What losing my grandfather taught me

It was 5:30 a.m. in Ohio when I first read the news. Sitting in the living room of my intern apartment, groggy and barely awake, I looked at my phone and somehow landed on my family WhatsApp group chat. As expected, the feed was flooded with morning messages (it was about 9:30 a.m. in Ghana), heartwarming jokes, funny memes, and sprinkles of encouraging Bible verses. There was also the occasional birthday message, and in my family's typical fashion, numerous pictures poured in to celebrate the person as they turned a new age (isn’t it funny how life ends while another begins?)

Amidst the slew of messages and interactions, I read a much earlier message that my granduncle—Uncle OB— had sent, one that held more mourning than morning:

Immediately I am verklempt with emotions and questions. Who - surely not my grandpa? He hadn’t even turned 80 yet? How - he had a stroke, yes, a few months back, but he was recovering and had even been discharged? When – because I was just in church thanking God for my his speedy recovery, praising him for the wonderful gift of life? Why – no but why God I thanked you, fortuitously, why would the story end like this? 

I wiped my eyes, hoping it was the build-up of sleep sand that had made me see things. But each time I re-read the message, it echoed. It rang louder like a bell had been attached and its sounds bounced and reverberated along the corners of my skull.  

“Glorious exit of Martin Asamoah-Manu” 

I calmly said to my roommate, “I think my grandfather just passed.” Silence immediately permeated the space between us as he stood there, perplexed and clearly unsure of what to say. Moments later, he responds, “I’m so sorry to hear that. If you don’t want to come to work today, I’ll tell them you had a family emergency.” 

While I appreciated his willingness to help, I immediately rejected the offer. I asked him not to tell anyone, deciding to save the news for later. I told him—and myself—that staying at home would only force me to dwell on thoughts of my grandfather, recently departed. I told myself that I needed the paid hours, a thought I regret having but couldn’t fully avoid, and tried to convince myself that Grandpa would have wanted me to go to the office, work hard, and keep making him proud. That’s all I wanted to do, make my Grandpa proud.

But the real truth is, I told him not to tell anyone because I simply didn’t want it to be true.  I couldn't accept that my grandfather, such a profound presence in my life, had suddenly left this world. I didn't want to imagine a world without his love and laughter. I just didn't want it to be real.

So I told no one in the office - it was so early in my internship, and I worried that people might discredit me or my work simply because I was grieving. I was worried I would be dismissed as someone who could not gain because of what they had lost, or that any challenges I was having would be written off as part of the “grieving process” and not as part of the learning curve it actually was. These seem like such irrational thoughts now but at the time I really felt I needed to stand up for myself, prove myself, and carry the loss in my stride. 

But the thing about emotions is that no matter how deeply you bury them, how hard you push and squeeze and prod them into the recesses of your mind, they always find a way to bubble up to the surface. 

The first time I cried was five days later. Standing in the shower at 5:30 a.m.—impeccably timed, as punctual as the news five days earlier—I felt the warm water rushing down my body. Soon, I realised that it began to collect in my eyelids instead, only it was saltier and seemed to hurt more than the water from the showerhead above. Before I knew it, a sea of tears streamed down my cheeks, and I cried—a deep, bitter wail that poured out in an unending flow.

Oddly enough, I knew the tears were coming. If you know me, you know that even a good movie or song can bring me to tears - how much more the death of a truly loved one. And so I welcomed these tears, these saltier, more piercing tears, with open arms and an even wider heart. I imagine that's what Grandpa would have wanted because he—and my dad—are the only two men I've seen openly show their emotions: laughing deeply, crying deeply, and wearing their hearts on their sleeves. I found some comfort in knowing I carry this trait with me too.

In fact, there are so many traits I saw in my grandfather that I am starting to see in myself. For one, mygrandfather was meticulous about documenting everything—every wedding, graduation photo, certificate, trophy, and newspaper mention was carefully preserved in his collection. He also valued his relationships, always eager to reconnect with friends whenever he travelled or encountered something that reminded him of their shared experiences. A common phrase he used, “Oh, I know somebody who…” quickly became a guiding principle for me, and this eagerness to connect has become a trait I deeply admired and am proud to carry forward in my own life.

