The Osimpam Marathon 2025: A Race Against My Own Legs

April 26, 2025. A Saturday morning in Nyarkuadze, a teeny town in the Gomoa East district in the central region of Ghana. The sun already hung high, grinning. I found myself on the starting line among a crowd, waiting for the sound of the gun to dash off. It was the Osimpam Marathon 2025, my first-ever half marathon. Runners had gathered from various parts of the country, mostly student-athletes from universities and senior high schools. There were also a couple of Kenyans and a Burkinabé.

The gun blasted, and my fun run had begun. The pros darted off like hares. But for me, I started at my usual, comfortable pace, 8 mins/mi. Let them kids and pros do their thing; I’ll have fun.

About four miles into the race, some who had started faster began slowing and falling back. That’s when I started gliding past them. The crowds along the route in the various towns cheered us on, and it felt incredible.

Then, suddenly, around mile 7, with just a little under that left to go, I suffered muscle spasms in both legs. I could no longer run at that speed and had to slow down. Soon, I was forced to Jeff (run a bit, walk a bit) to avoid overexerting my legs. Another runner with a similar struggle caught up to me. He had a spray, magic spray and spritzed it on my legs. The relief was slight but enough. He became my running partner. I couldn’t leave him behind, I needed his spray to keep moving, and he leaned on me for motivation not to quit. We pressed on like this until we reached the Valley of Death, one of the most challenging sections of the route. Going downhill was hard, but uphill? Arduous.

To our left, the sea stretched far and wide, kissing the sky as fishing boats danced to the drums of the waves. All we wanted was to cross the finish line, not quit. But then, disaster: we ran out of spray. The pain in my legs intensified. When paramedics and police passed by, I insisted I could keep going. At this point, I was dragging my right leg, limping and jogging in turns. My running partner urged me to quit before things got worse. But I wouldn’t budge.

Women, men, and children in Winneba’s fishing community cheered us on, clapping, screaming. They knew we weren’t winning. But when they saw our determination, they started calling us winners. My legs wobbled beneath me; I ran like Jell-O. Then, about a mile and a half from the finish line, as we inched closer, my legs froze mid-road. I couldn’t move. After two failed attempts to move my legs, I collapsed like a sack of grain. Spectators rushed to my aid, forming a protective ring around me. A policeman called for an ambulance, but I begged him to stop. “let me try one more time, let me drag myself to the finish!” But just ahead loomed the final hurdle: The Hill of Destiny. He knew I wouldn’t make it. “You’ve done enough,” he said. “Be proud.”

As they bundled me into the ambulance, reality hit: it was over. I wept, not from pain, but because I wouldn’t cross that finish line, do my ‘Kolingy’ dance, or hoist my shirt like I’d scored a UCL final-winning goal. It wasn’t meant to be.

At the hospital, I turned and saw the Burkinabé runner I’d met the day before. The radio had touted him as the likely winner. With his broken English and my broken French, we’d shared a hearty chat while walking the last mile of the route preview. Now, he too, lay in a hospital bed. What happened? Did he win and collapse from joy? No. He’d been in the lead when an accident forced him out. What a shame. I’d really wanted him to win. He was just a kind, handsome soul.

But one memory will stay in my heart forever: After surviving the Valley of Death, as my Jell-O legs groaned, four kids, maybe eight or nine years old, stretched their hands out to me. I shook each one, and they held on, running alongside me for a while, lending their tiny strength. One of them said, “God bless you for not quitting.”

Those kids didn’t see a man who wouldn’t finish a race. They saw someone determined to push through anything. In their eyes, I was a winner.

Their hero.

Thanks to family, friends and all you supported me on this journey.