In 1962, my Dad earned a scholarship to study overseas. In those days, Kwame Nkrumah was the President or Ghana. President Nkrumah had come to study in the U.S. – so he encouraged top students to go overseas and get educated — and to come back with what they had learned. My father was deciding between London, England and Minneapolis, Minnesota. His best friend was going to London. His brother was in Minneapolis, MN. He decided to follow his brother Stephen. He chose family over comfort.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with Minnesota. It is a beautiful state in the Midwest. It is well known for having 10,000 lakes. Very nice people. But it is COLD. It is the kind of cold that makes your fingertips numb, your eyes water, your teeth chatter. The kind of cold weather that makes you angry. I know this anger well because I remember standing at the bus stop, at 5 years old, being angry! I would stand there and ask God why my Dad had to leave the Equator in Ghana to go to Minnesota? It’s cold, he doesn’t need 10,000 lakes he didn’t even know how to swim; why not London?

But I grew up in Moundsview, Minnesota. My name is Lisa Fordjour Opoku. My family calls me Adwoa Fordjour. I was named after my Grandmother; my Mother Janet Opoku’s mother, Elizabeth Adwoa Fordjour Gyekye. Growing up, we were a close knit family. Both of my parents modeled hard work. My Dad was an Accountant. My Mom was a midwife. My Mom worked 16 hours a day for the first 10 years of my life. They believed in having a strong work ethic. My brother Steve, sister Carol and I were also taught that education was EVERYTHING. Strangely, I don’t even remember any direct conversations on education. I just remember this kind of constant threat in the air. Getting a bad grade in our house was a sin. I can never forget this one semester in junior high school getting 8 As and an A-. When I showed my Dad my school report card, he said if you could get 8 As you could get 9 As. I protested “Dad, that A- was in gym!” He said “that is the easiest class of all – education is a privilege.”

Throughout my childhood, my parents had this view that we were visitors in America. We grew up with this mindset – it was similar to the way you are supposed to behave when you are a kid visiting someone else’s house? “Don’t touch anything,” make sure you say “please” and “thank you.”

We were guests.

We were living this life in Minnesota that felt temporary to them. Ghana was home. When I was 8 years old, I recall asking my Dad why bandages were pink. He told me – “because they don’t make them for you. They don’t even think about you when they are making them.”

“You are not from here.”

I forgot to mention something else besides the cold and the nice people in Minnesota. The population wasn’t racially diverse at all – in fact it was almost entirely white. I guess that is why the band aids were pink — to match their flesh – not mine. I had visited Ghana when I was just 2 years old. I didn’t remember that trip. So, I was a bit confused by my parents always telling me that “we are not from here.” But I could also sense it through the subtle band aid like messages. As a child, no one on TV or in politics looked like me. None of my teachers were Black. Not even one. In my school there was me, and my sister and one other Black student named Perry. That was it. There was no Oprah Winfrey back then, no Barack Obama. Everything changed for me when I came to Ghana at 12 years old.

We landed at Kotoka Airport. For your relatives greeting you — there was this awesome rooftop area where they could view of the planes landing and wave at you. You could see their eyes squinting at you as you walked down onto the tarmac. I was mesmerized from the minute I stepped off of the plane into the 90-degree heat. As walked into the airport with our bags, a huge sign said AKWAABA. Which means WELCOME. Being in Ghana, it was quietly affirming to look around and see people who like me everywhere. All of the food that we ate in Minnesota that was so strange to my friends there – kenkey, spinach stew, ground nut soup — but in Accra, they were the staples. I didn’t have to explain the difference between a plantain and a banana to anyone here. I absolutely loved it!

On that trip I found out where I came from.

My Mom is from a village called Worasu, just outside of Kumasi, near Kumawu. My Mom’s family history is fascinating. Her Mom had her older brother Uncle Kwaku Asiedu and then was infertile for 16 years. My Grandmother was given a fertility doll, and then, finally had a baby after 16 years of trying. Imagine the joy my Grandmother, affectionately called “Madwoa” had when she finally had a baby girl 16 years after the birth of her son. That baby girl was my Mother. Ama Mfum. Mfum means – surprise. The story of her birth was legendary – and still is even today. My Mom was then blessed with a baby brother named Kwame Adu Acheampong.

When we got to Ghana — unfortunately, my Mom’s older brother, the one 16 years older than her, Uncle Kwaku, had died. But when I came to Ghana, his children were waiting for me. Sister Boatema, Charles, Felix, Ernest, and Elizabeth. So when I came to Ghana, Uncle Kwame was my anchor. He always called me “LEEZA.” For some reason the “s” sound never came out of his mouth. His kids were Emmanuel, Kantinka, Kwesi, Aboagye, Anima and Gyekye. It was clear that the way my Grandmother loved her kids created this incredible bond between her three children — it spread from those siblings to my cousins. They were all inseparable. Family is EVERYTHING among the Gyekyes.

The Year of the Return, for me, was 1984. And, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. I felt complete — not ever having been aware of what was missing before then. In the U.S., many Black people deal with overt racism and internalized oppression. Ghana was the opposite. Here, for me, I found external validation, even exaltation. Kwame Nkrumah once said, “I am not African because I was born in Africa, but because Africa was born in me.” I knew who I was from then on. I went back to America – even more confident.

