On the 9th day of September 1967, something happened in the Anlo land of Keta in the Volta Region of Ghana.
​
It was not an abnormal occurrence; it was not eventful, but it formed the foundation of what was to come.
​
The day passed without ceremony. The sea kept its rhythm, the breeze its calm. Even the elders sitting under the shade of the neem tree saw nothing unusual about the morning. Yet, hidden within that quietness, destiny moved - softly, silently.
​
When she finally saw him - the child she had carried through months of uncertainty - she did not rush to speak. She simply looked, as though her eyes were searching for a meaning beyond what she could see.
​
The midwife had said, “It’s a boy.” But to her, it was more than that. It was a promise. She whispered the name Dodzi - “Be courageous.”
​
It was not just a name; it was a prayer spoken into the wind. For she knew the world he was entering was not gentle, and the road ahead would demand more than strength - it would demand courage.
​
So she held him close, quietly, the way one guards a fragile hope. And though the day seemed ordinary, it carried a silent prophecy - that courage, born of simplicity, would one day shape a story worth telling.
​
The days that followed were simple, yet filled with meanings only time could reveal. Keta, with its endless stretch of sand and the whispering sea, became my first classroom. The tides taught rhythm; the wind taught patience; and life, though humble, taught gratitude.
​
My mother, Beatrice Yaba Bruce, moved through those days with quiet strength - not the kind that shouted, but the kind that endured. She was not rich, but she was resourceful. Every task was done with purpose, every word carried weight. She believed that life would not hand you ease, but it would reward those who faced it with courage - and perhaps that is why she named me Dodzi.
​
There were no grand speeches about resilience. She taught it by living it.
When storms flooded the footpaths, she waded through them with her head held high. When food was scarce, she smiled and said, “The sea never forgets those who wait.”
​
To me, Beatrice Yaba Bruce was not just a mother - she was the quiet echo of the name she had given. Through her, I learned that courage is not loud. It is often silent, steady, and seen only in those who keep walking when the road disappears.
​
And so began my story - not of comfort, but of conviction; not of plenty, but of purpose.
​
To be continued ………….
​
“Heroes Are Born Natural, And Are Often Times Not Appreciated By Their Contemporaries. Nonetheless, Posterity Always Collects The Stones Hurled At Them To Build Monuments In Their Honour.” (Source: Raymond Tettevi Snr)
