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I depart Ghana with a heavy heart. It has been a whirlwind. I have never met a more cohesive people. They are proud Africans and have managed to preserve their culture whilst still being outward looking. They have taken the rough with the smooth, it’s chaotic in places but it works.

My first home was simply stunning and my host had some seriously cool Afro swagger. She knew it and she flaunted it, it was real and I loved it. Arriving in the Cape Coast I was greeted by a true Rastafarian, he had heart and little style but I ain’t here to judge. His side-kick was super ace, the girl was a kitchen warrior and she made some knock-out Ghanian diners.

The Cape Coast is sobering, with the Atlantic wild and untamed; they didn’t call the crossing the middle passage for nothing. Yet it is still beautiful even with the deep ugly scars of history.

I visited Elmina and Cape Coast castles which were used to process millions upon millions of African slaves. Listening to the horrors of the slave trade you can’t help but to put yourself in their shoes but you can’t stay there for too long. It elicits visceral pain and opens up wounds you never knew existed.

I came and I saw and I will never forget and nor should anyone!

I have made many friends, the wonderful Gabriel, a university lecturer who is trying to convince me to move to Ghana. He was kind and caring and called me on my departure date to bid me farewell. Diboo, a market trader who showed me alternative Accra and made things happen for me, what a gentleman he was. I have countless telephone numbers from people who just wanted to connect on a human level.

My final morning in Accra was elevated by the beautiful and oh-so-wise Kofi who took me for a traditional Waakye breakfast. It consists of cow-skin, fish, plantain, red beans and rice, spaghetti, sauce, gari, black chilli, and a boiled egg. My, it was to die for.

Whilst my beloved Zimbabwe has been captured, my home England on the verge of nastiness, it was wonderful to call Ghana home, albeit fleetingly.

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