Daa, the wind still carries your name. The baobab tree still whispers your wisdom. The earth still holds the echoes of your footsteps. It has been twenty-six years since you left, yet your spirit lingers in every corner of our lives, in every word we speak, in every step we take.
The Harmattan has never been the same. It comes and goes, but it no longer carries the warmth of your voice, calling us to gather around. The morning sun still rises over Eggu, casting its golden glow on the baobab trees, but it does not shine on the same childhood we once knew. The nights are still filled with distant drumming and the crackling of firewood, but the stories that once flowed from your lips are now echoes in our memories.
Daa, do you remember how we used to sit by your feet, drinking in your words like an old man under the mango tree, sipping Pipo beer and munching on hot Koose? You poured wisdom into us the way one pours fresh millet beer into a calabash—slowly, steadily, making sure none spilled. And like good beer, your words had a way of settling deep in the belly, their meaning unfolding with time.
But time… time has been both a friend and an enemy.
When you left, it was as if the world had turned upside down. Our mother, Georgina Ningtang Gihata Plance, carried a weight no woman should bear alone. She was suddenly both mother and father, protector and provider, nurturer and warrior. Life did not pause to show mercy. It stretched its hands like the Harmattan wind, dry and unkind, cracking our lips, drying our hopes.
Yet, Daa, she stood. Like the dawadawa tree, she did not fall, even when the storms came. She was firm, yet full of grace, spreading her arms wide to shelter us, her children—Amanda, Rupert, Raul, Reuben, Raphael, and Rasmus. She wiped our tears with hands that molded shea butter under the moonlight. She pressed her pain into strength, the way one presses groundnuts into oil. And she never let us forget you.
We grew, Daa. Not with ease, but with struggle. We stumbled, we fought, we clawed our way through life’s thorns. Sometimes, we felt like lost children in the thick of a baobab forest, searching for a path that no longer had your footprints to guide us. But we kept walking.
How can we forget those Saturday mornings?
There we were, your children, lined up like young drummers in a procession, our oversized shorts hanging on our small waists, the echoes of yesterday’s TZ still settling in our bellies. The music would start—those deep, soulful Dagaaba songs that carried the heartbeat of our people. And you, Daa, would be there, urging us to move, to dance, to let the rhythm take over. Our feet would follow the beat, but our spirits would follow you. And when the cassette would stop, before the air could even settle, you would have another one ready, slotting it in with the urgency of a man keeping a fire alive.
And we danced. Oh, how we danced!
We did not just dance with our bodies; we danced with our hearts, with our souls, with the joy that ran wild in our veins. And in your eyes, we saw something rare—pride, love, and an unshakable belief in who we were meant to be.
And Daa, how you insisted that Dagaari should be the language of our home!
“Speak the language of your ancestors,” you would say. “The tongue of your people is your strength. If you lose it, you lose yourself.”
And so, whenever you were around, Dagaari was law. We stumbled sometimes, mixing it with English, but you would not have it. You made sure our tongues stayed true to our roots, just as our feet stayed true to the rhythm of our people.
Daa, I still picture the farm, the smell of fresh earth after the first rains, the way the sun kissed our backs as we worked beside you. You never saw farming as a burden; you saw it as life itself.
“Education is good,” you would say, wiping sweat from your brow, “but what is education without food to keep you strong? Can a hungry man write an exam? Can an empty stomach chase knowledge?”
You made us see that farming was not just for survival—it was a sacred duty, a dance with the earth, a way of ensuring that the world never ran empty. And so, when holidays came, while others slept, we followed you to the farm.
And oh, Daa, you knew how to balance discipline with love.
You saw my love for football, and instead of taking it away, you turned it into my motivation. “If your grades are good,” you told me, “you can play as much as you want.”
And so, I read. I solved equations. I memorized notes. Not because school was easy, but because my football was at stake! And each time I ran onto the field after a long study session, I knew I had earned it. That was your way, Daa. You did not force lessons upon us—you wove them into the very fabric of our lives.
