The air hits you first. It’s not just hot; it's a warm, damp blanket that wraps around you the second you step out of the Kotoka arrivals hall. I’m Ama Boateng, and I just landed in Accra for good. The forecast said 28 degrees and light drizzle, but the sun is out and it feels like 32. My shirt is already sticking to my back. It’s August 1st, 2026, the start of the driest, mildest month on this coast, and I’m here to figure out how to live, not just visit.
My first mission is bureaucracy, the unhurried dance of becoming a resident. I need a Non-Citizen Ghana Card, and for that, I learn, you need a digital address from GhanaPostGPS. So my first stop isn't a beach; it's the NIA head office in Shiashie. I bought the scratch card at a CalBank branch for about 20 cedis, which is less than two dollars. Then, the biometrics, the fingerprints, the photo. They tell me the card is issued instantly, valid for a year, and costs about sixty dollars to renew. It feels official. It feels real.
Next on the list is money. You can't do anything here without a bank account. So I walk into a GCB Bank branch near the Kwame Nkrumah Memorial Park. With my new card and passport, it’s surprisingly smooth. No endless phone calls, just forms and a signature. The teller, a woman named Efua with a brilliant smile, asks if I’m settling in well. I tell her I’ve been here for six hours. She laughs and says, 'Akwaaba,' welcome, properly this time. I leave with a debit card and a sense that maybe I can do this.
Settled, sort of. Now for the lifeline: a SIM card. I head to an official MTN store, not a roadside vendor, because the registration is tied to my passport. I show my documents, they scan them, and five minutes later I have a number. It costs 10 cedis for the starter pack. The data plans are cheap compared to London, I’m told. I’m not here to compare, I’m here to get online and find a flat. I pull up the rental listings, looking at places in Osu and East Legon. A modest one-bedroom in Osu is around 2,500 cedis a month, maybe 250 dollars. Further out, you can find something for 500 cedis, but I want to be in the middle of it all for now.
My search takes me to Osu, the expat and tourist hub. The street, Oxford Street, is a sensory overload: trotros honking, highlife music spilling from shops, and the smell of spices and exhaust fumes. I grab a quick coffee at Theia Coffee House, a quiet spot to escape the chaos. It costs about 45 cedis for a cappuccino, a bit of a splurge, but I need the caffeine to keep my eyes open. I’m sipping it on the terrace, watching the city move, when I see the trotros, the yellow and white minibuses, and I know I need to learn this system.
A man next to me, noticing my confusion, asks, 'First time?' I nod. He’s a returnee, he says, been back for five years. He gives me the lay of the land. 'Short trips within Accra will cost you about 4 to 7 cedis, less than a dollar. Don't let them charge you more because you look new. If you spend 300 cedis a month on transport, you're doing great.' I thank him, finish my coffee, and decide to just do it. I walk to the trotro rank and, for 5 cedis, I take a ride from Osu to Makola Market. It’s an adventure. I hold on tight, I watch the city blur past, and I feel like I’m finally moving with the rhythm of the place.
Makola Market is a crash course in Accra, a sprawling chaos of colours, sounds, and smells on Kojo Thompson Road. It’s not for the faint-hearted, and you have to watch your pockets. But it’s where you learn about real prices. I’m looking for ingredients for jollof. I find a seller with pyramids of tomatoes, and I ask the price. We haggle. It’s a dance, a friendly negotiation. I walk away with a bag of tomatoes, peppers, and onions. I got a good price, I think. The woman sells me some kelewele too, spiced fried plantain, for 10 cedis. It’s sweet, spicy, and the perfect fuel for a day of running around.
Leaving Makola, I decide to get my bearings. I take a taxi, negotiating the fare first, about 30 cedis, to the seafront. The taxi, a beat-up but beloved car, weaves through traffic. The driver points out the Independence Arch and the Black Star Square, a vast monument to a hope that still feels present here. Ghana, the first sub-Saharan country to shake off colonial rule in 1957. The architecture is a bold statement. I get out at the Black Star Gate, just as the light drizzle from the morning starts to return. I stand under the arch and feel the weight of history.
