The day had finally come. April 22, 2000, the date circled on our calendar for months, the day we would leave Ghana behind and fly to America. I had dreamed of this day, prayed for it endlessly. It felt like destiny, like everything in our lives had been leading up to this. Our local pastor, always kind, had offered to drive us to Accra, the capital of Ghana. We stayed at my mother’s uncle’s house—he was one of the few family members who had done well for himself. The excitement and nerves were taking over my body. The plane was scheduled for 2 PM, and since we were so close to the airport, we decided to leave at noon. Before we left, my mother’s voice broke through the bustle: “Use the bathroom one more time before we go.”

I obeyed, as always. I entered the bathroom, closed the door, and did my business. But when I tried to leave… the door wouldn’t open. My heart skipped. I jiggled the handle again—nothing. Panic started creeping in. I yanked harder, but the door stayed stubbornly shut. Five minutes passed, and I yelled for my mother. Her frustrated voice came back through the door, “Stop playing around and open it!” But I wasn’t playing. Her uncle rushed over, trying to help from the outside, but it was no use. The door was stuck. I could feel the pressure building as the minutes slipped by, each one tightening the knot in my stomach. After what felt like an eternity, thirty minutes at least, he decided to call a locksmith. But there was a problem. The locksmith couldn’t arrive until after 2 PM—the exact time our plane was scheduled to take off.

I collapsed onto the cold bathroom floor, tears streaming uncontrollably down my face. This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. I had prayed so hard for this moment, for the chance to leave, to start a new life in America. Why was this happening to me now? My faith was crumbling. I screamed at God in my mind, begging for a miracle, for something to change. But all I got was silence.

Through the door, I could hear my mother and her uncle talking in low, serious voices. Discussing options. I knew what they were thinking. They might have to leave me behind. Take my brothers, and leave me. The thought of it broke something inside me. I was only ten, but the weight of it all crushed me. I couldn’t handle it. Then I heard my father’s voice through the phone. He was calling from America, asking if we’d made it on the plane. My mother tried to explain the situation, her voice heavy with disappointment. I felt sick with shame. I had let my father down. I had let everyone down. I curled up on the bathroom floor, sobbing until I couldn’t anymore. The tears just dried up. Time became a blur, and I don’t remember much until the locksmith finally arrived hours after the plane had left. The door swung open, and there was no relief, only the crushing weight of failure. My mother’s face was drawn tight as she told me we’d missed the plane. Now we had to wait for my father’s instructions.

The silence in the house was suffocating. My little brothers, my mother, her uncle—they all looked at me with the same expression. Disappointment. And all I could do was collapse again, crying until the night swallowed me whole. The next morning, the piercing sound of my mother’s voice woke us at 5:30 AM, jolting
me from a restless sleep. We were getting ready again, but this time, I was different. I took my shower with the bathroom door wide open, as if daring it to trap me again. We dressed quickly and piled into the car; the tension thick in the air. My mother’s face was unreadable. She hadn’t told us a thing—where we were going, what the plan was—and we knew better than to ask. Silence was our only option.

The car rumbled down the road, my mind racing with a thousand questions I couldn’t voice. After thirty minutes, something strange happened. I began to hear a low roar in the distance, getting louder with every passing second. My heart leaped as I realized what it was. Planes. Could it really be happening? Could this finally be the moment we had been waiting for? I nudged my two younger siblings awake, and as soon as they heard the same thunderous sound, they lit up with excitement. Their voices burst into song, filling the car with joyful chaos. Tears welled up in my eyes as I joined them, our voices rising together in unison. This was it. We were really doing it. We were leaving. My heart swelled with a mix of disbelief and overwhelming joy. Finally, our dreams were taking flight.

We sang in our native language (twi):
Da na se (Thanks)
Da na se (Thanks)
Da wo nyame na se (Thanks to God)
Da na se (Thanks)
Da na se (Thanks)
Da wo nyame na se (Thanks to God)
E fri se oye (Because he is good)
Da na do do so (And his goodness are many)
Da na se (Thanks)
Da na se (Thanks)
Da wo nyame na se (Thanks to God)