Hogwarts, VHS Tapes, and Why My Inner Child Refuses to Retire

Some people drink green juice to stay young at heart. Me? I just rewatch all Harry Potter parts at least once a month and remind myself that maybe, just maybe, my Hogwarts letter got lost in the mail.

When I think about my childhood treasures, I don’t remember dolls or board games. I mean I loved Barbie, still do and even more now since the movie but what I remember are cassette tapes—those chunky VHS ones that felt like they carried entire worlds inside them. My uncle, Uncle Kweku, made sure of that. He worked as an IT technician (i think, he worked with computers) at Warner Brothers, and whenever he visited Ghana from the US, he always came bearing gifts. For Nana and me, it meant movies: Space Jam, The Lion King, Home Alone, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, Looney Tunes, Scooby-Doo. Eben wasn’t born yet, so he didn’t get a seat at this exclusive screening club. Those tapes lined up on our shelf were my childhood portals.

But one tape was different. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. That one didn’t just entertain me—it stayed with me. (Nana was more drawn to Pocahontas, makes sense when you read this)

I’d heard British accents before—summer holidays in the UK helped with that, but the way they spoke in Harry Potter felt different. It wasn’t just words; it was a rhythm, something that pulled me in. And then came Hogwarts. The boarding school I actually wanted. The thought of going to an all-girls boarding school filled me with dread. Who would I play “stuck in the mud” or “police and thief” with? Hogwarts offered something else entirely: late-night adventures, endless feasts, pranks that lived forever in legend, and above all, the promise of friendships that would carry you through the darkest times. I never wished for Harry’s miserable life with the Dursleys—Petunia and Vernon were professional-level insufferable—but the moment he entered Hogwarts, surrounded by people who saw him for who he really was, it felt like bliss. Even with Voldemort threatening everything, there was safety in belonging.

Now, as an adult, watching the series still makes my inner child squeal, but there’s a different kind of joy too. I can see the lessons that went unnoticed when I was younger. For me, the deepest one is friendship. Not the curated kind where everyone looks like twins. Not the kind based only on shared tastes. Real friendship—the kind that tests you, annoys you, challenges you, but never leaves you. The kind where you argue, roll your eyes, maybe even slam a door, but still choose to show up for each other. That’s where the magic lies.

The truth is, I’ve never had many friends. My circle has always been small, and that’s not because people are unkind. It’s just who I’ve always been. The few friends I do have, I treasure deeply. I take them seriously, sometimes fiercely. And maybe that’s why Harry Potter continues to resonate. It showed me, even as a child, that friendship isn’t about how many people gather around you—it’s about who stands by you when everything else falls apart.

And maybe that’s the real magic of the series. It was never just about wands or broomsticks or invisibility cloaks. It’s the quiet, ordinary miracle of knowing that when you face your own version of Voldemort—whatever shape it takes—someone will be beside you. Not perfect, not identical to you, maybe even irritating at times. But present. Still there.

That’s the kind of magic worth carrying into adulthood. And it’s why, no matter how old I get, my inner child refuses to retire—because keeping that part of myself alive is how I stay intentional, hopeful, and open to the kind of friendships and connections that make this life worth living.

And to think, it all started with Uncle Kweku and a suitcase full of VHS tapes.