Ghana
It’s funny I wrote this part last because I love Ghana,
And I don’t know how to write about love.
So no metaphors, no similes
I just love Ghana.
The motherland was still new terrain,
but Grandma lived there,
so we could never feel alone.
Raised in the Newham trenches,
but the first trip I was old enough to remember
I knew Ghana was home.
I still remember Grandma
making me eggs in the morning,
shouting down the local merchant
to bring me a coconut when I was done.
I remember running
from her chickens and cats
Ghana as a kid… was fun.
As an adult, it’s my rose in the battlefield
of my fractured identity,
the part of me that self-doubt
waved the white flag to
after seeing the proud black flag
my identity waved back in defiance.
“White is right” used to be a skyscraper
compared to the inferiority complex we were housed in
until the plane doors became my Narnia wardrobe.
Because black kings and queens
were no longer just a defense mechanism
no longer a retort whispered
by Black people
to Western ideology.
It might sound regressive,
but I feel a deep sense of love of home
when I see people who look like me.
Nothing compares
to being close to my lineage.
I’m not religious,
but suddenly it makes sense:
maybe God was just trying to make us feel like family.
Maybe that’s why
He created us
in His image.
Before I flip the page to my last time in Ghana,
I have to let you know what happened to Grandma.
Grandma had been in a coma for a week,
so the night I heard my mum scream…
I knew a guardian angel
had just been added to the armoury.
When my mother cried in my arms,
she wasn’t “Mum” anymore.
I saw her as a firstborn.
I saw her as a child.
I saw her as someone’s baby girl.
I saw…
her.
Knowing I had to walk back through the Narnia doors
to mourn the fall of a matriarchy
had me going insane.
I have lost a parliamentary term's worth of time with grandma due to family politics
Grandma’s death was a Copernican shif
my worldview changed.
When I was young she taught me the value of the wasting food,
Even in death she taught me the value of not wasting time
It has me thinking…
if I could go back, would I do my life the same?
Would taking the risk
to make fast money
have been the best option
if it meant I could spoil my grandma
while I still had her?
Will I make it in time
to enjoy it with the ones
who were the reason
I ever wanted to make it?
If I could speak to my younger self,
would I tell him to become a stereotype?
When he’s offered the shortcut
drug dealer or fraud boy
would I tell him to take it?
May 21
May 21, 2026 at 4:40 PM UTC
Ghana
It’s funny I wrote this part last because I love Ghana,
And I don’t know how to write about love.
So no metaphors, no similes
I just love Ghana.
The motherland was still new terrain,
but Grandma lived there,
so we could never feel alone.
Raised in the Newham trenches,
but the first trip I was old enough to remember
I knew Ghana was home.
I still remember Grandma
making me eggs in the morning,
shouting down the local merchant
to bring me a coconut when I was done.
I remember running
from her chickens and cats
Ghana as a kid… was fun.
As an adult, it’s my rose in the battlefield
of my fractured identity,
the part of me that self-doubt
waved the white flag to
after seeing the proud black flag
my identity waved back in defiance.
“White is right” used to be a skyscraper
compared to the inferiority complex we were housed in
until the plane doors became my Narnia wardrobe.
Because black kings and queens
were no longer just a defense mechanism
no longer a retort whispered
by Black people
to Western ideology.
It might sound regressive,
but I feel a deep sense of love of home
when I see people who look like me.
Nothing compares
to being close to my lineage.
I’m not religious,
but suddenly it makes sense:
maybe God was just trying to make us feel like family.
Maybe that’s why
He created us
in His image.
Before I flip the page to my last time in Ghana,
I have to let you know what happened to Grandma.
Grandma had been in a coma for a week,
so the night I heard my mum scream…
I knew a guardian angel
had just been added to the armoury.
When my mother cried in my arms,
she wasn’t “Mum” anymore.
I saw her as a firstborn.
I saw her as a child.
I saw her as someone’s baby girl.
I saw…
her.
Knowing I had to walk back through the Narnia doors
to mourn the fall of a matriarchy
had me going insane.
I have lost a parliamentary term's worth of time with grandma due to family politics
Grandma’s death was a Copernican shif
my worldview changed.
When I was young she taught me the value of the wasting food,
Even in death she taught me the value of not wasting time
It has me thinking…
if I could go back, would I do my life the same?
Would taking the risk
to make fast money
have been the best option
if it meant I could spoil my grandma
while I still had her?
Will I make it in time
to enjoy it with the ones
who were the reason
I ever wanted to make it?
If I could speak to my younger self,
would I tell him to become a stereotype?
When he’s offered the shortcut
drug dealer or fraud boy
would I tell him to take it?