Last week, the health community in Ghana was shaken by the tragic death of a 47-year-old emergency physician.

Dr. Kwame Adu Ofori, who had devoted his life to saving lives, suffered a myocardial infarction and urgently required percutaneous coronary intervention (PCI).

What does this mean? He had a “heart attack” because one of the blood vessels that supply his heart was blocked.

To save his life, doctors needed to quickly do a special procedure to open the blocked vessel and restore blood flow.

This is usually done by passing a small tube through a blood vessel in the hand or leg to reach the heart, then using a balloon or placing a tiny metal tube (called a stent) to keep the blood vessel open.

However, as fate and systemic failure would have it, there was no catheterization laboratory (cath lab) at Komfo Anokye Teaching Hospital (KATH).

Painfully, he died before gaining access to intervention in Accra. This Doctor had spent all his life saving people yet when his country had that one chance to come to his rescue, the system failed him! 

In Memory of Dr. Kwame Adu Ofori
Friday, 4th July 2025

“To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.”
— Thomas Campbell

On the night of Friday, 6th September 2020, a woman’s life hung by a thread. Amid chaos, urgency, and limited resources, one man stood firm and steady - Dr. Kwame Adu Ofori, a skilled emergency physician on duty at Komfo Anokye Teaching Hospital’s triage.

This story was first written to capture the extraordinary teamwork that night. Today, we re-release it in memory of Dr. (med) Ofori, whose quiet decisive action, and compassionate leadership helped bring a woman back from the brink.

Though he is no longer with us, his example continues to light the path for those of us still on duty. This is our tribute to him—a true healer, a comrade in care, a friend of the human race.

It was 9:30 p.m. on Friday, 6th September 2020. I was locking up Garrison Pharmacy with my colleagues, Pharm. Nana Adwoa Nyarko and Pharm. Charlotte Leeward, when a woman burst through our doors shouting, “Doctor, save me, I’m dying!” Sweating profusely, she collapsed to the floor in respiratory distress, crackling with every gasp.

A piece of garlic and a solitary Ghana cedi coin rolled to rest near the counter as silent witnesses to the moment.

“Doctor, I can’t breathe. Doctor, I can’t breathe. Doctor, save me.” she repeated, eyes wide with panic.

I asked if she was asthmatic, and her response was a firm no. She said she was well and not sick. According to her, she had simply stepped out to use the KVIP (public toilet) when she was suddenly hit by breathlessness. The odour in the air around her showed that she had lost control in her distressed state. 

I pushed in 5 puffs of salbutamol inhaler. Five minutes passed yet no sign of relief. She was drenched in sweat. I didn’t check her BP in the whirlwind of it all.

Pharm. Nana Adwoa Nyarko, our pharmacist intern, sprang into action and drove her car to the front of the pharmacy. The three of us struggled to lift this obese client who had become a dead weight and managed to get her into the car. Nana sped off while I sat with the patient. Pharm. Charlotte stayed behind to mind the pharmacy.

At the hospital, it was chaotic while we rushed her into triage. As a doctor scribbled his notes, we were asked her name—we had no idea. Oxygen mask was quickly secured onto her face. Her BP was 240/120, pulse 186. She was deteriorating. Her eyes rolled back as we all encouraged her to breathe.

“She’s growing cold!” one nurse shouted to the doctor, who swiftly rushed in.

Time to set a line.

“We need 160 mg Frusemide,” he ordered, voice steady and firm. He stepped out of triage and I followed close behind.

“Please, we need 160 mg Frusemide,” I told a pharmacy staff at the counter as we approached them. The doctor was anxiously waiting at the pharmacy counter. There was a brief hesitation from the pharmacy personnel, and I sensed his urgency. I stepped in and assured them: I would replace the Frusemide.

Eii, this era of cash and carry… hmmm. A woman was clearly dying or highly distressed, and here we were delayed by bureaucracy of payment and accountability, and the harsh realities of a cash-and-carry system at that point in time. Why don’t they have these emergency medicines in a medicine cabinet in triage and why isn’t a pharmacist working at the triage if medicines reconciliation was an issue?, l kept thinking about it as we walked away.

Back in triage, the frusemide ampoules were quickly snapped, drawn and administered through the line that was now set. The triage was cramped and overwhelmed. Some patients were being treated outside. There were no beds, so some sat in wheelchairs, urinating freely onto the floor, while a diligent cleaner tried to keep up, mopping constantly to keep the environment safe and hygienic.

“We don’t have GTN here. Can you get it from your pharmacy?”, the doctor asked me.

Before he finished, I was already on my way.

In less than five minutes, I was back. A nurse placed the GTN tablet under the patient’s tongue using a spatula handed over by Nana, who was now gloved and assisting with composure and skill.

Time to transfer her to a recliner. With four of us lifting, it was still a struggle. We moved her to a ward only to be redirected again due to a lack of beds. She remained cold but alive. The monitors were connected, and the doctors started a full assessment.

At that moment, her partner walked in. She had left for the KVIP while he was getting ready to travel for a funeral early the next morning. He had waited for her return, then began searching when he noticed the delay.

The mystery of the one cedi and the garlic became clearer.

Stabilized at last, her partner was asked to pay 80 cedis for an ECG. He looked unprepared. When he muttered that treatment would have been cheaper at a nearby primary level clinic.

I was livid and snapped:

“You would have met a dead body if we hadn’t brought her here!”

While the doctors and nurses warmly congratulated us for our swift action and dedication, her “husband” remained unmoved. But for us, we seek no glory, for we are amici humani generis - friends of the human race.

We left the hospital at 11:00 p.m., silently praying that she would pull through.

Tomorrow is another day.

A New Dawn, A Second Chance

She survived!

Hurray! We had a lovely conversation with the client. She’s alive and kicking. BP: 140/92.

I asked her about her garlic 😊. She said when she felt palpitations before leaving the house for the KVIP, her traditional knowledge told her that garlic would help.

But as she was at the KVIP, the heart pain became unbearable. She hurriedly hailed a taxi and directed the driver to our pharmacy. The driver, moved by her condition, gave her a free ride up to the military gate. Since it was past 6:00 p.m., cars weren’t allowed in. She painfully walked the remaining 60 metres to the pharmacy.

She recalled tightly clinging to Nana, feeling certain she was about to die, yet hoping against hope.

She remembered nothing after triage.

Today, she was full of smiles, gracious with her words. She blessed us and profusely thanked us.

It is a happy story and a happy day for us at Garrison Pharmacy.

That night, amid uncertainty and urgency, Dr. Kwame Adu Ofori was a pillar of clarity and courage. His skill, swiftness, and empathy helped avert a life-threatening acute hypertensive pulmonary edema and that required immediate emergency care. In those tense moments at the triage, he stood tall - not just as a physician, but as a guardian of life.

We dedicate this retelling to his memory. A soldier has fallen this week. The emergency physician needed emergency care but the healer couldn’t heal himself. His contribution lives on in every heartbeat he helped restore and in every professional he inspired.

Fare thee well, Dr. Ofori. You served with honour. You left us too soon.

Garrison Pharmacy – Here for Your Wellness
A salute to service.
A tribute to teamwork.
A call to compassion.

Richmond Adusa-Poku
Nana Adwoa Nyarko
Charlotte Leeward

They are all pharmacists