The Season I Bet on Myself
By Dr. Ato Kwamena Danso · 11 August 2026 · Pan-Africanism
It has been a long time since I put pen to paper for you, and I owe you an apology for the silence, though in my defense, life in Obimanso has kept both hands full. Summer is easing toward its exit now, the trees are getting ready to shed, and I'm out here shedding right alongside them, watching the little hair I have left stage its own quiet retreat.
Truth is, I've been busy building something. Between work and the slow grind of my own education, I finally sat down and asked myself the question I'd been dodging for years: how do I make this work for myself? So I did what any reasonably stubborn person does. I drew up a business plan, built a website, electronic medical system application put together the tools to make the work lighter, and when the moment finally felt right, I walked into my bosses' office and told them that after three and a half years of showing up, fully, for this company and for the patients who trusted me with their lives, I was leaving.
They tried to keep me. Offered a bonus that, next to what I was walking toward, felt like a drop tossed into an ocean. Everyone I told was sad to see me go, genuinely sad, not the polite office kind. My patients promised to find me wherever I ended up. And somewhere in all of that, I realized something I hadn't let myself believe before: they had stopped seeing me as just the African with the funny last name and the thick accent. My fufu accent never left me, not for one syllable, but somewhere along the way, it stopped being the first thing people noticed.
The Friday after I gave my notice, I walked in with a full caseload, knowing that by the end of each session I'd have to tell another patient I was leaving in four weeks. Some took it in stride. Others sat in stunned quiet. A few cried, and then wished me well anyway, which might be the most generous thing a person can do: grieve you and bless you in the same breath. It was a long, unbroken day. I didn't even take my break; I spent it filing refill requests instead, fueled by nothing but a large, slowly melting cup of iced coffee and sheer stubbornness.
Then, near the end of the day, my manager called me in for a meeting. I'll admit, I let myself hope it was a counteroffer. It was not. I was told to pack up and leave, effective immediately, with no room even to close out my notes for the day's work. They were scared of I'd take all their patients. Fifteen-plus patients seen, eight hours given, and somehow I was expected to walk away without pay for it. I pushed back. She relented, reluctantly, and gave me the time to finish. That evening, tired but unbroken, I launched my website and called a friend about joining his practice.
Monday morning, felt weird, I didn't rush to start seeing patients, woke up late, relaxed but my new work phone would not stop buzzing. Patients had already found me When I opened the application Clarity EHR, It was clear as day, as I could see 3 patients already booked through the website and now on the application. The app now working as it should
That was the moment it landed fully: they had never just seen a Black man with an accent doing a job. They saw someone who mattered to their lives. And now I get to build the rest of this, on my own terms, carrying that with me.
On the side, I teach at my alma mater, one day a week to keep my frontal lobe sharp. There's something about watching a lesson click into place behind someone's eyes that does something no bonus check ever could. I've started thinking that before I retire, maybe teaching stops being the thing I do on the side and becomes the thing I do, full stop.
And through all of it, understand this: you cannot break an African man. Not this kind. The kind raised on dumso, who learned to do homework by lantern light when the lights cut and to ration bathwater like it was gold, because some weeks it was. The kind who has already walked through the shadow of the valley of darkness and kept walking, because turning back was never really an option. That boy from Obimanso, scanty water, unreliable light, and all, is the same stubborn man who quit a good job to bet on himself. You don't survive dumso and then flinch at a hard Friday of goodbyes.
And now winter beckons. It will be cold, Osagyefo, the kind of cold that used to mean dragging myself out into the dark to make it to work on time. Not anymore. The journey of the thousand miles will have bumpy roads, will begin with a step. This year I'll be home in my pyjamas, planted in my favorite corner, coffee within reach, seeing my lovely patients from the comfort of my own four walls. Now if you're see me less, it's because I'm doing more. Let it snow.
A little less hair than before,
Ato_KD