“I Am A Stranger And Sojourner In This World, My Home Is Not Here": Tribute In Memory Of Mrs Marie-Acquiline Barton-Odro

As a Zongo Boy, I was fortunate to have attended a Presbyterian Primary School (Kotobabi Presbyterian Primary School – KPPS, then at Bob Hockson, Pig Farm and later moved to Aladjo), Accra. At the KPPS, we were taught hymns and the Bible. Reminiscing the practice of the Basel missionaries who led the second coming of the missionaries on December 13, 1828, the school had the practice of dedicating two days in the week for worship and singing. Wednesday was for what we referred to us Worship.

During Worship, we listened to sermons from either our teachers or an invited pastor of the Presbyterian Church. One of our teachers, Mr Marcus Agbeyome was very key in giving us sermons about how we needed to conduct ourselves as pupils. On Friday, we sang old hymns and learned new ones of the Presbyterian Church. A few times, we sang those of other historic churches, like the Wesleyan.

The hymns were either in Ga, Twi, or English. But regardless of the language, most of us preferred Friday to Wednesday. While most of us could hardly understand the words of the hymns and make sense of them, we enjoyed the fact that we had the chance to play the drums. Issaka Sulemana (a Muslim), Enoch Mampong and James Harry Sawyer (who belonged to the Presbyterian and Methodist church respectively) established themselves as good drummers. Occasionally, I will join the band to play the drum.

At the time we were in Primary school (1989-1995), all of us (Muslims and Christians) participated in Christian church services without anyone raising concerns about religious indoctrination. No qualms were raised in the public domain as well. Those were the days, as children, we least cared about what any religious body taught, apart from our concerns for singing hymns, dancing, and playing the drums. However, the religious composition and serenity in Ghana changed when there was the resurgence of Ahlu's-Sunnah wa'l-Jama'ah Islam in 1995. The attempts by the Ahlu's-Sunnah at promoting reformed Islam in 1995 created intra-Islamic tension that heightened our consciousness about religious differences.

This was to the extent that, by the time we went to Kotobabi ‘15’ Junior Secondary School (K’15’ JSS) some of our Muslim schoolmates were protesting against being “forced” to participate in Christian worship and activities. While our age could be a factor in (re)shaping the attitude of some of my mates towards religious tolerance, we cannot downplay the role the Islamic revivalist movement, Ahlu's-Sunnah, played.

Nevertheless, our basic education impacted heavily on us. We developed a deeply religious mindset and a worldview that sieved the world from the perspective of religion. It was no surprise that by 2003, I had become a thorough bread Calvinist, leaning heavily towards Presbyterian theology. This is against the background I attend a Pentecostal church. But as part of the reshaping of our minds, I have grown to love hymns, particularly from the Basel church. One of the hymns I love so much is Theophilus Hermann Opoku’s “Ɔhɔho ne mamfrani”.

PCG Twi Hymn 791

1. Ɔhɔho ne mamfrani

na meyɛ wɔ fam ha. M’asase mmɛn ha baabi, minni fi pa wɔ ha.

Ɔhaw, ɔbrɛ, amane

na yɛde tu ha kwan;

n’ɔsoro hɔ na Nyame

bɛma mahome sann.

2. So mamfi me mmofraase manhyia haw ne brɛ, ahoguan ne amane,

ɔko ne ɔpere?

Mannya nea me kɔn dɔ, m’ani anwie gye;

enti mema m’anan so

na mentena ha menkyɛ

3. Ɛha amane kwan no, bebree adi so kan;

Onyame adiyifo,

ne ne man mu mpanyin. Boasetɔ ne gyidi

na wɔde tuu wɔn kwan;

na wɔn akyi na medi

wɔ nkwa ne wu nyinaam.

4. Kae Abraham akwantu, na kae ne nhyira bi! Ɔhɔho ne mamfrani, na sua no yɛ bi

Atamfo no, di wɔn so, amane no fa mu!

Ɔsraani pa nokwafo

bedi nkonim dabaa.

5. Ɛnde meremia so makodu kwan n’ase. Nea sesɛɛ masoɛ yi, ɛnyɛ me fi no nen. Onyankopɔn kuro no, soro Yerusalem, hann ne ɔdɔ kuro no, m’ahotɔ fi no nen!

6. Ɛhɔ na m’ani gyina, ‘hɔ tena na meregye. Awurade, bra begya me, na minhu kwan yiye! Bra bɛma m’anw’ramanbɔ na me brɛ dɔm to ntwa! Bɛfa me ha brɛ kwan so konya hɔ anika.

7. Ɛhɔ namɛtena daapem, menyɛ hɔho bio. Me ne w’ahotew mma no bɛtena daa homem hɔ. M’ani bɔpa akwantum ɔhaw ne brɛ no so; me yaw bɛka akyiri; me ho benya atɔ.

