The fan is spinning again, and it's my last morning in this Osu flat. I'm not going to lie — there's a knot in my stomach. But it's a good knot. The kind you get before a long train ride or the first day of a job you're excited about. Today is Friday, August 7th, and my time in Accra is officially down to hours.
I wake up to the call to prayer drifting from a nearby mosque, mixed with the cockerels and the rumble of a trotro gunning its engine. It's the soundtrack I've gotten used to, and it's about to be replaced by something new. I promised myself one final breakfast — a proper one, not just instant coffee and a leftover biscuit. So I walk to a little spot near the Jamestown Coffee Company in Osu. The street is already busy, women in colourful cloth balancing basins of oranges on their heads, and a couple of guys setting up a roadside stall selling watches and phone chargers. I order a jollof and a pineapple smoothie. It costs me about 45 cedis, which is around four dollars, and honestly worth every pesewa.
While I eat, I check my phone — the power's been stable in my area since yesterday, a small mercy, because I need to do the last admin stuff before I leave. First, I top up my MTN data. I'm told that for heavy use, a 20-gig bundle is around 150 cedis. I don't know how true that is today, but it's close enough, and it's what I'll budget for. I also scribble a list of the emergency numbers I keep hearing about: police, ambulance, and my landlord's cousin who apparently knows everyone. I'm learning that in Accra, the network is your safety net.
Back at the flat, I start packing. It's not a big deal — I've been living out of a duffel bag for weeks. But still, I'm stuffing in a few things I bought: a colourful kente scarf from the Arts Centre, a hand-carved stool that's way too heavy but I couldn't say no to, and a bag of dried shito pepper that I keep ziplocked so my clothes don't smell like a jollof fight. The essentials: my Ghana Card, my FIMS card, a wad of cedis, and the QR code for my bank app. I'm going to need every one of those down the coast.
The plan is to go coastal. I'm heading to Cape Coast, the old fishing town with the forts and the castle, then further along to the west and inland later. It's a journey that could take me months, maybe a year, depending on how the wind blows. I'm told Cape Coast is about four hours by bus from here, and tickets on the big coaches are around 100 cedis, maybe a little more. I could also take a trotro, but after a month here, I'm treating myself to a VIP bus. Air conditioning, a movie screen, and a seat that doesn't have a chicken under it. I'm looking forward to that.
Before I leave, I have one last errand: I need to sort out my NHIS card. I've been putting it off because the queue at the district office was 'short' about a week ago, but apparently that's relative. I end up at a small branch near Labone, and it's mercifully quiet. Twenty minutes later, I'm told my registration is in process, and the card will be sent to my new address. I hope that's true, because that address is about to be a village near Cape Coast, and I'll have to update it. It's a hassle, but it's the right thing to do for health cover. The NHIS cards are free for residents, but the process can be a jungle. I've heard stories of people paying for a 'fast track'. I didn't. Patience is free.
The heat is rising now — it's about 28 degrees with a humidity that makes my glasses fog up. I dive into a taxi to get lunch at The Buka Restaurant in Osu. It's my last real restaurant meal in the city, and I want it to be a farewell. I order a plate of banku and tilapia with pepper sauce, and a chilled coconut. It comes to about 180 cedis, which is a splurge, but this is a day for goodbyes. The place is buzzing with a mix of expats, tourists, and Ghanaian families. The highlife music is rolling out of the speakers, and for a moment I feel like a local, not just a visitor passing through.
Over lunch, I get a text from a friend I made during the Homowo rehearsal. She's part of a drumming group in Jamestown, and they're putting on a small exhibition for some visitors from Europe. She invites me to come and watch. I take a trotro there — it's a short ride from Osu, about 4 cedis, but the driver takes a detour around the Independence Arch because of some roadworks. I don't mind. It gives me one more look at the Black Star Gate, that huge heroic arch that always makes me feel something. It's a symbol of pride, but also of the weight of history. I'm going to miss this city, I think, but I'm not leaving it forever. Just taking it with me.
Jamestown in the afternoon is a different beast. The fishermen are mending their nets, and the smell of smoked fish is thick in the air. The Chale Wote street-art festival is coming up in a couple of weeks — it's supposed to take over the streets with murals and music and dancing, from August 17th to 24th, or so I'm told. I can already see the scaffolding going up on some walls, and a few artists are testing colours on the side of a building. It's a burst of colour in a place that's mostly rust and blue. My friend finds me and leads me into a courtyard where a group of drummers is already pounding out a rhythm. It's fast and furious, and I can't help but clap along. There's no crowd yet, just a few kids and a stray dog, but the energy is electric.
I stay for maybe an hour, soaking it in. These are the moments I came for — when the city's heartbeat syncs with your own. But I need to keep moving. I have a bus to catch later this evening, and I promised myself I'd be at the station with time to spare. I say my goodbyes, promising to come back for Chale Wote, and walk slowly to the main road. On the way, I stop at a roadside stall for a bag of kelewele — spicy fried plantain, about 15 cedis. The seller, a woman with a wide smile, throws in a few extra pieces for luck. I chew as I walk, and the sweetness cuts the stickiness of the day.
At the bus station, the chaos is familiar by now. There are at least five different companies calling out destinations. I find the one for Cape Coast, and the ticket seller tells me the next bus leaves in ninety minutes. I have time. I buy a bottle of water and a pack of biscuits and sit on a bench in the shade, watching the ballet of loading. A man ties a huge suitcase to the roof with a rope that looks thin, but I've seen this before. It works. The conductor shouts 'Cape Coast! Cape Coast!' and the rhythm of the station is a call and response. I check my money: I've got about 500 cedis in my pocket, which I'm budgeting for the next week or so. Rent in Cape Coast is supposed to be cheaper than Accra — I've heard of decent rooms for around 800 cedis a month, but that might be a stretch for a short stay. I'll figure it out.
When the bus finally pulls out, it's like a door closing on the city. I watch the buildings thin out, the shacks give way to lush green, and the sea appears on my left. The sun is setting, and the sky is a wash of orange and pink over the Atlantic. I feel a calm settle over me. This is the start of the long journey. Down the coast, past the forts and the fishing villages, into the interior later. It's a lot — but today, just this ride is enough. I plug in my earphones and let the highlife music carry me onwards.
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I know, the conductor is announcing Cape Coast. I rub my eyes and look out at the streets under the night lights. There's a different smell here — salt and fish and damp earth. I haul my bag off the bus, and the night air is cooler. I've booked a small guesthouse near the castle, nothing fancy, but I'm told it's safe and clean. I walk the ten minutes, and the sounds of the town are a new mix: a distant drum, a dog barking, a woman laughing. I check in, climb the stairs, and throw my bag on the bed. The room has a fan, a thin mattress, and a view of a courtyard where a papaya tree grows. It's modest, but it's mine for now. I lie down, and the knot in my stomach has loosened. The road is open. Tomorrow, I walk the old fort walls and meet the town. For now, I just breathe.
Sleep comes easy. The fan hums a tune I'm beginning to love. I'm learning that home isn't a place, it's the rhythm you keep. Accra taught me that. Now I'm taking it down the coast, one day at a time. Until tomorrow, from the Cape Coast guesthouse, this is Ama. Stay curious.
One more thing before I go: if you're thinking of making this trip, pack light, but pack smart. Bring a power bank, a good pair of sandals, and an open mind. The coast will do the rest. Goodnight.