Two Years With Nana Ama: A Letter to My Daughter on Her Second Birthday

My dearest Nana Ama,

You are turning two.

Someday—years from now—you’ll read this. Maybe you’ll smile, maybe you’ll roll your eyes, or maybe you’ll just hold it quietly. That’s fine. This is not just for now. This is a small offering to your future self. A time capsule of who you were at two, and who I am now—two years into becoming your father.

At two, you already have your own way of walking, of claiming space. You don’t just run—you stomp with purpose. When you’re excited, you squeal and twirl, your joy bubbling over like a pot refusing its lid. When you’re upset, your whole body becomes protest. You love being indoors, watching cartoons on your mum’s phone, and you’ve cracked her screen a few times already. You protest loudly when screen time ends, crying as though betrayed. And you always cry when I try to hold you—as if teasing me for my absence.

You speak in bursts. Half-sentences. Bold declarations. You call your mother “Mama”, and call me by strange-sounding names when you want to tease me. You dance even when there’s no music. You hug with your whole body. And when you laugh, it’s as if the world briefly becomes new again.

You don’t yet know the weight of your name.

One day, you’ll learn about the woman you are named after—Prof. Ama Ata Aidoo. I wish you had met her. I wish she had held you, even once. She passed just weeks before you were born, but her words remain—fierce and alive. Like you, she was sharp, thoughtful, funny. She wrote stories that dared to see African women in full: unbowed, complex, unapologetically human.

It wasn’t just her brilliance that moved me—it was her clarity. Her understanding of this world’s limits and its possibilities. She once wrote:

“No matter what anybody says, we can’t have it all. Not if you are a woman. Not yet.”

That truth still echoes. And that’s why I named you after her—not just to honour her legacy, but to invite you into it. I want your name to be a mirror and a compass. I want it to remind you of your place in the world, of where you come from, and what you are capable of building.

Two years into being your father, I’ve learned more than I can explain. I used to think parenting was mostly about teaching. But you—you’ve turned me into a student again. You’ve taught me to be tender without shame. To sit on the floor and marvel at the simplest things. To stretch time. To feel time. To live, not just survive.

I no longer measure life by milestones or bank accounts, but by your laughter. Your peace. Your sleep. The smell of your hair after a bath. The way you rest your head on my chest when the world feels too loud.

Still, I have no illusions. The world you are growing into can be cruel. It can be loud in the wrong ways and quiet in the wrong places. But my job is not to shield you from all of it. My job is to prepare you. To give you tools, language, love. To teach you when to speak up, and when to walk away. To help you know that you matter, even when the world forgets.

Two years ago, I held you in my arms and promised to raise you with all the things I didn’t have. That promise still stands. I cannot give you a perfect world, but I can give you a love that is relentless and real.

So here’s to you, Nana Ama—the girl who carries a great name, a great spirit, and a light all her own.

May you grow fierce and soft in equal measure.
May you find joy without guilt.
May you always know that your father loves you, wildly and without condition.

Happy birthday, my little moon.
Your name was a prayer before you were born.
And now, you are the answer.

With all my love,
Daddy