Theophilus Opoku was either the first or second Gold Coaster to be ordained as a minister of the Basel Mission by the Rev. J.G. Widman on September 1872. He was born in 1842 in Akropong. His father was a son of Omanhene Nana Addo Dankwa I. While his parents were not Christians, the fact that Theophilus Opoku was a sickly child, and thus presumably unfit for farming, his father agreed to let the Christians educate him. He grew up in the homes of the missionaries, particularly A.J. Mader, and was educated in Basel Mission schools and seminaries. When he became a Christian and was baptized on January 6, 1856, in the course of his education, he Theophilus Opoku saw himself first and foremost as an evangelist and pastor of the newly converted. He was more interested in helping people to transition from “paganism” to the Christian faith. He travelled to the Northern regions of Ghana (Northern territories at the time), preaching the Gospel of Jesus Christ. He had interminable battles with health challenges throughout his life, which spanned three score and eleven years. He suffered a heart disease that impacted heavily on his life. He had frequent bouts of sickness which compelled him to regretfully abandon his seminary studies and was posted to Mamfe Akuapem to take care of the Mission Station. His wife, Sophia Nyam, whom he married in 1868 and had four children, died. His second wife was also asthmatic.

The Presbyterian hymn, Ɔhɔho ne mamfrani ne meye wo fam ha” is associated with his famous journey to Salaga. A popular tradition in Basel church history has it that while in Salaga, Opoku became so ill and weak in health, which caused him considerable anxiety. This was compounded by his inconsolable grieve over the loss of his dear wife, as well as his longing to be with his children who had been orphaned and the family he left home in Akuapem. In great distress, he went and sat under a big baobab tree (the proverbial tree of knowledge) at the Salaga slave market, and it was while he sat under the tree that the impassioned poetry of the hymn came to him. The hymn is sung by most churches in Ghana, including the Church of Pentecost. It is usually sung during requiem service. The song has become a source of inspiration to me for some years now. It is, therefore, right that at a time when I am grieved by the death of Mrs Marie-Acquiline Barton-Odro, I use it to comfort myself, friends, and her family.

I went to the University of Cape Coast (UCC) to begin my undergraduate studies in 2004. Given that I had stayed home for three years after secondary school (without any re-sit) reading more than was expected, I entered the UCC with loads of controversial ideas. I was always ready to engage some of my lecturers in a sustained dialogue or argument. I remember one such argument was about the dictum by Sufi Rumi that, “The lamps are different, but the Light is the same” With this dictum, my lecturer of Religious Studies, Dr Yaw Agyeman Sarkodie was implying that all religions, regardless of the name they give to God worship the same God. In disagreement with this assertion, I asked my lecturer, Dr Yaw Agyemang Sarkodie whether he believed in absolute truth. At least, he was honest to admit that he did not believe in absolute truth. At that point, I told him that he was not sincere to his statement in class. After that encounter, he became my good friend.

It was the same predilection to question uncritical theories that brought Mrs Marie-Acquiline Barton-Odro close to me, first as student-lecturer-in-constant-argument to student-mother relations. At the UCC, I majored in socio-cultural studies and had Mrs Barton-Odro as my constant lecturer until I finished in 2008. She taught me many courses including Islam. Because I am a Zongo boy and have lived in Maamobi throughout my life, I had come to know Islamic practices (observing orthopraxy).

This is precisely because while scholars concentrate on theory about religions, most hardly focus attention on practice. So, whenever Mrs Barton-Odro said anything about Islam that did not cohere with what I knew, I humbly drew her attention to the deficiency of her notes. I was also fortunate to have been taught Islam by Dr Mark Sey, one of the leading Islamic scholars, who made an important imprint on the study of Islam in Ghana. Sadly, I am now writing about these two towering professors of mine using the past tense.

In class, Mrs Barton-Odro and I were hardly in agreement over some of the things she taught. In my final year, as fate would have it, she was nominated by the African Studies Department, UCC, to supervise my long essay. With this, she was so happy. She called me and tauntingly said, “Prempeh, now you are in my hands. We will see how you will get out of the loop.” At that point, I knew I had two options: either to work hard to prove her wrong or ask for a different supervisor.

This same fate of having to change a supervisor met me at the Makerere University, Uganda: when I was to decide to either work with Prof. Mahmood Mamdani, who had declared his hatred for me or ask for a change of supervisor. But in the case of Mrs Barton-Odro, I gladly accepted to work under her supervision. To intensify the rigour of the supervision of my work, she aligned herself with Mr Douglas Frimpong-Nnuroh, another lecturer at the department who also saw me and my mate, Kofi Atsu Semanu Adzei, as radicals who challenged policies and lecturers. Given that Atsu and I had written a petition that challenged Mr Frimpong-Nnuroh, I certainly knew that the incorporation of Mr Frimpong-Nnuroh into the supervision grid was really going to be a tough ride for me.

