The surmountable trials of Lady Ghana


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The day I moved to Accra

I didn’t want to come here.

After five years of flip-flops and frizzy hair, this African chick was ready to leave the continent and move to greener and, let’s be honest, more ordered pastures. Not that I don’t like it here. I was just tired of constantly being the different, privileged one. Tired of living in a place where people see you as their source of income, where relationships are often dictated by the need to survive rather than genuine friendship.

I love Africa, but I just needed a break. So when Mr Club said: “how about Ghana?”, I said: “how about not?”. And a few months later here we are, in Accra, on the Gold Coast.

I moved here with a heavy heart, far from the people we’ve loved and left behind in our little banana republic. I think of them everyday. I miss them.

I dread the typical backpackers who will inevitably come to Ghana, spend two months here, think their lives changed forever and declare it to be the coolest place on earth. They will go back to their ipads and organic food, while I will stick it here because I have to.

I needed a break, but if I have to do it all over again, let me at least do it differently, and hopefully better. Let me believe that I can be surprised by Africa again.

Here I come, Ghana. Surprise me.

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