The fan stops. That's the sound that wakes you up in Accra in August — not an alarm clock, but the sudden, absolute silence of the ceiling fan giving up. I blink in the dark of my Osu flat, and the heat starts to creep in immediately. It's 9am on a Monday, and I know exactly what this is. I checked the schedule yesterday. The ECG planned maintenance has hit the Airport area, and apparently parts of Accra East — East Legon, Okponglo, Fafraha, Ashiyie — are in for a long one. Until about 5pm, I'm told.
This is day three. The honeymoon is officially over, and the real work of settling in has begun. Yesterday was about the big things — the bank account at GCB, the SIM card from MTN, the first proper exploration of Makola Market. Today is different. Today is about the small, unglamorous task that makes life legal: registering for the National Health Insurance Scheme. The NHIS. It's the thing that gives you access to healthcare without paying through the nose, and right now, it's my main mission.
I tug on a pair of shorts and a loose cotton top, grab my passport and my brand-new Non-Citizen Ghana Card, and shove my feet into sandals. The flat, a modest one-bedroom in Osu that sets me back about GHS 2,500 a month — around two hundred and twenty dollars — is a sauna now. I need to move. The air is thick, even though the heavy drizzle from this morning has softened to a mist. It's 23 to 28 degrees out there, but it feels like 32. I step out into the street, and the city is already buzzing, despite the missing hum of air conditioners. The pre-festival energy is building. It's the start of August, which means the Ga Homowo festival is on the horizon, and you can feel it in the air. The smell of roasted maize is everywhere, smoky and sweet, drifting from street corners where vendors fan the coals with cardboard.
My first task is to find a trotro going towards the main NHIS office. I don't have a specific address; I just know it's somewhere near the Ridge. I walk to the main road, dodging a motorbike that weaves through a gap between a taxi and a yellow-and-white minibus. The trotro rank is a chaotic symphony of horns — one long blast means 'we're leaving', two short ones means 'we have space'. A young man in a faded Chelsea jersey leans out of a van and yells the destination. 'Osu! Osu! Osu!' I shake my head and keep walking. I need one that heads towards the city centre.
Finally, a 'Circle' trotro pulls up. The mate — the guy who hangs out the door, yelling the route and collecting fares — gives me a nod. 'Accra! Accra!' he shouts. Close enough. I hop in. The seat is hard plastic, the van is packed, and the fare is GHS 5 — about 45 cents. It's a bargain. We lurch into traffic, and I get a front-row seat to the city's morning ballet. We crawl past the Kwame Nkrumah Memorial Park, the mausoleum gleaming white in the humid haze. I make a mental note to come back properly, to pay my respects to the man who led Ghana to independence in 1957. It feels important, being here. This isn't just a visit. I have a two-year plan that runs down the Atlantic coast to Cape Coast and beyond, and this city is the starting point. Today, though, it's paperwork.
The trotro drops me near the junction, and I walk the rest of the way. I find the office — a low-rise building with a long queue snaking outside. I'm told the NHIS registration here for foreigners can be a bit of a marathon. You need your passport, your Non-Citizen Ghana Card, and proof of residence — usually that GhanaPostGPS digital address code. Good thing I sorted that out. The queue moves slowly. The air is buzzing with conversations in Ga, Twi, and a bit of English. I wait. Forty-five minutes pass. I watch a woman in a bright kente cloth headwrap negotiate with a man selling ice water in small plastic sachets, the 'pure water' that keeps everyone hydrated in this heat. I buy one for GHS 1. It's cold, and it's the best thing I've tasted all day.
Finally, I get to the front of the line. The officer, a serious man in a crisp white shirt, looks over my documents. He questions me about my address, my purpose in Ghana, my long-term plans. I explain the two-year plan — the coast, the forests, the Volta. He nods slowly, stamps a form, and tells me to go to the payment window. The fee is small, around GHS 100 for the year for a non-citizen. It's the principle of it that matters. This card is my ticket to the local hospitals, to clinics in small towns I'll pass through on the way to Cape Coast. It's a safety net, and it's worth every cedi. I'm in and out in under two hours. A win, by Accra bureaucratic standards.
I'm starving now. The jollof from yesterday feels like a distant memory. I decide to treat myself. Instead of heading straight back to the hot flat, I tell the ride-hailing app to take me to Labone. I step out onto a tree-lined street, a world away from the chaos of Makola. This is where I find a quiet spot for lunch. I walk past the Nubuke Foundation, a contemporary art space I want to explore later, and duck into a place that smells incredible. It's called The Living Room Restaurant. The name fits — it feels like someone's stylish home. I order a plate of grilled tilapia with banku, the fermented corn dough that's a staple here. The fish is crispy-skinned, the banku is sour and smooth, and there's a heap of shito — that fiery black pepper sauce — on the side. It sets me back about GHS 80, a splurge compared to street food, but worth it for the air conditioning alone. As I eat, I watch a few expats typing on laptops, and I feel a pang of envy. My flat is still without power.
