It’s ironic that I’m considered the writer in the family, yet it took me the longest to pen this piece about my dear sister. Tears would well up in my eyes, and my throat would tighten every time I attempted to write because, truly, where do I start? Do I start with eight-year-old me sneaking into her room at night, asking her to convince our strict father that I needed to skip school because I wasn’t feeling well? She would cuddle me and say, “You’re staying with me until you feel better. Don’t worry about Dada; I’ll handle that situation.” Or do I start with her unapologetically letting the world know that I, her baby sister, was her favorite (I know my siblings will argue with me on this one )? Or do I start with the countless times she showed up for me, financially and emotionally, even as an adult? Do I start with our back-and-forth conversations where she asked me to take on various home and office décor projects? Or do I start with our recent discussions about which kente to wear for upcoming events? Truly, where do I start? There isn’t enough time, space, or ink to fully capture my sister. She fondly called me her daughter because she was named Nana Adwo (after our father’s grandmother), who gave birth to Maame Bozoma (our father’s mother), whom I was named after. I secretly relished it when she playfully told people I was her daughter, and with our age gap, it was believable. Most importantly, she treated me as such. Through our little tiffs, highs, and lows, she took care of me, prayed over me, chastised me, worried about me, fought for me, coddled me, and loved me— just like a mother would her daughter. In the past decade and a half, I watched as people fussed over her, and I didn’t understand the big deal. To me, she was just Sister Eunice—the Sister Eunice who would walk with me for thirty minutes in search of Fan yogurt because that was all I wanted, the Sister Eunice who would brag to her friends that her baby sister was enrolled at Wesley Girls’ High School, the Sister Eunice I would stay with and even share a bed with when I was on vacation from the U.S., the Sister Eunice who would tell me I could be whatever I set my mind to because God had already made it possible. To be honest, I was uncomfortable with all the new attention she was getting and the new spaces she was entering over the last decade or so. I just wanted her to stay my “Sister Eunice”: funny, curious, fun-loving, formidable, playful, prayerful, effervescent, unflinching, caring, a goal-getter, generous, intelligent, happy, inquisitive, and tenacious! Sister Eunice, who will I call when Mama does something unexpected or funny? Who will I talk to about our brothers Kuku, Buah, and Kwame? Who will tell me not to give up and to remain steadfast? Who will say, Ruby Buah Gadegbeku S I S T E R g Tribute Every time I sing a Twi gospel song, I will think of you. Every time I dance at an event, I will think of you. Every time I face a problem that seems too big, I will think of you. Ruby “ Eternally Cherished 36 Hon. Dcns. Mrs. Eunice Jacqueline Buah Asomah-Hinneh
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