Shadow of my father

The Day the Shadow of My Father Came to Clinic

It was a clinic day like any other—or so it began.

We arrived early, as we always did. The fellows and I moved through the familiar rituals: pulling notes, writing X-ray cards, checking lists, arranging the room so the day would run smoothly and, if we were lucky, finish on time. There is a quiet pride in a well-run clinic, a sense that preparation is a form of respect—for patients, for colleagues, for yourself.

My father had died in my second year of medical school. By then, his absence had become something I carried rather than something that stopped me in my tracks. But absence has weight, and it shifts depending on where you are in life. Some days it is light. Other days it presses down.

He had been a General Practitioner in Ghana, but his story began far from home. He trained at the University of St Andrews in Scotland, alongside his two brothers. Together, they were known not just for their academic brilliance but for their range of talents. His eldest brother became Ghana’s first pathologist and competed in the Olympics as a Long jumper. My father earned a St Andrews Blue for table tennis and represented Ghana table tennis internationally. His youngest brother went on to become Ghana’s first plastic surgeon. Achievement was not incidental in my family; it was expected, but never loudly so. Excellence was assumed, not announced.

That morning, as patients filtered into the waiting area, I noticed an elderly Black gentleman sitting quietly among them. He must have been in his seventies. He was well dressed, composed, with a presence that felt deliberate rather than demanding. There was nothing outwardly remarkable about him—no urgency, no fuss—but something about the way he sat caught my eye.

I thought nothing more of it.

As I walked past the waiting area to call the next patient, he stood slightly and spoke. His voice was calm, assured.

“Are you Sammy Laing’s son?”