Fathers don’t retire
The day obedience trumped celebration "Kwaame, sɔre kɔ sew nkrantee no. Yɛrɛkɔ afum anɔpa yi."
["Kwame, get up and sharpen the cutlasses. We are going to the farm this morning."]
That was my father many years ago. The memory still stings – not just because I had to miss a special event that day, but because of what it came to mean.
It was the Saturday after I had completed Junior Secondary School.
My mates and I had planned to meet at school for commemorative photos.
But I never made it. If Eben and Thomas ever get to read this, they would be transported back to those days and recall my pain.
When Papa called, that call trumped all the others.
As painful as it was, that moment captured the spirit of my upbringing – a life shaped by sacrifice, obedience and presence.
On this Father’s Day, I honour my father, Francis Kwabena Bekoe, affectionately known as Paa Bekoe and all fathers whose silent labours have built resilient sons.
The pension baby and the tireless craftsman
I was a so-called “pension baby.” By the time I was old enough to remember him, Papa had retired from his job as a carpenter with the Public Works Department (PWD) in Koforidua.
But retirement didn’t mean rest. He worked with private contractors, made furniture at home, and of course, farmed.
In all these spaces, I was his apprentice – learning not just skills but character.
Lessons among elders and markets
One site I remember vividly was the All Nations University Campus. It was there my fear of heights vanished, and I first ate lunch with elders, bringing to life the Akan proverb: “Wo nim wo nsa hohoro a, wo ne mpanyin didi” – “If your hands are clean, you eat with elders.”
Whether at the construction site or at home making chairs, Papa taught me to honour labour.
After assembling furniture, I would carry it to Koforidua’s major markets—Dwa Kɛsiɛ mu, Kwasia Dwaso, Agatha Market – to sell. Those trips trained not just my muscles but my mind.
The farm: Papa’s open-air classroom
But it was on the farm that Papa truly preached. Our most intimate moments were there, especially when only the two of us went.
Whenever we visited the village—the famous Asuoyaa – I had the privilege of drawing from the wisdom of Papa Atiemo, Paa Bekoe and Papa Adi (now nearing a century old).
Papa Asa and Papa Atta would also share their insights whenever I was sent to them in Koforidua or when they visited Paa Bekoe.
As young as I was, the chance to mingle with my fathers blessed me profoundly.
One word sums up their lives: resilience. From Akropong to Adidiso, Nankese, Asante Akyem (Supataso, now Boatengkurom), Aborɔdeɛm near Koforidua, to Asuoyaa, and finally Koforidua—these journeys were marked by sweat, toil and blood in the pursuit of livelihoods.
Of ants, angles, and hollow trees
We would wake at dawn, sharpen our cutlasses, fill water gallons, pack our sacks, and set off—often trekking from Tei Nkwanta to Asuoyaa. Papa always led the way through the bush path.
If he suddenly paused, we knew he’d spotted a snake.
Rainy nights made the trek harder.
We contended with huasu (wet vegetation one had to wade through), nsasono (itchy plants) and columns of aggressive nkran (driver ants). If you stepped on them, you got stung.
And if you panicked, Papa would calmly say: “Wɔngyina nkran mu ntutu nkran” – “Don’t try to remove ants while still standing among them.”
A lesson in crisis management, if ever there was one.
He used everything on the farm to teach: the correct angle to hold a cutlass (60°, not 90°), how to clear a field methodically, and, most importantly, how to handle overwhelming tasks.
Once, when given a large section to clear, I froze.
Papa came over and said: “Wɔsoma wo Odupɔn tow a, tow; na ebia na tokuro da mu.” – “If you’re asked to fell a big tree, fell it.
For all you know, it may be hollow.” His point: Don’t fear big challenges.
Just begin. You may find the task easier than you imagined.
I took his advice. One weed at a time, one shrub at a time – and I finished.
Brothers and inventors: my early mentors
My home life was equally enriching.
My elder brothers – Emmanuel Asa Bekoe (Zantodas or Todas) and Samuel Kwaku Bekoe Kissiedu (General DeGaulle) – were my early mentors. Zantodas was a genius.
In Koforidua, he was the go-to person for mechanical innovation. He designed wooden bicycles, repaired gas and kerosene stoves and taught me how to cut and mould burners.
General DeGaulle, though physically challenged from a childhood illness, ran one of the most respected private schools in the region – “Abafan” School. From secondary school, I assisted him in teaching – young and old alike.
Today, I know he would have been celebrated in the MTN Heroes of Change.
I was richly blessed.
Cousins, community and collective influence
I had plenty of positive stimulation in childhood. My cousins – Bros Kwaku, Kwame and Kwabena Kissiedu, Matochi, Asa Kofi, Kwapong, Akuffo – and nephews Bro Yaw and Kwame Koranteng remain a formidable presence in my life.
When the barber became the groomer
Like many boys of my generation, our fathers were our barbers.
So, it wasn't unusual to have my father as my barber. What made it special was the reciprocity that developed – I grew old enough to be my father's barber.
A prophetic dream and a final farewell
As a proud Ɔdehye, I cherished the days Paa Bekoe would climb Nyaadabi Hills to visit me at Okuapemman School.
I had returned to school from my first-term vacation in Upper Six. Paa Bekoe was well.
Then one Sunday dawn, I dreamed he had died in Koforidua.
I wept uncontrollably in the dream.
When I awoke, my pillow was soaked with tears.
I informed some dorm mates and went about my day.
On Tuesday, on my way to the library, I met an indigene who worked in the kitchen. Upon seeing me, she exclaimed, “Due, due, due.”
The chagrin on my face told her I hadn’t heard of my father’s passing.
She backtracked quickly, saying, “Anaa ɛnyɛ wo?”
Suddenly, the dream clicked. I sought permission and went to Asɔredan ho.
My grandmother was not there; she had travelled to Koforidua.
Those in the house realised I had heard the news and were compelled to confirm it.
I returned to school emotionally distraught.
Days passed and I attended Paa Bekoe's funeral.
Seeing him lying in state triggered me deeply. As his barber, I knew he would have called for a haircut had I been in Koforidua! I cried.
And that was the last time I saw Paa Bekoe physically.
Yet, as our elders say, “Onipa wu na ne tɛkrɛma mmporɔw” – “A person may die, but their words live on.”
Paa Bekoe’s words echo in my life every day. Still, there are questions I now have – questions only he could answer.
Rich in presence, not in possessions
What my parents lacked in material wealth, they made up for with deep emotional presence.
There were no lavish birthday parties or expensive gifts. But the warmth I felt – especially in the early dawns, tucked into Papa’s big cloth – was priceless.
Their presence gave me what psychologists call a “secure base” – the emotional foundation to thrive.
Even walking barefoot to school from Oguaa to Ada never felt like a lack. I lacked nothing essential.
My childhood, under Papa’s roof, was a material wilderness but an emotional fortress.
Legacy of fatherhood: presence over presents
As a father myself now, I draw daily from Papa’s wisdom – his words, his strength, his steadfast love.
He fathered by being present, by teaching, by working alongside me, and by trusting me with responsibility.
This Father’s Day, as we celebrate fathers, let us remember that the cost of fatherhood is not measured in school fees or gifts.
It is measured in the time, wisdom and example fathers give to shape the next generation.
* The writer is the Head of the Department of Psychology and Social Work at Methodist University Ghana.
He is a licensed clinical psychologist with expertise in trauma. He writes on fatherhood, culture and personal development.