Daa, life has not been easy without you.
I have struggled. I have fallen. I have stood up, only to fall again. The weight of life has sometimes pressed so hard on my chest that I have questioned if I could go on. There were nights when I stared at the ceiling, fighting back tears, wondering why life had to be this hard, why some journeys felt so lonely, why the road ahead seemed too long and uncertain.
There were days when quitting felt like the only option. When my dreams seemed too distant, when the burden of responsibility felt too heavy, when the voices of doubt whispered louder than the echoes of your lessons. But Daa, in those moments, something always pulled me back—your voice.
I could hear you, steady and sure. “Puobabangna, you are stronger than you think. The storms may come, but the tree that holds firm to its roots will never fall.”
And so, I forged on.
Even when my legs felt weak, I kept walking. Even when my heart ached with the weight of disappointment, I kept believing. Even when the world told me I was not enough, I remembered that I came from you—a man who left behind a legacy of strength, of dignity, of love.
Daa, the world has changed. The kind of love you gave is rare now. Family is not as tight as it used to be. People chase things that slip through their fingers, forgetting that the real wealth is in people, in roots, in home.
But we? We remember.
We remember the laughter, the lessons, the sweat, the sacrifices. We remember the beauty of our language, the power of our culture, the rhythm of our dance. We remember the smell of the farm, the joy of earning our rewards, the taste of Pipo beer and hot Koose on a slow afternoon. We remember you.
And today, we do not just mourn—we celebrate.
We speak your name with pride. We whisper our prayers into the wind, trusting they will find their way to you. We let our love for you rise like the smoke from a village fire, reaching the heavens, telling the ancestors that a great man once walked this earth.
26 Years Without You, Daa… But You Have Never Left.
I still remember that day. The day I stood before the crowd, called upon to read the tribute for the children at your funeral. I read every word without a tear, still in disbelief. The weight of your absence had not yet settled. Somewhere deep in my heart, I convinced myself that what lay before me was not you—just a statue, a clay molder. The thought that you were no more was too heavy to carry, so I wished it away.
I can still see myself, standing there, staring at your lifeless body—the smile wiped away by the cold hands of death. The hands that once lifted me onto your shoulders, the voice that once filled our home with laughter, the eyes that once looked at me with pride—all stilled in an eternal silence.
Yet, Daa, here’s the strange thing. 26 years have passed, and I still cannot remember what I read that day. I cannot recall the emotions or the thoughts that ran through my mind. It’s as if my heart refused to process the pain, as if my soul rejected the reality of your absence.
But time, as stubborn as it is, has forced me to face the truth. It took me 26 years after your passing to finally come to terms with one thing—not that you are gone, but that you are in a beautiful place with the Lord. That is the only reality I will ever accept. Because how can I say you are dead when you have never truly left?
Daa, I have dreamt of you. I have sat in your presence, heard your voice, felt your guidance. In the moments I have been lost, I have felt your unseen hand steering me back. In the times I have struggled, when the weight of life has threatened to break me, I have felt your strength rise within me.
So no, you are not gone. You are here. In the wind that whispers through the baobab trees. In the Harmattan that sweeps across our land. In the language you taught us never to forget. In the laughter of your children. In the spirit of service and dedication that we still strive to uphold.
Even as I write this in 2025, I know I am not writing it alone. You are here, guiding my words, just as you have guided my steps all these years. Thank you, Daa. Thank you for never truly leaving me.
Sleep well, Daa. Your roots are deep, and your legacy is strong. We will continue to do and show them, just as you would have wanted.
From your son, Puobabangna.
Diwulibo lives on!
#Puobabangna #RestWellDaa #26YearsOn #LegacyOfStrength #DoAndShowThem
From Victor Raul Puobabangna Plance from Eggu in the Upper West Region
