Sharing Our Stories

Some people are born to nurture. Mama Abigail is one of them.

With over 30 years of experience shaping young minds as a schoolteacher in her home country, Abigail built her life around one simple but powerful belief: every child deserves to feel safe, seen, and inspired to learn. She carried that belief across oceans and into a new life in Canada, and not even the weight of change, loss, or starting over could dim the light she brings to every room she enters.

Now a widow and a devoted grandmother, Abigail pours that same boundless love into caring for her grandchildren while volunteering at daycares across the city. She shows up with patience, warmth, and decades of wisdom, the kind that no curriculum can teach.

That journey brought her to Africa Centre.

As a proud participant in Africa Centre’s programming for older adults, Abigail discovered something remarkable: the digital skills she was building in class were opening doors she never expected. Through dedicated learning and determination, she earned her Early Childhood Educator certification from the Government of Alberta, an achievement made possible in large part by the computer literacy she gained at Africa Centre. What began as learning to navigate a screen became the bridge to brand-new professional credentials.

She became a familiar and beloved face in class, always arriving ready, often with her own personal laptop in hand. Then one difficult day, that laptop was lost on the bus. She was devastated. For someone who had worked so hard to build her digital confidence, it felt like more than just a lost device.

Africa Centre stepped in without hesitation. A loaner laptop was provided so her learning would not skip a beat, and the community rallied around her the way good communities do.

Through it all, she never missed a step. She joined summer field trips with laughter and curiosity, reminding everyone around her that joy has no age limit. She continues to grow, to volunteer, to grandmother, and to dream of the classroom where she will one day be hired to do what she has always done best: help children become good learners and kind human beings.

Mama Abigail is not starting over. She is simply continuing — with new tools, new community, and the same unshakeable heart.

Eric Ross has always had something to say. Born in Grenada, West Indies, where the rhythm of language flows as naturally as the Caribbean breeze, Eric developed a deep love for the spoken word from an early age. After attending the Grenada Boys Secondary School and later the Centro Interamericano de Idiomas in Caracas and the Venezuela Cooperation Center, he carried his passion for language across borders and into a new chapter of his life in Canada.

A prolific poet and published author of many books, Eric spent decades pouring his thoughts onto pages. But like many older adults, the rapidly shifting world of technology had become a quiet barrier between him and his fullest potential. That changed when he discovered Africa Centre’s programming for older adults.

Walking through those doors was, as he would later write, stepping into “a place to call home, a space our own.” The warmth was immediate. The purpose was clear.

At Africa Centre, Eric learned to use Microsoft Word’s dictation feature, a revelation for a man whose greatest gift had always been his voice. Suddenly, his spoken words could flow directly onto the screen, effortlessly and accurately. His poetry, once confined to handwritten notes, could now be drafted, edited, and formatted with ease. He also embraced Google Suite, discovering tools that transformed his daily life. He learned to craft a polished resume, communicate more professionally through email, organize his schedule using Google Calendar, store and share his manuscripts on Google Drive, and even collaborate with others through shared documents.

Week after week, Eric showed up with curiosity and consistency. “For the most part I enjoy interchanging things that we have learned on a weekly basis,” he reflected. “I do intend to put my new skills to work when doing research.” And he meant it.

As a tribute to the community that had given him so much, Eric did what he does best: he wrote. His poem “Africa Centre” captures the spirit of the place beautifully, and it is only fitting to let his own words close this story:

Africa Centre welcomes all
Make an appointment, drop in without call
A place to call home, a space our own
A place with resources, a space to take courses
A venue that's teeming and alive
A location to exhale Afro vibes
A venue off the motherland
Where patrons meet and craft out plans
A locale where talents gather and greet
A venue that’s bustling on its feet
A location for tomorrow and today
Projecting with purpose come have a say

Eric Ross arrived at Africa Centre as a gifted poet. He left each session as something more — a writer fully equipped for the modern world, his voice now reaching further than ever before.

Napokoli Situma James leaned closer to the screen, his magnifying lens catching the afternoon light streaming through the window. He pressed Control and the plus sign twice — the keyboard shortcut that had changed everything. The white letters bloomed into focus, clear and readable, no longer the blurry shapes that had frustrated him for so long.

Such a small thing. Such a massive difference.

He positioned his fingers on the keyboard and began typing his email to the teacher.

The Nine Dots

“Everything you need is right here,” the teacher had said during their third week, pointing to the small grid of nine dots in the corner of the screen. “Click this, and you'll see all the Google apps.”

Napokoli clicked. Gmail. Drive. Maps. YouTube. Docs. Sheets. Calendar. All arranged in a neat grid, like a table of contents for the digital world. Before, he had felt lost in a maze of websites and programs, never sure where to find what he needed. Now he had a map. A starting point. Those nine dots became his anchor, his compass in the digital landscape. He felt a surge of relief so profound he almost laughed. This was what he had needed all along; not to memorize everything, but to know where to look.

