Level 300 University of Education, Winneba – Ajumako Campus student is praised and endorsed by his family after returning home with his creative writing.

The rustle of leaves, the warm evening air, and the smell of fried plantains filled the compound as Kwabena Mensah stepped down from the trotro and slung his bag over his shoulder. He had arrived home in Breman Kokoso, a quiet town in the Central Region, after a long semester at the University of Education, Winneba – Ajumako Campus. As a Level 300 student majoring in English Education, he was beginning to find his voice—not only as a future teacher but as a writer.

This semester had been different.

One of his assignments in Creative Writing required him to produce an original short story rooted in Ghanaian culture and values. What began as an academic exercise turned into something deeply personal. His story, “The Talking Drum,” was a tale about a young boy in a rural community who discovered a mystical drum that revealed truths hidden by the elders. It tackled issues like corruption, lost traditions, and the power of storytelling. His lecturer, Dr. Agyeman, had written in bold ink: “Excellent! This should be published. You have a strong literary voice.”

With those words etched in his heart, Kwabena printed several copies of his work and decided to surprise his family. He wasn’t sure how they would respond—after all, writing wasn’t always seen as a “real” path. But this story… this was his best yet.

As he entered the house, his younger sister Akosua shrieked and ran to hug him.

“Kobby! You’re back!” she beamed.

“Yes, small vacation. I’ve missed all of you,” he replied, ruffling her hair.

His mother, Mama Esi, came out of the kitchen, her eyes lighting up.

“Ei! Kwabena, my son. You’ve grown slim but handsome! Welcome, welcome!”

His father, a retired headteacher, emerged from the sitting room and embraced him firmly.

“Come, sit down. What news do you bring from Ajumako?”

They all sat around the wooden table as the aroma of dinner filled the air. Kwabena reached into his bag and pulled out the neatly stapled bundle.

“I wrote something. A short story. My lecturer said it’s good enough to be published.”

His mother raised her brows. “You wrote a book?”

“A story. Just one. But it’s deep. I wanted you all to read it.”

He handed the first copy to his father, who adjusted his spectacles and began reading slowly. The others watched his face for a reaction. He turned the pages silently, sometimes murmuring “Ei” and nodding to himself.

After ten minutes, he looked up.

“Kwabena,” he said slowly, “this… this is powerful. The boy, the drum, the truths it reveals—ah! It’s like reading Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o mixed with our own Ananse tales.”

Kwabena’s heart soared. Coming from his father—a man of strict standards—that was high praise.

“Let me read it too!” Akosua said, grabbing another copy.

Mama Esi, curious, took the last one and began reading aloud parts of it. As she read, she gasped, laughed, and even wiped a tear from her eye.

“You wrote this from your own head?” she asked in disbelief.

“Yes, Mama. I just let my thoughts flow.”

She stood up, walked to where he sat, and kissed his forehead.

“You’ve made me proud. This is not just writing—this is wisdom. Who taught you to write like this?”

Kwabena smiled. “Lectures helped, but I think it’s been in me for a while.”

That night, after dinner, the family gathered under the stars. A cool breeze blew gently as they sat outside on the veranda, copies of The Talking Drum still in their hands.

“You know,” Papa began, “when you chose to study English, many people in the town whispered. They asked me, ‘Why didn’t your son choose law or medicine?’ But today, I can say proudly that English is not just grammar—it’s a tool for truth, for change.”

Mama Esi nodded in agreement. “The things you’ve written in this story… they are things we all know but are afraid to say. You’ve found a way to talk about them using fiction. That’s a gift, my son.”

Akosua jumped in, “My teacher at school says we must read to become better. But this story was so interesting, I didn’t even notice I was learning. Can I take it to school tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Kwabena replied. “That’s the point.”

“Your writing reminds me of the old storytelling days,” his grandmother said, emerging from the house slowly with her walking stick. “When our fathers sat by the fire and told us about the world through stories. What you’re doing is important. Don’t stop. If no one else tells our stories, who will?”

They all nodded in agreement.

Then, out of nowhere, Papa stood and declared, “I, Kwasi Mensah, head of this family, do hereby endorse my son Kwabena Mensah as a writer of purpose and vision! May your words reach far places and bring you honor!”

Everyone laughed and clapped. Even Grandma tried to raise her hand in support.

“I second that!” Mama Esi shouted. “You carry not only your name but this family’s dreams. Keep writing. If you need money to print more stories, come and take. We’ll support you.”

The next morning, news of Kwabena’s story had spread through the neighborhood. Uncle Kojo came over with curiosity.

“They say you’ve written something powerful,” he said.

Kwabena handed him a copy. By the afternoon, the town’s assemblyman had read it and called to ask if Kwabena could present it at the next youth seminar.

In just three days, his story had moved from his small folder to the hearts of his family and beyond. His father printed 20 more copies and distributed them to local schools. His mother made photocopies for her fellowship group. One even reached the chief’s palace.

The following weekend, at a town durbar, the chief invited Kwabena to speak.

“Young man,” the chief said, “your writing has reminded us that the youth still carry wisdom. May your pen continue to be sharper than the sword.”

Kwabena’s speech was brief but powerful.

“I wrote The Talking Drum not just as an assignment, but as a message. We must tell our own stories. If we don’t write them, someone else will—and they might get them wrong.”

The applause that followed was loud and lasting. Parents urged their children to follow his example. Teachers invited him to their classrooms. Even the district assembly offered to fund his next publication.

When he returned to campus the next semester, he felt different. Not because he had become famous, but because he had found something more meaningful—endorsement not just from a lecturer, but from home. From the place where his journey began.

He had left Ajumako with a manuscript. He returned with validation, encouragement, and love.

And in the quiet of his hostel room, he opened a fresh document and typed the title of his next story:

“The Voice of Home.”

Because now he knew—when your family believes in your dream, the world begins to listen.