Ghana's final gift
The language of smiles
The air hung thick with humidity as we weaved through Accra's crowded streets toward Kotoka International Airport. Our ten-day adventure in Ghana was coming to an end, but as Liz and I would soon discover, the country had one final, unforgettable experience in store for us.
"You will miss Ghana, yes?" Asoun asked, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. Our driver had become much more than that over our time here—he was our cultural translator, storyteller, and friend.
"More than I expected," I admitted, watching market women balance impossible towers of goods on their heads as they navigated through stalled traffic, plucking items from their perches to deliver to customers and making change with free hands. The skill seemed as natural to them as walking. The Ghanaian people are beautiful in form and soul. Perhaps it is the practice of carrying things on their heads that has given them such great posture and presence, but their good humor, patience, and joy is infectious.
Asoun had pointed out the sights and the hidden gems of the city, the local food and the best places for crafts. He spoke with pride about the Black Stars, the nickname for the national soccer team. Over lunches of fufu (cassava) and red red ( beans and rice ) and fried plantains, he'd shared his story: growing up in a poor family, he had married early and worked multiple jobs to fund his daughter's education.
"Congratulations again on your daughter's graduation," I said.
"Thank you," he replied. The pride in his voice was unmistakable. His daughter was soon to graduate from secondary school.
The airport loomed ahead, its modern façade standing in stark contrast to the more traditional structures we'd seen throughout our trip. We'd arrived early—my brother Paul had insisted, having experienced the unpredictable nature of Accra's airport before.
"Remember," he'd warned over breakfast that morning, "be patient."
After heartfelt goodbyes with Asoun, we entered the terminal, immediately welcomed by the blessed relief of air conditioning and the unmistakable energy of a West African airport.
The check-in area buzzed with activity. Enormous suitcases wrapped in colorful protective plastic film clustered around families dressed in their finest clothes. Travel here, I'd learned, was still something to dress up for, to mark with ceremony.
What caught my eye immediately was how many travelers—young and old, men and women—carried luggage on their heads. Not just small bags, but massive bundles that would have crushed me. One woman balanced an extremely large cardboard box while simultaneously managing three children and a passport.
"Amazing, isn't it?" Liz whispered, nodding toward an elderly man who had a suitcase balanced perfectly on his head while he casually checked his phone. "I tried carrying just my backpack that way. Nearly broke my neck."
The line inched forward, each check-in involving elaborate negotiation, particularly when it came to weight restrictions. A woman ahead of us rearranged items between three suitcases, occasionally removing things and stuffing them into a canvas bag she produced from nowhere.
When we finally reached the counter, a man with skin so dark it seemed to absorb the harsh fluorescent lighting greeted us, his bright white smile and crisp uniform standing out in stunning contrast.
"First time in Ghana?" he asked, examining our passports.
"Yes, visiting my brother. He works at the brewery."
"Ah! Star Beer! Very good. Better than that foreign stuff." He stamped something with enthusiasm. "Did you enjoy our country?"
We shared highlights—the unexpected beauty of Lake Volta, the slave castles of Cape Coast that rent our hearts.
"You must come back," he insisted, handing over our boarding passes with a flourish. "Ghana will be waiting. Safe journey home."
Security blended stringent protocol with casual conversation. The agent checking my carry-on asked detailed questions about my laptop, then transitioned seamlessly into recommendations for photography spots for my next visit. "My cousin runs tours to the northern regions—many beautiful things to capture there."
The gate area teemed with more people than I'd expected for a Tuesday afternoon flight. Screens announced our departure to Cairo, though the time displayed seemed optimistic given the empty runway visible through the large windows.
"Boarding will begin in 20 minutes," announced a gate agent. This struck me as unusual—nearly an hour and a half before departure—but my brother's words echoed in my mind: time is a suggestion.
Sure enough, within minutes, a line formed despite no further announcements. We joined it, figuring it was better to follow local customs than question them.
"First time flying out of Ghana?" asked an American businessman behind us, his wrinkled linen suit suggesting he was a regular on this route.
When we nodded, he chuckled. "You're in for a treat."
