My Stay In Accra
My two month trip to Accra has confirmed the ancient notion that words and stories are what join our lives, and are fundamental to all humans’ ability to coexist.
Writing news stories at my two month journalism internship at Zed Multimedia has underscored this sense of the power of words and stories. To inform or misinform, to confront or to evade. The way in which information is presented, if not absolute and clear, can split and fall into various interpretations.
A meticulous choice of language is crucial, along with a commitment to avoid assumptions and reliance on the increasing use of AI. You must take an individual responsibility, to engage and speak to people, and to speak truthfully. I have learnt about Ghana, excited by a new government, through these news stories.
But I have also loved the personal stories of my colleagues. I was welcomed into a workplace, and to exchange stories about our homes, 5000 miles apart, was an experience where I was quite overwhelmed by the uncomplicated warmth and interest of people. I have experienced a universe of words exchanged with locals – distant, forgotten conversations with taxi drivers, mates, fellow passengers laughing as our limbs are flung onto each other by the trotro, Airbnb hosts as dusk falls, curious bursts of children overflowing with a cacophony of words, the bible study breakaway groups at Church eager for discussion, and my host family as our conversations stretch well past dinner into the cool of the night.
I admire Ghanaians’ commitment to conversation, and the time they have for it, pretty much anywhere. This power of words to connect with people is something that transcends all borders, despite even language barriers. The most sparse and simple words of shared understanding have left strangers and I grinning at each other, unsure of what comes next. And one of the most recurring joyful experiences here has been the eagerness of locals to teach me some Twi, Ewe and Ga.
The necessity of storytelling was most potent in places like Cape Coast where, in the dark silence of the slave dungeons, you could almost hear the voices of victims of the transatlantic slave trade. To even begin reparations, the stories of these men and women, or rather the interruption of their story, must clearly continue to be told. Particularly when, to do so, is uncomfortable, choking, and shameful. In Kumasi too, the artefacts of the Asante Empire were dripping with stories.
Everything and everyone has a narrative, and when these converge and intertwine with tolerance, the world appears a more vibrant place.I have also indulged in a little of the West African literature available. I saw reflections of stories I’m reading in the places around me.
These included the hawking of spicy eggs in Amma Darko’s ‘Beyond the Horizon’, the respect for the burial process in Wole Soyinka’s ‘Chronicles From The Land of the Happiest People On Earth’, the wizened, kind taxi driver in Benjamin Kwakye’s ‘Clothes of Nakedness’, the car proverbs and aphorisms in Chinua Achebe’s ‘No Longer At Ease’, the seemingly endless journeys by road in Buchi Emecheta’s ‘The Joys of Motherhood’, or the courtyard cooking in Ama Ata Aidoo’s ‘Dilemma of a Ghost’.
Words have, therefore, brought me a little closer to the country I have had the privilege of exploring. I am continuously learning that isolation from the sharing of words and narratives is ultimately a destructive force that intensifies hostilities and fear. Thank you to those that have been welcoming and kind. I look forward to sharing some of the stories about you and your home with those in England.