But, I was not discouraged. I worked hard and was among the first to have submitted my long essay. Mrs Barton-Odro later told jokingly said to me, “You Prempeh, you are such a bad boy. You did not allow me to punish you with the supervision.” And to add to turning the wheel upside down on her, I recorded grade “A” for my long essay. And to top it all, I registered unprecedented First Class in African Studies (majoring in Socio-culture), while Atsu also registered First Class (majoring in history and politics). While I had an interest in going to any of the communities in the Northern Regions to undertake my national service, the UCC did not allow me to go.

I was asked to work as a teaching assistant. Even before a decision was made in terms of which lecturer I was to work with, Mrs Barton-Odro had sent my name to the head of Department (Prof. N.N. Kofie). Unfortunately, other lecturers equally wanted my service. In the long run, I was assigned to Mr Matthew Quamey Aliza (a literary scholar). This was a paradox because I did not major in language and arts, but I decided to just obey. But Mrs Barton-Odro did not give up on getting me to assist in teaching some of her classes. Eventually, I had to help her and Mr Alidza simultaneously. Later, I was assigned Prof. N.N. Koffie, which allowed me to organize tutorials for some of the pioneers of the UCC’s medical school students.

On December 13, 2008, I was preparing to go and organize a tutorial class for some of the first-year students of Mrs Barton-Odro when I had a strange feeling that was certainly a harbinger of something bad. Alas, what I never expected happened: When I just felt like taking some fruits to energize myself for the class, I had a distressing call from my younger sister that our father had been rushed to the hospital. Little did I know that my father had peacefully died at home. But later, my sister could not hold it. While she was under duress to “lie” to me about our father’s death, she gave in to uncontrollable sobbing, “Dada is dead, dada is dead.” At that point, it became obvious to me that death had messed my day. It was the first time someone in my nuclear family had been called home to be with the Lord. I did not tell anybody about it. While I suppressed every tear from dropping (since I hardly cry, anyway), I called my maternal uncle in Takoradi and he did confirm that my father had died. At that point, the tears were dropping uncontrollably. Knowing how hoarse my voice had become, my uncle resounded the Akan masculinity refrain, "If you cry, what would the girls do?" In response, I just dried my tears and prepared myself to go and teach.

I entered the class that day and taught as if nothing bad had happened. The students enjoyed the class. But soon after teaching, I rushed to call Mrs Barton-Odro, who at this time had become a mother to me to let her know about my father's demise. She was so shocked and said, "So, Prempeh, you are still such a stubborn young man that you were able to defy the pain of death to teach? My deepest condolences. Just come home, if you can.” I rushed to my room in Casely Hayford hall, my original hall, and reflected over my father’s death. Before I realized, I had written three journalistic articles about my dad, alongside the tributes for my siblings and our mother. The articles I published about my father were widely read on campus. The one that caught the attention and admiration of most students was, “My father’s journey to eternal bliss.” I also started receiving messages of condolences from my friends. I had a common response to all those who called or wrote to sympathize with me that, “Death has only facilitated my father’s journey to eternal bliss.”

After my writings, I rushed to Mrs Barton-Odro’s house and she and her family prayed with me. She encouraged me and gave me money to take care of myself. She advised me to return to Accra to be with my family. But since my mother had told me not to return to Accra until when the family considered it necessary, I spent my weeks at the UCC working with my family to prepare for the funeral. But Mrs Barton-Odro kept saying to me, “Prempeh, you are such a strong young man.” Sadly, on the day of my father's funeral on January 31, 2009, Mrs Barton-Odro had an assignment so she could not attend my father's funeral. But she, as usual, sent me a generous amount that helped defray the cost of the funeral.

After burying my father, Mrs Barton-Odro came to tell me while I was grading scripts in the office, "Prempeh, I want you to go and do your master's and come and help. There is now good money in the lecturing profession. Don't delay at all, just hurry up. You should not allow your brain to go unused." While I had already bought the forms to pursue my MPhil at the Institute of African Studies, University of Ghana (IAS, UG), she strengthened my resolve to speed up my academic pursuit. In 2009, I passed the entrance exams and interview to begin my MPhil programme at the IAS, UG. She was so excited that, as a mother, she parted some good amount to support my education. She prayed with me when I was to finally leave the UCC. When in 2010, I was awarded for academic excellence at the IAS, UG, Mrs Barton-Odro was so excited that she called me and got me some money.