Before I could ask what he meant, the gate agents began checking boarding passes, directing passengers toward buses waiting on the tarmac. We boarded the first one, finding ourselves pressed against strangers in the humid vehicle as it bounced toward our aircraft parked at a remote stand.
The plane waited under the afternoon sun, its boarding stairs reminiscent of the stair car from the show 'Arrested Development.'
We climbed aboard, finding our assigned seats—14A and 14B—and settled in, grateful to have a window and middle rather than being separated. The cabin featured rich blues and golds, with traditional Kente cloth patterns incorporated into the design.
As the first bus's passengers found their places, a diminutive elderly woman approached our row. Her outfit was a masterpiece of color and pattern—a traditional kaba (blouse) and slit (skirt) in fabric that featured vibrant yellows, greens, and blues arranged in geometric designs that somehow managed to complement rather than clash. A matching headwrap framed a face lined with the wisdom of decades.
She gestured to the aisle seat beside us, speaking softly in one of the Ghanaian languages. I nodded encouragingly, and she settled in with the careful movements of someone managing arthritic joints.
I noticed her struggling with the seatbelt—the metal clasp seemingly foreign in her weathered hands. Without language to explain, I demonstrated with my own, slowly showing the buckling motion. Her eyes lit with understanding, and she managed to secure hers, patting my hand afterward in silent thanks.
"Medaase," I offered—thank you in Twi, one of the few words I'd managed to learn properly.
Her face transformed with delight. "Akwaaba!" she replied—welcome—and proceeded to speak several animated sentences I couldn't begin to understand. But her smile communicated everything necessary.
We settled into companionable silence as the second bus arrived. That's when the symphony of chaos began its first movement.
A tall man in an impeccably tailored suit approached our row, boarding pass extended. He spoke to our elderly companion, who looked momentarily confused, then embarrassed. She gathered her small bag—a handwoven basket—and rose with dignity, moving several rows ahead and sitting down.
The businessman seated across the aisle chuckled and proceeded to unfold his newspaper.
The third bus arrived, disgorging even more passengers into the increasingly crowded aisle. A young mother with twin boys of about four years old stopped at the row where our elderly friend had relocated. More discussion, more gesturing at boarding passes, and once again, the elderly woman collected her belongings and moved.
By the fourth bus, patterns emerged. Almost no one checked their assigned seats before sitting. When legitimate seat holders arrived, the displaced passengers simply moved to another random seat, creating a domino effect of disruption. Flight attendants attempted to direct traffic, but herding cats came to mind.
"Why don't they just check their boarding passes?" I whispered to Liz.
"Maybe they can't read them," came her thoughtful reply. "Remember what Asoun said about literacy rates improving but still being an issue, especially among older generations."
I watched as our elderly friend was displaced a third time, now ending up across the aisle from us. She caught my eye and gave a good-natured shrug that transcended language barriers. There was no frustration in her expression—only acceptance of the process, perhaps even amusement.
The cabin crew demonstrated remarkable patience. A young male attendant helped the elderly woman store her basket, speaking gently in her language, making her nod and smile. I wondered about her story—where she was going, who might be waiting for her, what life experiences had lined her expressive face.
As the seating shuffle continued, we easily surpassed our scheduled departure time. In the U.S., such chaos would have triggered passenger mutiny. Here, it seemed part of the journey, met with the same patient good humor we'd encountered throughout Ghana.
"Ghana has been an education," I said, watching as the elderly woman finally settled into what appeared to be her actual assigned seat—ironically just behind us. "We get so tied up in efficiency and rules."
"Control is an illusion," Liz replied, a topic we'd discussed often since arriving in a country where traffic laws were suggestions, power outages were expected, and "Ghana Maybe Time" added hours to any appointment.
The captain's voice crackled over the intercom, first in English, then in Twi. "We apologize for the delay. We are now prepared for departure to Cairo." No explanation offered, none expected.
As we finally taxied toward the runway, I turned back to check on our elderly companion. She had produced a small Bible from her basket and was reading without glasses, lips moving silently over familiar passages.
She caught my gaze and offered that same warm smile that had created our wordless friendship. Our connection would remain a beautiful, temporary bridge between worlds—one more gift from Ghana's symphony of chaos and connection.