Which is a problem, because my phone is at 15 percent. I can't work from home, I can't charge my devices, and the heat is relentless. I remember reading something about a new place that had opened — a 24-hour 'Prestige Centre' for the Ghana Card registration. If they're open all night, they probably have a generator. It's in Labone. It's worth a try. I finish my fish, wipe my fingers on a napkin, and walk towards the clock. The rain has started again, a soft drizzle that cools the pavement and sends everyone scurrying under awnings. I find the centre, and sure enough, the lights are on. It's air-conditioned, and there are seats. I'm not here to register — my card is already done — but I ask the security guard if I can just sit for a bit and charge my phone. He shrugs and points to a power strip near the wall. 'You're welcome,' he says. 'Akwaaba.'
And there I am, sitting in the lobby of a government office, Ghanaians and foreigners filing in and out to get their biometrics done, my phone slowly sipping electricity. It's not glamorous. But it's real. This is what settling in looks like. It's not all golden beaches and highlife music, though there's plenty of that. It's navigating power cuts, queuing for ID cards, and finding a random outlet to charge your phone. I feel a strange affection for this moment. It's a test, and I'm passing it.
Feeling human again, I decide to embrace the city's rhythm. The democracy demonstration called by the opposition NPP for August 6th is a few days away, and the city is muttering about it. I see police vans gathered near Independence Arch as my taxi crawls past the Black Star Square. The vast expanse is quiet now, but in a few days, it might not be. I'm told to expect road closures on Thursday, and to plan my routes around Jubilee House. I make a note: Thursday, stay local, stock up on water.
Instead, I head to Jamestown. This is the heart of old Accra, the Ga fishing quarter. It's a place I've read about for years, and I'm finally here. As the sun starts its slow descent towards the ocean, the streets come alive. The painted fishing canoes are pulled up on the sand, their hulls covered in hand-painted slogans and names. The Jamestown Lighthouse stands tall, a rusty red sentinel against the grey sky. I climb the spiral staircase — a little breathless — and from the top, I can see the whole sweep of the coast. The Atlantic rolls in, grey-green and powerful. This is the same ocean that will guide my journey west to Cape Coast and the old forts. I can almost see the route in my mind. I'm told that in a couple of weeks, this street below me will be a sea of colour for the Chale Wote street art festival. Murals are already going up on the walls. Stalls are being assembled. The build-up has begun.
I climb down and wander the lanes. The air is sharp with the smell of fish being smoked over open fires. A group of kids kick a football with fierce concentration. An old man sits outside his house, fixing a fishing net with patient hands. This is the real Ghana, not the one in the brochures. It's gritty, it's alive, and it's humming with pre-Homowo anticipation. I buy a bag of kelewele from a woman with a cast-iron pan — spicy, sweet fried plantain cubes, about GHS 15. They burn my tongue and I don't care. I also spot a banner announcing the Homowo carnival in Jamestown and Bukom. It's on the 6th of August, which means I'll be here for it. That's not a coincidence. I planned it that way.
Walking back towards the main road, I pass the Ussher Fort, its walls weathered by centuries of wind and salt. It's a heavy place, a reminder of a painful history that sits right beneath the surface of this vibrant, modern city. It's important to look at it, to acknowledge it, even while the laughter of the kids and the smell of frying fish fill the air. Ghana is a country of both joy and depth, and you can't have one without the other.
The sun is setting by the time I get back to Osu. I'm exhausted, but it's a good kind of tired. The kind that comes from a full day of doing ordinary things in an extraordinary place. I grab dinner at a small chop bar near my flat — a simple dish of waakye, rice and beans with a hard-boiled egg and a piece of fried fish, all for about GHS 30. See, the cost of living is manageable if you eat like a local. The rent is the big one, that GHS 2,500 a month, and landlords often want the first two years upfront. That's the real hurdle for anyone thinking of this life. But the daily stuff, the transport and the food, can be very affordable.
Back at the flat, the power is on. The fan is whirring again, and I'll be damned if that isn't the most beautiful sound on earth. I open my laptop, pull up my map, and trace the route ahead with my finger. Accra, down to Winneba, then Cape Coast, Elmina, Takoradi. I study the names of the towns, the coastline stretching out into the dusk. This is just the beginning. The paperwork is underway. The NHIS card is in my wallet. The city is starting to feel less like a maze and more like a map. And I'm only at the starting line. Tomorrow, I'm told, the Bar Week starts in town — a few places are doing special shifts. And then on Thursday, there might be some chaos. But for now, the fan is on, my stomach is full, and the big Atlantic is waiting just outside my window. I'm exactly where I need to be.
I switch off the light, and the only sound is the hum of the fan and the distant thump of a highlife beat from a bar a few streets away. Another night in Accra. Another day down. This is the life I chose, and it fits me better than I expected. Sleep comes easy.