When I reflect on my years on Kwabotwe Hill, I do not remember only classrooms, examinations, or speech days. I remember legends. I remember hierarchy. I remember rhythm. I remember fear. I remember laughter echoing through the dining hall.
What stays with me most, however, is not any single moment—but the systems that shaped us.
The Warriors — And My Brief Attempt to Become One
When I arrived on the hill, we heard of the exploits of Moses Baiden Jnr and Spanner in martial arts, though I never met them in school. Their stories were told with such conviction that they bordered on myth.
We were told Moses Baiden Jnr had a black belt in Shotokan and became a national champion by Form Three. We heard he could break Globe padlocks with his bare hands and leap from the three-storey Bartels/Sneath Upper Dorm, landing firmly on his feet.
Whether every detail was literal no longer matters. What mattered was what they represented—discipline, physical mastery, and a standard of excellence that inspired awe.
Inspired by these legends, I joined the martial arts team. I wanted to test myself. I wanted to belong to that tradition of strength.
Reality, however, arrived swiftly.
In the Freeman-Aggrey Chop Box Room, during my very first training session, I received a kick that instantly recalibrated my ambitions. It was precise, decisive, and unforgettable. That moment ended my martial arts career as quickly as it began. I left the team and never returned.
Some lessons on Kwabotwe Hill are philosophical. Others are delivered through the sole of a foot.
Among the warriors of our time were Swele, Zadok, Russell, and Jerome (Vandam)—each carrying forward that tradition of strength, presence, and reputation.
The Popular
Not all power on the hill came from fear or physical dominance. Some wielded influence through presence, charisma, and control of space.
Escujay of Locoshua was one such figure. Wherever he went, you would hear the chant: “Escujay! EscuJay!” He was genuinely loved by junior boys.
If you were a junior visiting Locoshua, there was an unspoken expectation: your shoes would be polished—and YOU GO TUA. There was no announcement, no negotiation. It was simply how things worked. (Senior boy, I beg—e be Amey Dovlo wey e say make I talk.)
Escujay did not need to threaten. The system around him functioned with quiet efficiency. You complied not only out of fear, but because his authority felt natural—almost institutional.
He represented a different kind of hierarchy—the popular: those who defined culture, controlled access, and shaped everyday experiences in subtle but undeniable ways.
Then there was Submarine—a legend of a different kind.
He ran the 5000-metre race for Pickard/Parker during inter-house athletics competitions. Ironically, he almost always came last. Whether that was by design or circumstance, I cannot tell.
But that was never the point.
Because of his short stature and bow-legged stride, he drew the loudest chants on the field:
“Submarine! Submarine! Submarine!”
By the time the rest of the runners had finished, he often still had nearly two laps left.
And yet, we cheered him on.
We waited—almost ritualistically—for one moment: the final lap.
As he approached the last 100 metres, something changed. He would lean forward and accelerate with a burst of speed so sudden and unexpected that it left everyone stunned. The same boy who had trailed the entire race would suddenly sprint like a specialist.
The senior field would erupt:
“Submarine! Submarine! Submarine!”
As he charged toward the finishing line—long after the race had officially ended.
To this day, I still wonder why he never ran the 100 metres for his house—he might have won.
Then there was Toziah—quiet, gentle, and never in a hurry. His steps were measured, almost ceremonial. Whether he was late for a gathering did not matter. He moved at his own pace, enjoying the chants:
“Toooziah! Toooziah!”
Among the popular boys of our time were Rt. Rev. Dr. Buzèngè Pacheco, Toro, Gosh Willie, Buzzles, Pralay, Labanka, Yalee, Dizensky, Todi Bobo, Yaw B, Chento, Gbeetsatsu, Afaglo, Ragus, Cee Bubu, Scarface, Apio, Don Raps, Strongbow, and Alhaji.
The Feared
But not all influence was admired—some was simply feared.
Every era had figures whose mere mention altered posture.
In Form One, the most feared senior was nicknamed Ajara, or Lucifer. The legend was chillingly simple and striking. He always wore a neatly shaved punk, and you could not look him in the face twice. He disciplined his mates and even seniors, projecting an authority that needed no formal backing.
I never entered Sarbah/Picot House for fear of running into him until he left the school.
Then there were Shaba Stone, Tetelee, Amanyaa, I Trust My Leg, Robocop, Rato, Rexy B, Galamsey, and Prefect Akornu. Together, they formed part of the psychological architecture of the school.
Because of them, certain rooms became no-go areas for junior boys: Soweto and High Tension were particularly dreaded. Bartels/Sneath itself became a no-go area for many juniors.