The Books

The local courier driver now knew him by name. “More books, Mr. James?” she would say, handing over another package with a smile.

“Always more books,” he would reply.

Amazon had seemed impossible at first. How could you trust sending money into the void? But the teacher had shown them, step by step: how to read reviews, check sellers, track orders. His first purchase had been a book about Ugandan history. When it arrived three days later, perfectly packaged, he held it like treasure. He hadn’t needed his children’s help; hadn’t needed to search through multiple bookstores. The world had delivered it to his doorstep.

Now packages arrived weekly. Books about African literature. Cookbooks featuring East African cuisine. Poetry collections. Health and wellness guides. Each box was a small celebration, a reminder that the world’s libraries were at his fingertips — nine dots away.

The Certificates

The day Napokoli walked into class carrying a folder, the teacher noticed his proud smile immediately. “I have something to show you,” he announced, carefully removing two printed certificates: “Nutritional Wellness” and “Healthy Aging,” both from online courses he had discovered and completed on his own.

“Mr. James found these courses himself,” the teacher told everyone. “He enrolled, completed all the lessons, passed the exams, and earned these certificates. This is what independence looks like.”

The class erupted in applause.

At 73, he was still earning credentials, still learning, still growing. The health and nutrition courses taught him about meal planning, the importance of hydration, exercises for seniors, how to read food labels, the benefits of traditional Ugandan foods; practical knowledge he used every day. But more than the information, the certificates represented something bigger: proof that he could navigate this digital world on his own. He could find what he needed. Learn what he wanted. Accomplish what he set out to do.

The Memoirs

There was another real gift: ChatGPT.

Night after night, Napokoli sat with his screen zoomed large, conversing with the AI about his life in Uganda. His childhood village nestled among green hills. His mother’s voice singing traditional songs. The way matoke smelled as it steamed, warm and comforting. Traditional wedding ceremonies with their elaborate rituals. The sound of rain drumming on a tin roof. Stories of his ancestors, their wisdom, their struggles, their triumphs.

“I’m writing my memoirs,” he told his daughter. “Really writing them.”

ChatGPT helped him organize memories chronologically, suggested descriptions for cultural concepts his grandchildren might not understand, asked gentle questions that sparked more recollections. It helped him find the right words when English failed him, honouring the nuances of his Lugisu heritage. It never got tired. Never said, “Not now, Dad.” Never looked at the clock impatiently. It was always there, patient and interested, helping him preserve a lifetime for future generations.

The Thank You

Now Napokoli finished his email:

Dear Teacher,

I am writing to express my deep appreciation for the computer lessons you have been taking us through.

Today I can confidently use email, YouTube, Google Maps, video conferencing, Google Docs and Sheets. You taught me about the nine dots in Google where all the apps I need are found. This simple tool helps me find everything quickly.

You taught me how to enlarge text on my screen, which changed everything for someone with vision problems like mine.

I learned to shop on Amazon and now eagerly await packages, mostly books, that arrive at my door regularly.

I took health and nutrition courses online and proudly brought my certificates to class to show everyone what we can accomplish.

But the greatest gift has been the support of an AI assistant. I am using it to write my life memoirs, preserving stories of my culture and homeland for my grandchildren.

Thank you to our program manager and thank you to our wonderful teacher. You have given us more than computer skills. You have given us independence, confidence, and the tools to keep learning for the rest of our lives.

I remain sincerely yours,

Napokoli Situma James

He clicked Send, then opened a new tab. Nine dots. Click. YouTube appeared. He had been watching documentaries about Uganda’s national parks, seeing his homeland through new eyes, marvelling at the beauty he had left behind and the digital bridge that now connected him to it.

Another package would arrive tomorrow. A book about traditional Luganda proverbs he had ordered last week.

Another chapter of his memoirs waited to be written.

Another health course about aging well caught his eye.

At 73, with his magnifying lens nearby and his screen zoomed large, Napokoli was not slowing down.

He was just getting started.

The morning light filtered through the curtains of Mrs. Ruth’s home in the outskirts of South Edmonton, casting gentle shadows across the living room. At 69, her days had a familiar rhythm, with breakfast preparations, school drop-offs, homework supervision — the endless beautiful chaos of a house filled with four grandchildren. But Mrs. Ruth would shortly step into another world.

It lived in the borrowed laptop propped on her kitchen counter — the device that she opened on the dining table during those precious afternoon hours when the house fell quiet. It was a world she had once watched from a distance, seeing her children and grandchildren navigate it with the ease of people who had grown up breathing its air. For years, she had been content to observe. However, that contentment was not the same as satisfaction.

