The drums started before the sun. Not the polite kind you hear from a distance. The deep, insistent kind that vibrates through your chest and pulls you out of bed before your alarm has a chance. That is how Accra greeted me on my sixth day. The sixth of August. Independence Day. And also, apparently, the day the whole city decided to have a conversation at full volume.
I pulled on my sandals and stepped out onto my balcony in Osu. The air was already warm, even at this hour. There was a low hum of traffic underneath the drums. And a different kind of energy. Today wasn't just a public holiday. It was also the day the opposition NPP had called for that 'Democracy Under Attack' demonstration, marching from the Supreme Court to Jubilee House. I had read about it. I had been warned about road closures. I had no idea what to expect.
So I did what I always do when I'm not sure what to expect in a new city. I went looking for breakfast. And coffee. Specifically, I went looking for the Jamestown Coffee Company, a name I'd seen pop up in every guide and a few local recommendations. I figured I'd get a proper cup and a view of the harbour, and maybe some clarity on what the day would bring. It was a plan.
Getting there was an education in itself. The trotro ride from Osu to Jamestown cost me about 7 cedis, less than a dollar. We weaved through streets that were already lined with people setting up stalls, roasting maize, hanging banners with hand-painted slogans. The pre-Homowo energy was everywhere. Vendors called out, kids ran between the cars, and the whole mashie area felt like it was holding its breath before a wave.
I got to the coffee shop just as it opened. Small place. Good smell. I ordered a black coffee and a kelewele from a woman outside, a spice-soaked plantain snack that cost ten cedis and tasted like the whole city in one bite. Sweet. Hot. A little bit dangerous. I sat by the window and watched the harbour.
The fishing canoes were painted every colour you can imagine. Blue. Yellow. Red. They bobbed against the quay like a hundred bright bruises on the water. The lighthouse stood sentinel, and beyond it, the sea. The Atlantic. The same sea that would carry me down the coast in a few days' time. I still couldn't quite believe the two-year plan was real. But it was. It is.
As I sipped my coffee, I pulled out my phone, opened my notes, and started doing some actual maths. This is the stuff they don't put in the glossy Instagram posts. Living in Accra, the real cost of it. I'd been here five days. I had a flat in Osu, a modest one-bedroom, and the rent was around 2,500 cedis a month, roughly two hundred and twenty-five dollars. Landlords here, I'd learned, often want a year or two upfront, which is a gut punch to the savings account, but it's the way it works, so you plan for it.
Ride-hailing, which I've been using more than I should, costs about 15 to 20 cedis for a short hop. A proper meal at a place like The Buka Restaurant in Osu, where I had that legendary jollof on day four, runs you around 150 cedis, maybe fifteen dollars with a drink. But a chop-bar meal, fufu or jollof from a local spot, is closer to 50 cedis. And a plate of waakye from a street stall, rice and beans with all the toppings, that's about 30 cedis, three dollars, and it will fill you up for the whole day.
I wrote it all down. It felt good to have numbers. Real, tangible numbers. Not the vague 'it's cheap' that everyone tells you before you arrive. Because it's not all cheap. Good coffee is expensive. Imported cheese is a luxury. But the street food, the transport, the basic living, that's where the cedi stretches. It costs about eleven cedis to the dollar, so you get a feel for it fast. You start thinking in multiples of ten.
And the traffic. The traffic eats your money. A ride across town can take an hour and cost you 40 or 50 cedis on a bad day. The trotro is your friend if you have time. The trotro is your teacher if you have patience. Tro fares are about 6 to 8 cedis for a decent run, but you learn the routes, the hand signals, the way the conductors hang out the door and shout the destination like it's a song. It's chaos, but it's organised chaos. I'm starting to like it.
After my coffee and my sums, I decided to walk. The day was already building. The demonstration route, from the Supreme Court to Jubilee House, was a few kilometres away, and I could hear the distant thrum of a crowd, or maybe it was just the city. I walked past the W.E.B. Du Bois Memorial Centre, a quiet compound with a museum and a mausoleum, a reminder of the pan-African dream that got this country started. I thought about Nkrumah. And the Black Star. And the long walk from that dream to the everyday business of living.
By midday, I was back in Jamestown. The drums had grown louder. A group of men and women had gathered in an open square, practising for the Homowo carnival that's coming up this week. There's one scheduled in Jamestown and Bukom specifically, and I'd caught them rehearsing before, but this time they were full-on. A lead drummer, a chorus of voices, dancers with heron-like steps. I stood at the edge and watched. The rhythm got into my hips. I couldn't help it. I moved. A woman next to me laughed and pulled me into the circle. 'Akwaaba,' she said. Welcome. Not a word, a gesture. I stumbled through a step, she corrected me, and we danced.
The dance was a release. A way of joining without words. I thought about the week I'd had. The queues at the bank. The SIM card registration. The FIMS card that I finally got yesterday, that little piece of plastic that makes me legal for a year. The power cut that lasted six hours and the fan that stopped spinning. The heat. The noise. The smell of frying oil and rain. And yet, standing there, sweat dripping down my back, I felt more alive than I had in months.
The demonstration, I learned later, was peaceful. I saw the tail end of it from a distance, crowds of people in red and black, moving slowly, police vans shadowing them, but no violence. It was a statement, a conversation, the kind of civic muscle that this country exercises regularly. It felt oddly reassuring. Democracy is messy. But it's here. It's real. And on Independence Day, it's worth celebrating, even when it's complaining.
By late afternoon, the rain came. A sudden, heavy, August downpour that soaked everything in minutes. I ducked into a covered market stall and bought a bag of roasted maize, a Homowo staple, for about 5 cedis. The seller winked at me. 'For the festival,' she said. I nibbled the smoky kernels and watched the rain turn the street into a river. The drums had stopped. The city was washing itself clean.
That evening, I took a ride-hailing car back to Osu and treated myself to dinner at The Living Room Restaurant, a place I'd spotted earlier in the week. It was a splurge, about 200 cedis for a grilled fish and a bottle of water, but I needed the quiet, the air conditioning, the chance to be a person instead of a tourist. I sat alone at a small table, watched the rain streak down the windows, and wrote in my journal.
Under the cost of living, next to the prices, I wrote the plan. The two-year plan. From this doorstep, I head west, down the Atlantic coast, past Cape Coast, past the old forts and the fishing villages, then inland through the forest country to the Asante kingdom, to the crater lake and the great dam at Volta. It's a big map. But this week, I've learned that you cross it one trotro ride at a time.
I thought about the woman who pulled me into the dance. The whole week, really. Accra hasn't been easy. It's been loud and confusing and hot. But it's been honest. And tonight, on Independence Day, as the rain drummed a softer rhythm on the roof above me, I felt the first real thread tying me to this place.
My rent is paid. My card is in my pocket. My phone works. My heart is a little more open. The road to Cape Coast starts tomorrow. But tonight, I'm here. And that's enough. That's the whole point. Being here. Not just visiting. Living. Akwaaba indeed.
The drumming starts again, somewhere far off, a new rhythm for the night. I'll follow it in a couple of days, down the coast. For now, I'm just listening. That's the plan. Listen first. Move later. And always, always carry cash.