Junior boys often retreated to the Prayer Chapel—not merely out of fear of punishment, but out of reverence for reputation. Ironically, this fear pushed many into SU, Joyful Way, and Calvary Road—finding refuge, identity, and faith.
Looking back, these figures tested boundaries and, in doing so, strengthened those who endured. In many ways, it was evangelism clothed in fear—and they won many souls for Christ.
The Dining Hall Bombers
“Servers, times are hard, so stop bombing.” — Prefect Albert Larnyoh (MOBA ’89)
If the feared enforced order, the dining hall revealed something else entirely: how power behaves when left unchecked.
Only Form Three boys were permitted to serve in the dining hall. Each table of twenty-four boys had two servers and a table head. Within that simple structure lay enormous influence—the power to allocate food.
To “bomb” was to serve others small portions while heaping one’s own plate.
Boamah Touché, CK Averme, Yaapisi, Kwame Danquah, Kwame Asante, Dr. Paa Bobo, Adjei Sefah, Sir Gaul ’91, Patrice, and Pastora come to mind—though every year group had its notorious bombers.
Bombing rarely ended quietly. It often sparked what we all knew as “scattey.” It began with a frustrated boy shouting “Scatteyyyy!”—a signal that instantly disrupted order. Plates shifted, protests rose, and boys fought for their portions as if their lives depended on that meal.
Fiifi Banson and I developed our own strategy. While others rushed into the chaos, we stayed calm. Fiifi went straight for the soup, while I positioned myself to collect the balls falling off the bowl. It was our quiet way of winning in the midst of disorder.
Some boys were banned from serving. It was our early education in distributive justice.
Power without accountability always leaves a mark—even when exercised with a ladle.
Was It Destruction or Youthful Exuberance?
The school underwent a massive facelift in the 1988/89 academic year. Dormitories were painted and fitted with louvre blades. I recall Mr. Inkumsah of Crocodile Merchant fame donating bunk beds.
Yet boys found their own way to “celebrate.”
Louvre blades were broken—not quietly, but theatrically. The sound of shattering glass would trigger applause, spreading from one house to another like wildfire.
Walls, freshly painted, became canvases. Boys inscribed: “I was here some”—signing their presence into history. Others wrote lyrics from their favourite songs, nicknames, and even the nicknames of staff.
As we celebrate the school’s 150th anniversary—and the new facelift underway—perhaps it is time to atone.
Those who broke the louvre blades, those who defaced the walls, those who clapped—and those who looked on—have all sinned and fallen short of the glory of Kwabotwe.
Kindly donate a bucket of paint or a packet of louvre blades to atone for your sins.
What the Hill Gave Us
As we mark 150 years of Mfantsipim, I have come to appreciate that the enduring gift of Kwabotwe was not merely academic formation; it was social formation.
We learned aspiration from the warriors.
We learned resilience from the feared.
We learned leadership from those who commanded spaces and moments.
We learned culture and influence from the popular.
We learned fairness—sometimes the hard way—from the bombers.
But more importantly, we learned how systems work—and how people behave within them.
Kwabotwe taught us that power can inspire, intimidate, organize, or corrupt. That reputation can be earned, imposed, or inherited. That survival sometimes requires strategy—and that fairness is rarely automatic; it must be insisted upon.
These lessons followed us beyond the hill—into lecture halls, boardrooms, relationships, and leadership.
We arrived as boys navigating hierarchy, myth, and scarcity. We left with instincts sharpened by experience—more observant, more adaptive, and more aware of the human condition.
Kwabotwe did not simply educate me.
It tested me, startled me, humbled me—and, in moments, quite literally, kicked sense into me.
And in the years since, I have come to understand:
These were the real lessons beyond the classroom.
As we look ahead to the next 150 years, the question is not only what Mfantsipim will teach—but what it will choose to preserve, refine, and outgrow. The Hill must continue to produce men of discipline, courage, and conviction, but with an even deeper commitment to empathy, fairness, and integrity. The legends will evolve, the systems will change, and the structures will modernize—but the essence must remain: a place where boys are not only challenged, but shaped into men who lead with purpose and responsibility. If our time on Kwabotwe taught us how to navigate power, then the generations to come must learn how to wield it wisely.
Because long after we left the Hill, the Hill never left us.
- Read also
- Mfantsipim School @ 150 and Creech’s Mfantsipim Diaries: My First Shock
- Mfantsipim School @ 150 and Creech’s Mfantsipim Diaries: My second shock
- Mfantsipim School @ 150 and Creech’s Mfantsipim Diaries: Shock Number Three
- Creech’s Mfantsipim Diaries. My final shock
The writer is Philip Creech-Jones of MOBA 1992 (Mfantsipim Old Boys Association).
