At all times a very particular gentleman, my unfettered admiration for you in childhood grew into a mature respect for your hard work and disciplined pursuit of excellence in academia, music, and in the refinement of your character. They tell me you escaped a close shave with death once before I was born. You certainly did once again in the past decade, so your life was blessed with both challenges and successes. You did many things, most of them super well. We would have loved to hear more stories, but regretfully each man has finite time and energy on this earth.

Your love for us was shown in sharing your own passions. What I have learned from you in the value of checking things (“check” must have been one of earliest words I learned), paying attention to detail, and opening one’s eyes to the beauty and organization of nature will live with me forever. This includes the love of music, which I have now passed on to my sons. Another word I learned early was “titrate”, in association with unavoidable rest stops on long family rides. The true use of the word only came to me in secondary school chemistry. The discipline of daily habits like reading and practicing one’s chosen musical instrument or subject, and the sure reward of these over time were pressed on me. You taught me that any smooth execution came with careful and attentive preparation.

You would take me to grown-up events, including concerts, plays, snacks at Legon Hall, and parties at the Vice Chancellor’s lodge, among others. I learned to enjoy stimulating and intellectual conversation and logical discourse, as well as good jokes, in the company of your many friends of similar bent. You encouraged me to think for myself and to not be intimidated by authority, or swayed with general opinions; to be fair and follow rules, but to allow some room for compassion. You also encouraged—no—exhorted us to strive to do well, and to not accept mediocrity and excuses.

Some of my early memories are of tracking the path of ants on the veranda with you, and putting out a few crystals of sugar to watch their response. You would point out interesting plants and flowers, the names of which I could never remember, on our many trips to the botanical gardens. You shared your concern for our duty to the environment, most of which I dismissed, only realizing how serious you were when I found you one day questioning a poor boy obviously tasked by a parent to collect “nyina”. You were asking him to tell you what he expected would happen after all the trees had been cut down. You took an interest in me and all my friends, knowing their names, families, and pursuits.

A story I remember clearly from childhood was when I was on admission in the hospital and woke up shivering one night around what I thought was 2:00 AM. I looked around and, not finding anyone, made a phone call to the house and asked you to bring me a blanket. You promptly arrived with the blanket in hand. I can only apologize to the nurses who I am sure got in trouble that night.

You would visit me many times in secondary school, sometimes even when the previous visit was only two days before. There came a time when even my dorm mates could recognize the sound of your car coming to the back of Block D. Your gifts to me were not the usual father daughter ones. I still remember the camera I received in Form 2 fondly, as well as a Swiss army knife later, after I had admired the one you always kept handy for years.

You would buy me a book whenever I expressed the least interest in a subject. I can still see my books on flower arrangement and lateral thinking. I learned to stop talking about a new interest, and came to dread these books partly because you would then ask questions, expecting me to have read them fully in short order. Legon bookshop has lost a regular visitor, whose buying habits were curbed as economic circumstances turned him from buyer to browser.

You leave us myriad good examples to follow, and you did very well as a father. Daddy, by any means, you lived life to the fullest; freed of this limited body, I pray your spirit will soar in the next.

Efua