Umaru Sanda Writes: How unimportant my birthday was to the most important people in my life

For many people, celebrating birthdays is non negotiable. While some people organise photo shoots, others plan various events from breakfasts, dinners, parties or trips abroad to just enjoy the day.

For these people, birthdays are a big deal. I have a former colleague who says not wishing him happy birthday is grounds for a break up of friendship, no matter how strong it was.

As for me and my household (my extended family), birthdays mean nothing at all.

On the eve of 2nd February, I drove to my parents’ home at Asutsuare Junction. They woke up the following morning to see I had come the previous night, as I usually do. As ever, they were happy to see their last born.

We exchanged pleasantries and went straight into unstructured conversations with my siblings, uncles, nephews, nieces and of course, my parents.

No one came to knock on my door to shout SURPRISE!!! or to sing ‘Happy Birthday to you’ (3×)…

No one pulled a surprise cake from the fridge and asked me to blow out the candles as people sang and took photos.

In fact, not one of the over a dozen people in the compound that morning even said a common hbd to me.

No one bothered because no one knew it was my birthday and frankly, no one cared.

After breaking a tiny branch from the neem tree to brush my teeth, I joined the other men to eat the leftover tz (yesterday) and baobabo leaves soup (kuuka) in one bowl.

My brother and his workmen milked the cows, the chickens were fed and I stroked the lazy white cat that purred soothingly on my laps.

All that happened amid conversations on all manner of topics.

While no one in my family is wishing me happy birthday in the house, I’m constantly receiving phone calls from friends and listening patiently and happily as people sang hoarsely or melodiously to me about my birthday.

Thousands of people were texting on WhatsApp, Facebook, Instagram and other social media platforms wishing me happy birthday in all manner of nice ways. Others were doing so on radio. The birthday artwork my company did for me was all over the place.

I was struggling to respond to group chats and private messages on my phone. There was indeed a buzz on my phone which was a real and huge world out there but which was visible only on my phone and to me in that compound.

Meanwhile, the woman who gave birth to me in the bathroom behind our house 38 years ago was sitting right in front of me and saying nothing about this special day that the ‘whole world’ appeared to be celebrating.

Her husband, my father, sat about 2 meters away clearing his throat before launching into another bout of conversations with the people sitting under the neem tree in our house.

At that moment, I was living in two worlds: the virtual one outside my house which was buzzing and asking questions about where the party would be; and the physical one inside my house in which people sat on chairs, kitchen stools, mats and logs talking about everything but my birthday!

So why weren’t my family bothered about this special day and why didn’t they pour powder or dirty water on me or slaughter the fattest cock for the party?

The reason is simple:

Birthdays aren’t a thing in our house. It is not a taboo or haraam. It is simply an insignificant occasion.

At 80 plus years, my dad has never celebrated his birthday. Neither has my mum, who is in her mid 70s. None of my siblings have ever celebrated their birthday in this house. And this is where we all grew up.

Because my parents and siblings didn’t have Western education, they do not know their Dates Of Birth. They know their age. They know exactly at what time they record a new year in their life.

But they can’t be bothered about the exact date. If you want to find that, then you need to consult the government issued ID cards which have those details. My father wrote down those dates of birth and kept in an old box under the bed.

I never celebrated my birthday too, until at age 29 when my boss at work, Bernard Avle, who was shocked by my revelation about having never celebrated my birthday, ordered a cake for me which we cut and enjoyed in the office.

The irony of the situation in the house was not lost on me at all. But later in the day, after ending one of the numerous calls where I was wished a happy birthday, I casually asked my dad if he knew what a birthday was.

Mind you, none of the old people in my house spoke English, except myself and my brother who learnt the language in the hardest of ways which I’d be discussing one day.

My dad responded by saying, birthday is the “Maulid” of a person. Maulid is a day that some Muslims set aside to celebrate as the birth of Prophet Muhammad (PBUH).

I knew then that he had an idea what a birthday was. That was when I happily declared to him, to the hearing of the others, that it was my birthday and that’s why all the calls kept coming through.

He simply said: “Oh really? Nice.” And then they continued with their other conversations. I wasn’t heartbroken at all, because I expected worse than that.

I remember how I used to top my class in primary school and JSS and even returned the Best BECE results for my school.

Not a day was I celebrated. Nobody could read or appreciate what the 99% on my examination papers signified so there was no way I was going to be celebrated.

In school, I was a hero. The teachers and headmaster loved me because I was smart. At home, my results remained stuck in my bag. They were of no real value to the ones whose son brought them home.

So that was how uneventful, or rather, peaceful and lowkey my birthday was.

As I drive back to Accra, I know that even if I don’t meet at least, two cakes and other gifts waiting for me at home or in the office, I am certain my two daughters have designed beautiful birthday cards cut from their exercise books which they would happily wave at me once I get home.

On February 2nd last year, friends and family in Accra came to wake me at dawn by pouring buckets of ice cold water on me in what is popularly called ponding before we settled down for a sumptuous meal of waakye which my wife had arranged that dawn.

That’s a direct opposite of what happened this year but both have their respective significance.

For now, I’m heading for lunch (the one they call Serve Yourself). A fan who shares a birthday with me had begged a colleague presenter to convince me to come for an all expenses paid lunch. I obliged so I’m going to enjoy.

If you are from a home like mine and today is your birthday, please buy yourself some bananas and groundnuts and enjoy quietly like Harry Potter used to do in the home of the Dursleys because your family can’t simply be bothered and it’s not because they don’t value you.

Even though in my home, no one celebrated my birthday, in the city of Accra, the party is just about to begin

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