Our laughter was also always in sync—deeply hearty and heartfelt, as if it came from a shared well of something within us. It also helped that we looked alike; at least to me, anyways. 

I noticed these similarities each time I visited my grandparents’ Dansoman home, an earth dwelling of palm trees and raffia seats that always felt like home. There, he would sit me down and tell me stories of the different lives he lived and the journeys he traversed.

He would speak of his years in Canada, in Nigeria, and the beauty such a nomadic lifestyle can bring. He would speak of my Daddy, as his son, and my aunties as his daughters, and of all the adventures and mischief they got into when they were younger —- an interesting description because I would never put “mischief” and my father today in the same sentence. Such stories would always give me a glimpse into a life my grandfather once lived, and the lessons he learned then, that now pave my life and my thoughts today. 

For my father and grandfather in particular, this grieving process has taught me that our parents were once, and often still are, children at heart. Days after the announcement flooded my WhatsApp groups, I saw my father send the message “Well done Dad, you have fought a good fight, now rest with your maker”. There was something about the vulnerability and simplicity of the message that hit me, hard. A statement of few words, as is typical with my father, but it said everything it needed to. And then I thought of the day I would have to say about my own father and it brought me such immediate pain, one I realised must pale in comparison to that of my father and his sisters. 

So in the weeks leading to the funeral, I send a little prayer to God, that my father and his sisters receive the comfort of this indescribable loss, and that they too find the space to mourn and then heal.

God has always been at the centre of my relationship with my Grandpa. He taught me what it means to be a Christian in a constantly changing world and how to let my Christian values order my steps. In Romans, it says to Rejoice with those who rejoice, mourn with those who mourn — a verse that talks about the power of community in both joy and pain; a funeral favourite, as you would imagine,.

But as I read that verse a little closer, with a little more grief in my heart, I realise it runs deeper. The verse reminds us that the process of rejoicing and mourning is both collective and deeply personal, as though to say “Rejoice” and then do so with others who rejoice, or “mourn” and then do so with those who mourn. So despite the deep familial network I find myself in, or the many “I'm here if you need me” messages I received when I announced the news, the grieving process will be deeply personal. It is one I would have to traverse alone, although not necessarily in a lonely way. As my mum puts it, you will need to decide for yourself how you would want to mourn, one that does the process and yourself justice. 

People say grief is a souvenir, a proof that we once loved. And as someone who loved deeply, I have also grieved - deeply. But what people don’t mention is that grief is never linear. The 5 stages are not a straight line that progress one after the other. They alternate constantly, taking turns on centre stage. Denial shuffles into anger, which shifts to bargaining, as denial makes a brief return, then a deep, deep sadness. All this is said to be followed by a freeing acceptance- the final conclusion in this cyclic flow. I can’t say that I have reached the final stage yet, but I can say I am closer to getting there.

This process has taught me to welcome all emotions in their entirety: all the highs and lows, ebbs and flows, that allow you to grieve and to say that, indeed you loved, mourned, and celebrated a person through it all.

Death has always been a big fear of mine—the thought of no longer seeing, hearing, tasting, feeling, or simply being in this world. However, losing my grandfather made me realise that my fear runs deeper; it extends to a fear of dying without truly living. To pass through this world without leaving a mark, without impacting those around me, or pursuing the dreams of my fathers, both in heaven and on earth.

So while my heart aches to imagine my grandfather would never see another sunset, never relish another home-cooked meal, or tell another one of his legendary jokes, I know two things for certain: he deeply celebrated the people around him, and he left an impact like no other. Nothing proved this more than seeing the congregation of people that came to his funeral, a function I did not get to see live but was no doubt a part of. It was beautiful to see all the lives he touched, whether in big or small ways, and it reminded me that if you show up for others, they will show up for you.

In all, this process has taught me that grief exists where love once lived and that although life goes on, it will never be the same. I have to welcome this newness, this uneasiness, this difference to a life I’ve always known and, in doing so, I can find the strength to share what a great man my grandfather was. And this story is my first step to doing that. 

Thank you Grandpa, for everything. Now rest and enjoy the peaceful bosom of your maker.

Romans 8:28 “For we know that all things are working for our good”