I continued my education through undergraduate in Minnesota. When I applied to law school in 1993, I didn’t really know how to choose so I applied to all of the top 25 schools. Soon after, an advisor told me that I would never get into the Top schools I had applied to. Even though I was graduating – summa cum laude – with the highest honors. It was a good thing I had already applied. Because she didn’t know who I was…

I remember calling my roommate Kylie Davis to check my mail. Yes — this was before you got your news via email! If you were accepted it, the news came in a big envelope with all of the information. If you were rejected, it was a small envelope. When I called, Kylie said – “You got a big envelope from Harvard!” She opened it, and confirmed I had been accepted. I was with my parents at the time. My Mom said – “Even when I was in the village, I knew about Harvard. Who knew I would have a baby and that baby would go to Harvard?”

Ironically, Harvard Law School was my Black experience in America. There were about 70 Black people in my class. It was the first time I had more than one Black school friend. It was an amazing community, I learned as much inside the classroom as outside. So many of my dearest friends are still those HLS classmates. I focused on Corporate Tax and went to practice tax law in Washington, D.C.

When I entered into Corporate America, I was back in the extreme minority again. I lived in Washington, D.C. – which is known as “Chocolate City” because there are so many Black people there. But, there were very few Black people – at work – other than two incredible Black female mentors (Rhonda Crichlow and Claire). In a way, I was back in Minnesota again in again.

There are no ancestors for Back professionals in Corporate America.

There are a very few Elders — like Bayo Ogunlesi, Joseph Boateng and Bernie Mensah – to whom we give the utmost respect. The lack of ancestors sometimes creates the same feeling I had back in Minnesota. We often feel like visitors – when we should feel at home. I am immune to that feeling. I grew up being “othered.” My immunity – my band aid – let me tell you, is not fleshy pink. It is Black. It is pride in my color and culture, and knowing how to heal when I am hurt, in the way that is right for me.

If the place where I am is not accepting me – I will change the place. I will not change the Black woman that I am. The idea of going overseas is always appealing. But, the streets are most definitely not paved in Gold. I hope you recognize that there is so much Gold here in Africa. Six years into my career at Goldman, I was disappointed about being passed over for a promotion. I wanted to leave and move to Ghana. Thanks to my friend Edith Kufuor, President Kufuor is a dear friend and mentor of mine. I discussed my plans to return to Ghana with him.

He told me not to move back to Ghana at that time. He sent me right back to Goldman Sachs. He lectured me with this Akan proverb about finishing the work: ADWUMA YE SIN NNI AKATUA.

It means – “Incomplete Work Has No Reward.”

If you know President Kufuor, he has an incredibly brilliant mind and this booming voice – when he talks to you he shares great advice — almost creating his own 21st century Akan proverbs. The wisdom and the tone leave you without any options but to heed his advice. I listened to President Kufuor and two years later, I was promoted to partner at Goldman Sachs – but his words remain true. I still haven’t finished the work.

There is so much more I hope we can do together. President Kufuor had a dream for me. Through his dream, I am creating a beautiful network of people at Goldman Sachs. The ancestors of the future. Goldman Sachs now has an Africa Recruiting Initiative — we recruit from Ashesi University – Patrick’s Dream. In fact, two of my Goldman Sachs colleagues are here and graduating today. Congratulations and Akwaaba – welcome to Goldman Sachs.

But, where would the students be without the faculty? We take off our hats with respect for each and every one of the professors, lecturers, and staff here today. Thank you so much for your guidance, patience, and wisdom.

To the graduates — you are all surrounded here today by loved ones. Whoever that special person is — the one who guided you across the street so you would not be hit by a trotro — know that they were alive before you were born, they watched you grow, believed in you, they invested in you. They know how special you are. Make sure you know your history. Make sure you know who YOU are!

To every single one of you parents, relatives, mentors, and sponsors who held that child’s hand, worked hard to provide more than twenty years of education, wisdom, and invested so much in your Ashesi graduate. THANK YOU SO MUCH for you love and support. Thank you for your investment in these students.

Your work is well completed.

To the Ashesi class of 2020, each and every one of you is the dream of your Mother and Father, your Grandmother, your Grandparents, your Aunts and Uncles. It is not about getting great grades or degrees for your parents — it’s about what you do with that knowledge. It’s about how you finish the work that Patrick Awuah started.

In Ghanaian culture, we pour libation at celebrations to pay respect to these great ancestors. The way you thank those who invested in you is by cherishing that ancestry and building your own legacy. Build a strong foundation for the generation after you. Please remember — your identity is an asset. There is an African proverb that says

“Dreams are the voices of our ancestors.”

Listen to them. Learn from them. You were at Ashesi because you are independent thinkers. Most of us spend our lives in the back seat with someone else driving. It is your responsibility to take control of where you are going.

I have profound joy being here today. My Mom’s older brother, the one born 16 years before her – his son Felix is here. And Felix’s son Kwabena Asiedu Gyekye is in this 2020 Ashesi graduating class. We are so proud of you Kobby. You are the Grandson of Maadwoa, the son of Felix and Joyce Gyekye, the sister of Maame, the nephew of Boatema, Charles, Ernest and Elizabeth Gyekye — the uncle of Jordan and Austin and the realization of all of our dreams come true.

To each and every member of the class of 2020. Thank YOU for the joy that you have brought to each and every one of us here witnessing your incredible achievement today. Never forget that we are all praying for you.

Kwame Nkrumah’s dream was what took my father to the US.

Patrick Awuah’s dream is what brought you to Ashesi.

It is a dream come true for me to be here with you today.

Let me ask you?

What are your dreams?
Where will your dreams take all of us…?

You are our great grandchildren’s ancestors.

We are counting on you!

God Bless You!