of elders who teach that true wealth is character.
The road from grazing fields to earning a PhD at Ghana’s premier university was not paved with ease. It was a journey walked with blistered feet and a trembling heart at times. Nights of hunger competed with ambition, doubt whispered louder than hope, and crossroads tempted surrender. But each time I felt weak, I remembered my parents bent over their farms under the unforgiving sun. Quitting would mean abandoning not just my dreams, but their sacrifices.
Through determination and self-belief, the boy who once struggled to access basic teaching found himself pursuing higher education across three universities. Alongside these academic pursuits, I trained and qualified through two professional bodies, sharpening my expertise and broadening my capacity to contribute meaningfully to society. These achievements were not born of convenience but of disciplined effort, self-study, and faith in the unseen rewards of hard work.
Through grace, perseverance, and the blessings of those who lifted me along the way, I found myself seated in lecture halls as a student, and later standing in those same halls as a teacher. I have contributed to knowledge through research, shared wisdom at renowned institutions beyond our borders, and offered my voice in shaping decisions at the highest levels in Ghana. Yet, every accolade feels like a calabash filled by many hands — family, mentors, community, and divine favour.
To my beloved parents in Binaba, you are the unsung heroes of this journey. Your sweat watered my dreams. Your hunger fed my future. Your prayers became the wind beneath my wings. Though you never stepped into a university classroom, your lessons guide me more than any textbook ever could. Every certificate that bears my name carries your fingerprints and the fragrance of our village soil.
My life stands as a story for every child who walks miles to school on tired feet, for every student who studies without enough teachers or books, for every shepherd who gazes at the horizon, wondering if tomorrow can be kinder, and for every dreamer told their background defines their limits. The moon does not ask permission from darkness before it shines. Neither should anyone allow humble beginnings to dim their light.
Today, I remain a shepherd — only my herd has changed. I shepherd knowledge. I shepherd young minds. I shepherd hope for generations yet unborn. And wherever I travel across the world, I carry Binaba in my heart like a sacred drum whose rhythm reminds me who I am and where I come from.
May my story remind us all that greatness does not only shout from palaces. Sometimes, it whispers from grazing fields, rises from villages, and blooms from the quiet sacrifices of parents whose love speaks louder than words.