It’s a short walk to Jamestown, the historic Ga fishing quarter. This is the Accra I was curious about. Painted fishing canoes are pulled up on the beach, and the air smells of salt and fish. The Ussher Fort stands as a sombre reminder of the past. There’s a vibrancy here, despite the heavy history. You can see the fishing boats heading out for the day's catch. I walk past the Jamestown Lighthouse, which offers panoramic views if you climb to the top. I don’t have the energy today. I just sit on the sea wall and watch the Atlantic for a bit. There’s a lot to take in.
My stomach growls, a reminder I’ve been running on plantain and coffee all day. I stop at a chop bar near the Jamestown Coffee Company, a small place with a big pot of stew bubbling. I get a plate of waakye, rice and beans, with shitor, a spicy black pepper sauce, an egg, and some fish. It costs about 25 cedis, roughly two dollars, and it is the best thing I’ve eaten in years. It’s not fancy, but it’s real, it’s local, and it’s exactly what I needed. The woman who serves me asks if I want more shitor. I say yes, and she laughs.
The rain is getting a bit harder, the light drizzle of the morning becoming a steady afternoon shower. It’s still warm, so it’s not unpleasant. I need to find a more permanent base than the hotel I booked for the first week. I get a ride back to Osu and check in with a rental agent. She shows me a small flat, a one-bedroom in a compound house. It's modest, but it has high ceilings, a ceiling fan, and a terrace where you can hear the neighbourhood. The rent is 1,800 cedis a month, about 160 dollars. After a week of searching, this feels like home. I pay the first six months upfront, as is often the custom here, and get the key.
With the flat sorted, I mail my new address to the bank and the immigration office. I buy a small burner and cooking pot from a shop on Oxford Street. My kitchen in a bag. For dinner, I cook my first pot of jollof in my new home. Using the tomatoes and peppers from Makola, along with rice and spices, it costs me maybe 50 cedis for a big pot. It’s not as good as the waakye I had earlier, but it’s mine. I eat it on the terrace under the ceiling fan, listening to the sounds of the city: the distant music, the car horns, the laughter from the street below.
The next morning, the city is alive with something special. It’s August, which means it’s Homowo season, the Ga harvest festival of 'hooting at hunger'. The drumming ban has just been lifted, and I wake up to the sound of drumming and singing in the distance. All through the month, different communities will celebrate, leading up to the big events. I hear there’s a huge carnival in Jamestown and Bukom happening later this month, commemorating a 200-year-old battle. I make a note in my phone. I want to see it. I want to taste the kpokpoi, the traditional meal made for the festival.
Later that day, I take a walk to the W.E.B. Du Bois Centre. It’s a quiet place, a tribute to the Pan-Africanist leader who spent his final years in Ghana. On the same day, I learn there was a wreath-laying ceremony here for Emancipation Day. The history of this city is layered, complex, and ever-present. It’s not just in the museums; it’s in the names of the streets and the fabric of the nation. This isn't a vacation. I'm living here, and this history is part of my new address.
I’m settling into a rhythm. My days are for paperwork and errands, for learning to bargain with taxi drivers and to navigate the chaos of Makola. I’ve opened a bank account, I have a SIM card, and I’m on my way to having a proper residence permit. The National Health Insurance Scheme registration is on my list for next week. My plan is starting to take shape. After a few weeks in the whirlwind of Accra, getting my head above water, the real journey starts. I'm going to follow this coast, heading west to Cape Coast, then inland through the forest and beyond. But for now, I'm here. I'm in Accra. It's raining, my pot of jollof is waiting for me, and it feels like home. This is Ama Boateng, and this is just the beginning. Until next time, akwaaba.