The Canadian author visited her parents’ homeland thinking she would find her home. She left feeling less Ghanaian than ever
I was 27 years old when I took my first and only trip to Ghana. My grandmother was old – rumoured to be 103 – and in fact she died the following year. I visited the noisy markets of Accra and the clean, palm-treed avenues of the national university; I visited the slave forts of Cape Coast and Elmina, desolate with their old horrors; I visited my mother’s birth city of Kumasi, with its cluttered, numberless streets; and I visited the miracle of Anomabo beach, where I was chased away by fishermen who did not want to be photographed.
I also met my grandmother: ancient in her white robes, frail, her eyes whitened by cataracts and glaucoma.
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