Later, my name became a common name in her class at the UCC. Anytime her students were struggling to understand a concept, she would tell them, "You people are unlike Prempeh. You should go and look for him." Yesterday, while I was in a conversation with one of her (and my student), Aarifa Muhammed, Aarifa told me that, "Mrs Barton-Odro never stopped mentioning your name to us, after you had left the UCC. At a point, some of us were like how come this Prempeh had a solid place in this woman's heart?" Aarifa was right because Mrs Barton-Odro was not just a lecturer, but a stern mother. In class, she would hurl insult freely without meaning any harm. She would advise us to work hard. On one occasion, we were learning about euphemisms for pregnancy. Everyone would get up and say something that was applauded. Suddenly it got to the turn of one of our mates, Emmanuel Amponsah (also known as Iron) to say his. Iron took things for granted and to invest humour in the discussion, he said, “waachi ball” to wit, “she has caught a ball.” At this point, Mrs Barton-Odro was so righteously infuriated that said to Iron, “Wo na na waachi ball,” to wit, “Your mother has caught a ball.” It became a common joke among my mates at the UCC.

On January 5, 2014, when I got a scholarship offer to pursue my doctoral studies at the Makerere Institute of Social Research (MISR), Makerere University – Uganda, she was again so impressed and happy that she invited me to her house in Accra and gave me some dollar bills. It was the first time a Zongo boy was counting hard dollars. As usual, she prayed with me and wished me well. At the MISR, I had multiple surgeries that almost affected my studies. But Mrs Barton-Odro was always ready to pray with me. At MISR, I recorded 9As and 3B+s in the 12 courses I studied for two years, despite the surgeries I had had and loads of readings of virtually everything in the humanities. When she heard about this, she called me to say she had a gift for me when I returned to Ghana. Unfortunately, in my third year, just when I was about transitioning to my fourth year for fieldwork in Ghana, the institutional politics at the MISR became so unbearable that I had to temporarily abandon my studies. When I returned to Ghana, I told her about my plans to marry. She was so excited and said she would be happy to see the “lucky lady.” She was particularly excited about my plans towards marriage, because she was so concerned about my age and felt I may not marry – knowing how much I was investing in education.

Finally, when she heard I had secured admission to one of the top universities in the world to restart my doctoral studies, her bragging right was inflated. She never stopped telling anyone she met on her way about it. And given that I am writing on a subject she always thought I should consider, she suggested many useful reading materials to me. On the day I was to leave Ghana for the United Kingdom on October 15, 2017, she again did what every mother would do – she prayed with me and parted some money. She assured me that the Lord will, this time, see me through. While in the United Kingdom, she connected with me on WhatsApp and sent me daily words of encouragement. Since she retired from the UCC to take care of her grandchildren, she always told me to visit her anytime I was in Accra. She was hoping to bless my child whenever I had one.

But, alas, where is Mrs Barton-Odro to read all this? Death accelerated her journey to eternal bliss on March 21, 2020. Death has really added to a world that is already spiralling out of control. Death has added to the pain of a world that has been taken siege by a malignant virus. Death has added to the plethora of conspiracies about life on earth. Death has taken such a mother away. Death has taken a teacher and mentor away. This month has seen death dealing terribly with me: My friends: Japtheth Roberts and Dr Ken Kafui (a leading musicologist) succumbed to the burial mat. And now, Mrs Barton-Odro has joined the train that leads to the world of no-return. Given the fact that we never get over death (even though it is an existential reality), we are constantly reminded that death is never natural. Death is an intrusion. Death is not extinction, as it is a transition. My comfort is that all these three persons died in the Lord. They were committed to their saviour and placed their talents the Lord invested in them in helping humanity. Japheth had an inordinate passion to save nature (hence, he studied conservation at the University of Cambridge); Dr Ken Kafui was just superb in using his agility and savvy to compose songs that will outlive him till our Lord returns. Mrs Marie-Aquiline Barton-Odro was a mother and lecturer who loved her students and wished the best for them.

Given that she left behind his husband Lawyer Ebo Barton-Odro, former first deputy speaker of Parliament and children, I pray that the Lord will comfort them in this trying time. I know she made her first appearance before our Lord and King the first day she left the earth. I know that when she breathed her last on earth, she breathed her first breath in eternal bliss. I know the last time she shut her eyes on earth, she opened her eyes in heaven to behold her creator. I know the worst death has done to her is to let her into the best that ever happened to her.

Mrs Marie-Acquiline Barton-Odro, you will be missed. Enjoy the calm in the Lord till we all join hands with you before our lord and saviour, Jesus Christ. Indeed, “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord” (Revelation 14:13).

Satyagraha

Charles Prempeh ([email protected]), African University College of Communications, Accra