Yemisi Parker-Osei always insisted that I behaved unusually well whenever Lucille was around. According to her, it was the only time I became a pacifist, anyone could attack me, and I would simply let it go. I think she exaggerated a little, but she wasn’t entirely wrong.
Lucille radiated peace. She could not have been perfect, no one is, but she lived in a way that honoured our shared humanity.
The last time I saw her, in the company of her husband Derrick and her ever, intellectually engaged brother Richard, we had so much fun that 1:00 a.m. arrived before we even realised the night had slipped away.
By her side were two of the friends who have been inseparable from her in my mind since 1980: Yemisi and Yaa Kristyne Twum, up to no good as usual.
As we parted ways that early morning, we all agreed to meet more often. Life was too short to pretend we were too busy.
It became the last time Lucille and I ever met.
Her final message to me, chilling in retrospect, was about yet another close loss: “Hi Yaw, Thank you very much. It’s been a shock for us all but what can you do when these things happen? I hope you and your family are well. 🙏🏾”
Alas, only God is immortal.
I am not easily shaken to the point of mental paralysis, but the day, six months before her passing, when the call came informing me that Lucille had only a few months left, remains etched in my memory like the immovable Himalayas.
It was a day of numbness and utter confusion. Yet I choose to remember her through the joy, grace, and cheerfulness that defined her sunny disposition.
When her funeral was held, I was far away in Asia. My internalised and suppressed grief made it impossible for me to write a tribute then. But Gabe Adjetey, by casually invoking an unrelated memory of GBC, unclogged the blocked vessel holding back my reflections. So here goes, the rest of the winding tribute Lucille’s beautiful, creative soul deserves.
Lucille and Yemisi once worked briefly at GBC in their youth, I shall say no more. Gabe (Gidigoner!) may not recall, but it was in Livi that I first saw Blagogee (Fafa Keta-Boy, another of Lucille’s great friends) listening to FM radio. When he said Accra, mighty GBC itself, now had an FM station, I found it unbelievable until he moved the dial to prove it.
A huge part of my misspent youth involved chasing the BBC and VOA on my parents’ shortwave radios. When did this convenient option of fixed FM frequencies first appear? We celebrated it the way people now celebrate AI.
And the torture we endured, hunting SW stations by turning knobs for our parents, has returned to me in a new form. These days I repay them by shouting for their grandsons whenever my smartphone refuses to obey the thoughts in my head!
Then comes that look from my son, the silent question: “Did your generation learn anything in school at all?”
Ah, I sound like I lived in the era of dinosaurs.
Those who think so must remember that Fafa, Yemisi, Kristyne and many others were here before me, and before the white men came.
I miss our dearest Lucille.
Where did the time go? It feels like only yesterday that these girls wore their well‑ironed green school uniforms and loved busting the latest Michael Jackson moves. Let the young ones know: there were men and women before the Agamemnons of today’s irreverent youth.
I sometimes think I could make a fortune by threatening to name my seniors and mates, many of whom still carry the vitality of youth in their spirits, though certainly not in their knees.
Let us dedicate this post to all of our generation who have gone too soon. We had no AI, no social media, no email, no 24‑hour media, no bottled water everywhere, yet the friendships we built remain priceless.
And among the finest of these memories stands Lucille, in the fullness of her charming, radiant humanity.
Today’s generation may never know the joy of executing a mango with an inter-tree ballistic missile and watching it obey gravity, falling longingly into waiting hands to be devoured before parents found out.
Or the delight of chilled glass-bottled Muscatella and Gem biscuits at Christmas.
What is AI today that we did not already conquer on the streets of Accra yesterday?
I miss the days when we drank freely from the tap. It reminds me I am no longer young.
Lucille may be gone, but she lives on in our fondest memories. The world is better because she walked among us. Her pain, which she faced with exemplary courage, is over. May she find rest across the river.
Sleep well, Abla.
None of us is getting out of here alive. We shall all meet again, and perhaps by then, I would finally have convinced you and your posse that Marley is the man, not MJ.
I know you’re out there somewhere, having fun.