A Leap of Faith

The day Mrs. Ruth walked through the doors of the Africa Centre, her heart drummed with equal parts trepidation and hope. The Digital Skills class for Older Adults of African Descent seemed designed precisely for someone like her, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps she was too old, too set in her ways, too far behind to catch up.

That first class, she could barely send an email. Her fingers, so deft at braiding her granddaughters’ hair and kneading dough for Nigerian meat pies, felt clumsy on the keyboard. She typed with one finger, hunting and pecking. “It’s like learning to write all over again,” she confessed to the woman beside her.

“Then we’ll learn together,” came the reply. “Just like we did the first time.”

The World Opens

Three months later, Mrs. Ruth sat in her favorite armchair, tablet balanced on her lap, her face illuminated by a Google Meet call. On the screen, many faces smiled back at her — members of her church community and classmates calling in from across Edmonton and beyond. Sunday evening prayer meetings now came to her. The Atlantic Ocean that separated her from relatives in Nigeria had shrunk to the size of a screen.

The real revelation came on a Tuesday afternoon. Mrs. Ruth had always wanted to visit the Stanley Milner Library, to see the beautiful grounds of Churchill Square. But the thought of navigating unfamiliar bus routes alone had kept the wish filed away under “Someday, maybe.” Now, standing at her front door with her phone in hand, she pulled up Google Maps. The blue route appeared like magic. That afternoon, she didn’t just see the fountain. She discovered freedom.

The next week, it was the 118th Avenue African stores near the downtown core. The week after, the Muttart Conservatory. Each destination was a small victory, each solo journey a declaration: I belong here. This city is mine to explore.

The Gift of Discovery

YouTube became her window to endless discovery. Cooking videos showed her new ways to prepare traditional dishes. Travel channels took her to places she’d only dreamed of visiting. She watched tutorials on gardening, learned about different cultures, and laughed at videos her grandchildren recommended. “The world has opened up in ways I never imagined,” she told her daughter, her eyes bright with wonder. “There’s always something new to explore, always something that makes me smile.”

But it was artificial intelligence apps that truly captured her imagination. Late one evening, she typed: “What are the health benefits of moringa leaves?” The answer appeared, detailed and thorough. Soon she was exploring Nigerian history, quilting traditions, how to grow tomatoes in Edmonton’s climate, what causes the Northern Lights. Her curiosity, dormant for so many years under the weight of responsibilities, had awakened with a voracious appetite.

She started keeping a learning journal. “I used to have to go to the library and hope they had the right book,” she explained. “Now I can ask anything, anytime.” Questions led to more questions. One evening, researching for a grandchild’s project turned into three hours discovering the Benin Bronzes, their journey to British museums, the ongoing conversation about cultural repatriation.

Full Circle

On International Literacy Day, Mrs. Ruth arrived at the venue where the celebration event was being held wearing her finest ankara print dress and her biggest smile. When her name was called for the Learner Award nomination, her son’s hand squeezed hers. Her peers and community members whooped and cheered.

“When I came to this program,” she began, “I thought I was too old. I thought my time for learning had passed, that these things were for my children and grandchildren, not for me.” She paused, looking around the room. “But I learned that we are never too old to grow. Never too set in our ways to change. Never too late to discover that the world still has wonders to show us if we’re brave enough to look.”

When she arrived home that afternoon, her youngest granddaughter ran up, throwing small arms around her waist. “Grandma, you’re famous now!”

Mrs. Ruth laughed. “No, sweet one. I’m just someone who learned that every ending can be a beginning if you let it.”

Still Building

These days, Mrs. Ruth calls her sister in Abuja any time she finds free Wi-Fi. Sometimes it’s at the library, sometimes a community centre lobby, sometimes a café where she buys a tea and sits quietly near the window. When the video clears, she turns the phone around to show Edmonton in small, familiar pieces. A playground where the kids climb and shout even when the air is sharp. The river valley trails dusted with snow. A bus rumbling past downtown lights. Her sister laughs and shakes her head. “You’re always showing me somewhere new.” Mrs. Ruth smiles. “I’m learning my city,” she says, “and I’m still building.”

Back at home, during those quiet hours, she opened her learning journal — a Google Doc now — and typed: “Today I learned that growth doesn’t stop. Not at 60, not at 70, not ever. The world keeps changing, and we can change with it. We can choose curiosity over comfort, connection over isolation, possibility over fear. It’s never too late to learn. Never too late to grow. Never too late to begin.”

She saved the document, sending it to the cloud where it would live safely forever. Then she closed her laptop and went to wake her grandchildren for school. The day was waiting, full of small discoveries and quiet triumphs, and Mrs. Ruth — digital navigator, lifelong learner, grandmother, widow, woman of courage — was ready for all of it.