Everyone remembers someone from their school days who left an imprint on their heart - for me, it was Aunty Felicia, the school nurse. She wasn't just a nurse; to me, she was so much more. I affectionately called her "Aunty," but in truth, she was a second mother.
I was a young girl in the boarding house, adjusting to life away from home, when I became what we fondly called a dispensary girl. It wasn't an official title - more of a quiet arrangement where I spent my free time helping out at the school's dispensary. That's where Aunty Felicia took me under her wing.
She had twins in the school, but she never made me feel like I was anything less than family. Every single day, without fail, she came to the school - not just to check on her children, but to care for students like me who needed more than just medicine. She would bring us waakye - warm, fragrant, and lovingly packed - enough for her twins and always an extra portion for me. I still remember the smell, the comfort of those simple meals, and how much it meant to feel seen and cared for.
Her kindness wasn't loud or grand. It came in the form of small, daily gestures - a warm meal, a knowing smile, a gentle touch on the forehead when I wasn't feeling well. In a place where it was easy to feel lost in the crowd, she reminded me that I mattered.
Years have passed, and I often find myself thinking about her. Life has taught me that we rarely get the chance to repay the people who shape us quietly. If I had the opportunity today, I would buy her a beautiful cloth - something bright and elegant - a small token of thanks for all she did without ever asking for anything in return.
But she is of blessed memory now. Aunty Felicia has gone to her rest, leaving behind no headlines, no fanfare - just a trail of quiet gratitude in the hearts of those she cared for.
It's one of life's quiet tragedies: the people who do us the most good are often the ones we never get to thank properly. Yet perhaps our gratitude lives on - in the stories we share, the kindness we pay forward, and in the lasting memory of a school nurse who was, to me, so much more.
I was a young girl in the boarding house, adjusting to life away from home, when I became what we fondly called a dispensary girl. It wasn't an official title - more of a quiet arrangement where I spent my free time helping out at the school's dispensary. That's where Aunty Felicia took me under her wing.
She had twins in the school, but she never made me feel like I was anything less than family. Every single day, without fail, she came to the school - not just to check on her children, but to care for students like me who needed more than just medicine. She would bring us waakye - warm, fragrant, and lovingly packed - enough for her twins and always an extra portion for me. I still remember the smell, the comfort of those simple meals, and how much it meant to feel seen and cared for.
Her kindness wasn't loud or grand. It came in the form of small, daily gestures - a warm meal, a knowing smile, a gentle touch on the forehead when I wasn't feeling well. In a place where it was easy to feel lost in the crowd, she reminded me that I mattered.
Years have passed, and I often find myself thinking about her. Life has taught me that we rarely get the chance to repay the people who shape us quietly. If I had the opportunity today, I would buy her a beautiful cloth - something bright and elegant - a small token of thanks for all she did without ever asking for anything in return.
But she is of blessed memory now. Aunty Felicia has gone to her rest, leaving behind no headlines, no fanfare - just a trail of quiet gratitude in the hearts of those she cared for.
It's one of life's quiet tragedies: the people who do us the most good are often the ones we never get to thank properly. Yet perhaps our gratitude lives on - in the stories we share, the kindness we pay forward, and in the lasting memory of a school nurse who was, to me, so much more.
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