Why Some People Can Never Be Forgotten

In the past few weeks, a lady I knew as Susanna Frempomaa, and who later became better known as Mrs Appiah-Pippim, (“Auntie Suzie”) has been snatched from her family and friends.

To many of us, she will always be remembered as “Adwoa Ante” – the pet name given to her in her childhood.

That name was appropriate because she commanded respect from a very early age. (“Ante”, which is a corruption of the English “Auntie”, is an appellation denoting great affection, usually “awarded” to baby girls whose parents secretly expect them to go far. For instance, one of my sisters was called “Ante” Akosua as a child. And true enough, she has risen quite high in our society.)

Adwoa Ante's parents must have given her that name primarily because she was so good-looking. She was very dark in colour, and she had an open, wide face that made her look as if she was perpetually smiling. When she opened her mouth, she displayed a set of white, even teeth that made it easy for her to smile and laugh.

I met her when when she had just reached the most beautiful year in the lives of many girls – fifteen. I had just enrolled at Kyebi Government School as a standard five boy. Before I got to the class, she was the brightest kid in it – a girl who topped her class! This unusual position gave her a status that was acknowledged by everyone.

I took that position from her, but she didn't hold it against me. Instead we formed an uneasy mutual admiration society. But we never got close, because such rivalries always harbour the seeds of resentment, albeit sub-consciously.

Everyone wondered how such a pretty girl could also be so brainy. She was indeed “twice blest”, as Shakespeare put it. (By the way “The Quality of Mercy” was one of the poems taught to us – from Shakespeare's The Merchant Of Venice – by our literature-loving Standard Six teacher, Mr Kofi Awuah Peasah.)

Had you heard Frempomaa reciting that poem (as I did) you would have appreciated the brilliance in her that astonished everyone she met. Her other favourite poem was “I vow to thee, my country”

Did I say she was “twice blest”? I should have said “thrice blest”. For she was also endowed with a great soprano voice, which, at singing lessons conducted by our music enthusiast of a Principal Teacher, Master Dadzie, always led the rest of the treble section.

These singing classes were a great bore to me, for Master Dadzie had the disconcerting habit of not writing the lyrics on the blackboard for us to learn! He assumed that people knew the lyrics because the songs were so popular. But I had gone to Kyebi Government School from a Presbyterian School, where the hymns taught to us were different from those of the Wesley/Anglican denominations that Master Dadzie used.

However, I got a huge bonus from the singing classes: I could hear Frempomaa sing from close quarters. I remember one particular song that she sang very well: it began with “Early one morning” and went on to recount the story of how a “poor maiden” called “Mary” had been heard singing in “the valley below”, pleading with her run-away lover not to treat her so badly:

“Early one morning, just as the sun was rising,

I heard a maid sing in the valley below:
"Oh, don't deceive me, oh, never leave me!

How could you use a poor maiden so?"...
"Remember the vows that you made to your Mary,

Remember the vows to be true?
Oh, don't deceive me, oh, never leave me.

How could you use a poor maiden so!"...
I confess that I often fancied myself as the man “Mary” was singing to, and Frempomaa as – “Mary”! Meanwhile, I would stealthily be staring at her beautiful, developing bosom, from close quarters, while listening to her sing like a nightingale!) In fact, I tried to send her “telepathic messages”, assuring her not to worry and that I, unlike Mary's unfaithful man, would never “deceive” or “leave” her!

However, because she and I competed as “rivals” for the top position in our class, I never actually made a pass at her in the three years we studied together. But she may well have suspected something, in the way women do!

She came from a very good family; I knew some of her folks – especially 'Tailor Akyem' and his brother Yaw Henry. These were very kind people, who allowed me freely to use the pressing iron in their tailoring shop to sharpen the look of my khaki shorts before I went back to school each afternoon, after lunch. (I was taught this dandy's habit by the greatest dandy in our age group at the time – a very handsome bloke called Sydney (also known as Kwame Atta Ofori.) Sydney, we were told, had “mistresses” who were older than him and who were, sometimes, very rich! He invariably called them, “Mother”!

When we left school, I never met Frempomaa again, although I followed the news about her and learnt that she had married a man called Appiah-Pippim, whom she sadly lost later. By an amazing coincidence, I regained contact with a fellow class-mate, Kwasi Frempong, about two months ago, after many years.

While talking to him, he mentioned that Frempomaa sought him out whenever she visited Kyebi .“She is a very generous person”, Kwasi added.

I related this to Frempomaa when – again by coincidence – a close relative of mine told me she'd asked about me and put us in touch with each other. She was very pleased, and I told her I would bring Kwasi Frempong to visit her. But before I could organise the meeting, the same person who had put us together rang me to give me the sad news that she had passed. I was incredulous.

Susannah was born in 1936 and died in May 2018. Her funeral rites were scheduled to be held at the Providence Events Centre, the Trade Fair site, Accra, on 14 July 2018. Preceding that that was to be a burial service at the Kaneshie Presbyterian Church, at 8.30 am on 14 July 2018.

Mrs Appiah-Pippim is survived by four children and six grand-children.

May she rest in peace.