Our Dearest Paa,
How do we say goodbye to a man whose words, wisdom, laughter and love have become such an important part of who we are? How do we find the words to celebrate a father who gave us so much, not necessarily in material possessions, but in the things that truly matter in life?
Today, as we gather to honour your memory, our hearts are heavy, but they are also filled with gratitude. Gratitude for the gift of having you as our father, for the years we shared, for the lessons you taught us, and for the countless ways, both big and small, in which you shaped our lives.
To the world, you were Opanin Isaac Baffour Kyeremateng, a former Corporal of the Ghana Army, affectionately known as Old Soldier or Agya Atta. But to us, you were simply Paa. And that one word carried so much meaning. It meant love, guidance, discipline, protection, laughter, encouragement and home.
Paa, you were a good father. A loving father. A father who took a genuine interest in the lives of his children. You wanted to know how we were doing, what was happening in our lives, the challenges we faced and the dreams we were pursuing. When you were strong and well, you would pick up the phone just to check on us. Not because you needed anything, not because you wanted to make a demand, but simply because you cared. That was the kind of father you were.
You were also one of our greatest encouragers. Whatever we set our minds to accomplish, you were ready to support us, provided it was right and honourable. Even when the task appeared difficult, you believed in our ability to rise to the occasion. And where you could not offer material assistance, you never left us feeling helpless or disappointed.
Indeed, Paa, you may not always have had money to give us, but your advice was worth millions. Even when we came to you with a need you could not meet, the warmth, wisdom and tenderness of your response often left us feeling richer than when we arrived. You had a remarkable way of making us feel heard, understood and encouraged.
There was hardly a conversation with you that did not end with a lesson worth remembering. We could visit you for an ordinary chat and leave with a nugget of wisdom that would stay with us long afterwards. Your advice was never empty talk. It came from experience, careful observation and a genuine desire to see your children live well.
We will fondly remember the many stories you told us about your days in the Ghana Army. You would recount your experiences with such life and humour that we could almost picture ourselves there with you. One lesson featured prominently in those stories: that patience, humility and respect for others had kept you out of trouble throughout your military service and even after your retirement.
You often reminded us that the good you do follows you. And you did not merely say these words; you lived by them.
You believed that how we treated people mattered. You taught us to greet those we encountered, to show respect regardless of a person's status, and to honour others in our daily interactions. You would explain that the respect and kindness we extended to someone today could become the very reason that person would look out for us tomorrow, perhaps even when danger was near.
You also taught us never to look away when another person was in distress. If it was within our power to help, we were to do so willingly and promptly. We were not to stand by and watch another person suffer when we could make a difference.
Paa, these were not merely instructions. They were lessons in humanity, compassion and character. They taught us that a good life is not measured only by what we acquire, but also by how we treat others and what we contribute to their lives.
Oh, Paa, how we will miss your laughter! That warm, hearty, contagious laughter that could brighten a conversation and lift the mood around you. We will miss your playful teasing, your humorous observations and those little bits of light-hearted gossip that made our conversations so enjoyable. You had a unique way of communicating, moving effortlessly from a serious piece of advice to a funny story that would leave everyone laughing.
You knew how to make us listen, how to make us think, and, just as importantly, how to make us smile. We will miss those moments dearly.
Paa, you were also a man of discipline and principle. Perhaps your years in the military reinforced these qualities, but you made sure they became part of our upbringing.
You taught us that responsibility was not something to be abandoned when circumstances became difficult. Once a duty was ours, we had to see it through. Regardless of the pressures we faced or the competing demands on our time, we were to remain committed to doing what was required of us.
"If it must be done, it must be done well."
That was your philosophy – simple but powerful. You applied this principle to everything, from how we dressed and maintained our personal hygiene to how we approached our schoolwork and carried out our daily responsibilities. You expected us to take pride in whatever we did, however small the task.
At the time, we may not always have fully appreciated the firmness of your instructions. But today, as adults navigating our own lives, families, careers and responsibilities, we understand their value more deeply. Even for those of us living far from home, including in Europe, your teachings continue to guide our decisions, our conduct and the way we approach life.
You frequently advised us to stay out of trouble, to exercise good judgement and to remain mindful of the consequences of our actions. These lessons have become priceless treasures, particularly as we encounter the complexities of life beyond the familiar surroundings of home.
Paa, another thing that mattered deeply to you was unity among your children.
You understood that, as siblings, we would sometimes disagree, offend one another or see things differently. But you never wanted those differences to become permanent divisions. Whenever you sensed a misunderstanding or a rift among us, you made a deliberate effort to bring us together. You encouraged reconciliation, urged us to forgive one another and reminded us, through your words and actions, that the bond of family must be protected.
You wanted us to remain united, to look out for one another and to remember that, whatever life brought our way, we would always be one family. Paa, we hear you. And even as we mourn your passing, we recognise that one of the greatest ways we can honour you is to preserve that unity you worked so hard to build.
You also planted in us a spirit of leadership. You encouraged us to be responsible, independent-minded, courageous and capable of taking initiative. Today, as we look at our individual lives, we can see traces of your influence in the ways we lead, make decisions, confront challenges and take responsibility for others.
Of course, Paa, you were human. You were not perfect, and neither are we. Like every father, there may have been things you wished you could have done differently, and perhaps there were moments when we, too, wished for more. But as we reflect on the entirety of your life and fatherhood, what stands out most is not what you could not give, but the incredible wealth of wisdom, values, love and guidance you gave us. And for these, we are profoundly grateful.
You gave us something that money alone could never buy. You gave us principles to live by, a sense of responsibility, the courage to face life's challenges, compassion for others and an understanding of the value of family.
You taught us to be respectful without being timid, disciplined without losing our humanity, and ambitious without forgetting where we came from. You showed us that strength could exist alongside gentleness, that discipline could be accompanied by laughter, and that a father could command respect while still being a friend to his children.
Paa, as we stand here today, we realise that the conversations we once took for granted have become some of our most treasured memories. We wish we could hear one more story about your army days, share one more laugh, receive one more piece of advice or simply hear your voice asking how we are doing. We wish we could sit with you one more time and enjoy those familiar conversations that always left us wiser, happier and reassured.
But though your voice has fallen silent, your words have not. They live on in our hearts. Your lessons live on in our choices. Your love lives on in the memories we carry. And your legacy lives on in each of us.
Paa, we believe that wherever you are, you are at peace. And we hope you are smiling, knowing that the seeds you planted in our lives have taken root and will continue to bear fruit.
We promise to hold on to the values you taught us. We will strive to remain united, to treat others with respect, to lend a helping hand wherever we can, to honour our responsibilities and to do whatever is entrusted to us to the best of our abilities. Above all, we will endeavour to pass on these same lessons to the generations after us, so that even those who never had the privilege of knowing you personally may come to know something of the man you were.
Thank you for your love, even in the simplest gestures.
Thank you for your counsel, worth more than riches.
Thank you for your discipline, which helped shape our character.
Thank you for your laughter, which made life lighter.
Thank you for your encouragement, which gave us confidence.
And thank you for teaching us that the greatest legacy a parent can leave is not merely what is placed in the hands of his children, but what is planted in their hearts.
We love you, Paa. We have always loved you, and we always will. We will miss you more than these words can ever express.
Farewell, our beloved Paa.
Farewell, Old Soldier.
Farewell, Agya Atta.
Your duty on earth is done, but your legacy lives on.
Rest peacefully, Opanin Isaac Baffour Kyeremateng, until we meet again.
Da yie, Paa. Da yie, Agya Atta.
With all our love, — Your Children