In Ghana, I Saw It Clearly: Bridging the Black Diaspora Divide Can’t Wait –
- Kweku Amoako
- Aug 25
- 9 min read
Updated: Sep 29
Standing on the shores of Ghana, I understood why uniting the diaspora isn’t just important — it’s essential
In October 2024, when I left the U.S. for the first official trip of Afropolitan Cities’ new TIA Tour Series in Ghana, I knew the journey would be special. Ghana is home for me, after all. But what I didn’t expect was how deeply transformative the experience would be — not just for the travelers on this curated journey, but for me too.
From October 15th to October 21st, we explored three of Ghana’s most vibrant cities — Accra, Aburi, and Cape Coast — on a curated journey designed to showcase the best of Ghana: its rich history, vibrant culture, and stunning natural beauty. We rode quad bikes through Aburi’s hills, hiked to hidden waterfalls, danced on rooftops under Accra’s city lights, dove into the vibrant chaos of local markets, played along the energetic shores of Laboma beach and savored Ghanaian cuisine in places you won’t find on TV.
But amid the joy and adventure, something unexpected happened that set the tone for the rest of the journey — a moment that revealed just how deeply history continues to shape identity and belonging for people of African descent everywhere.
The Question on the Bus
On day 2, during our drive to Jamestown to begin the Accra city tour, one of the travelers, Valentina, asked a question she’d carried her entire life: “Did our ancestors fight to protect us? Or were we just given away?” Her voice was steady, but you could hear the weight behind it. The bus went silent. And then, slowly, conversations erupted. It turned into an intense discussion among the travelers — African Americans, continental Africans, and Caribbean diasporans — each holding their own perspectives and pain
I could feel how personal this was for everyone. As a Ghanaian who has lived in the U.S. for 25 years — and as someone who attended Howard University, surrounded by peers deeply connected to their identity as African Americans — I’ve always known that the perspectives between those raised on the continent and those raised in the diaspora are different. But sitting on that bus, I realized just how wide the gap can be.
Our tour guide did his best to explain the historical complexity — the systems of servitude that existed before Europeans arrived, the political pressures on African leaders, the manipulation by European traders, and the allure of foreign goods. But the answers felt incomplete. The deeper we tried to go, the more questions surfaced
So we decided to pause. We would revisit this discussion later — at Cape Coast Castle — where we could stand in the spaces where history actually happened. None of us realized it then, but that debate on the bus was perfectly timed — a much‑needed prelude to the truths Cape Coast was about to reveal
The Cannons on the Ramparts Revealed the Truth
When we arrived at Cape Coast Castle a few days later, the sun was high, reflecting off the whitewashed walls. Our guide began the tour on the ramparts, where rows of cannons still face the ocean. He explained how they were used to defend the castle from rival European powers.
Then he told us to turn — and there it was, the truth carved in stone: another line of cannons, this time aimed inward, directly at the town of Cape Coast. They were used to suppress resistance from our ancestors. It was concrete evidence — they did fight back. The answer to Valentina’s question was right there on the rampart. The myth was shattered.
We suddenly understood something we hadn’t before: these castles weren’t just built to keep outsiders out; they were also fortified to keep Africans in line. Our ancestors resisted — and these cannons were aimed at silencing them.
For many of us, that realization broke apart a deeply rooted belief. Valentina’s question — whether our people had “given us away” — had haunted many on the trip. But the castle itself told a different story.
The idea that our ancestors were simply handed over is a narrative planted and perpetuated by colonial powers. It oversimplifies a painful, complex history. Yes, some African leaders were complicit and some took part to profit from the situation, but they operated under immense pressures — destabilized kingdoms, economic manipulation, and the threat of European violence.
Standing there, between those cannons, the story began to feel whole again.
In the Dungeons, Where Floors and Walls Still Echo Our Ancestors
From the sunlit ramparts, we descended narrow stone steps into the underground dungeons. The air shifted instantly — damp, suffocating, and heavy. Hundreds of men, women, and children had once been crammed into these dark chambers, chained together, waiting for ships that would carry them into the unknown.
Silence fell over our group as the guide spoke. You could almost feel the echoes of those who had been here — the cries, the fear, the broken prayers lingering in the walls.
It was here, in this darkness, that we were forced to confront the depths of human capacity for evil. The scale of brutality our ancestors endured defies comprehension. Yes, forms of servitude existed in Africa before Europeans arrived — but they were temporary, humanized, and reintegrative. What the Europeans built here was something entirely different: chattel slavery — an industrialized system designed to erase identity, destroy families, and commodify human lives for profit.
This wasn’t an extension of African traditions. It was a violent rupture — a theft of people, memory, and identity. The dungeons are not just historic sites; they are living testaments to suffering that no book, documentary, or lecture can truly capture. You have to stand there, breathe that air, and feel the weight of it in your bones to understand.
This is a harsh reality we must never forget. The passage of time must never dull the memory of the price our ancestors paid. We carry an obligation — to remember, to teach, and to pass down the terror of this history so future generations never take our freedom for granted. Every person of African descent owes it to themselves to visit these castles at least once in their lifetime. Not to remain trapped in the past, but to learn from it — to remain vigilant and ensure that history never repeats itself, even when oppression comes dressed in the form of neo-colonialism or indirect exploitation.
Standing there, it became clear that we are one people, no matter where in the world we now live. Our ancestors were stolen from the same lands and scattered across different shores, but our identity is rooted in where we were taken from — not where the ships left us. That realization, perhaps more than anything else, has the power to truly bridge the Black Diaspora divide.
In that dungeon, listening to the story of our collective history, our group shared an indescribably vulnerable moment. We were overwhelmed — disgust, sadness, anger, empathy — all colliding at once. And yet, in that darkness, there was also clarity: our fates are intertwined, our spirits connected, and the oneness of who we are became undeniable.
For me personally, it felt like a spiritual confirmation. As though the ancestors were speaking directly to me — urging me to continue the mission of bridging the Diaspora divide. My sadness, anger, and grief gave way to a rising sense of urgency and responsibility. I walked out of that dungeon emboldened, carrying a renewed commitment: we must ensure that every person of African descent bears witness to this truth, or risk allowing the gravity of our history — and the price paid for our very existence — to fade away.
But the the Disconnect Runs Even Deeper
Just when I thought we’d uncovered all the emotional layers of this journey, another moment challenged me. On Day 2 of the trip, during our Accra city tour, one of the travelers, Daphney — who is Haitian — made a quiet but powerful observation. While visiting Ghana’s National Museum, she noted the prominent tributes to Pan-African icons like W.E.B. Du Bois and Kwame Nkrumah. And yet, there was no mention of Toussaint Louverture — the revolutionary leader considered the Father of Haiti and a global symbol of Black liberation for his role in founding the world’s first independent Black republic.
Daphney, like many of us, was deeply moved by Ghana’s legacy. But she couldn’t ignore the absence of such a towering figure from this Pan-African space. The omission didn’t feel intentional, but it reflected a deeper truth: across the diaspora, our histories remain incomplete without each other. Yes, the contexts differ — Haiti’s revolution against France, Ghana’s resistance to British colonialism — but the struggle is the same. And that’s what made Louverture’s absence feel so jarring: it was a stark reminder that even our shared fight for freedom is still told in fragments.
That realization echoed a growing awareness in our group — especially as we reflected on the heated debate we’d had earlier that day. We were beginning to see the full scope of how fragmented our collective memory really is — and how those gaps feed misunderstanding, misalignment, and disunity within the diaspora.
When we returned from the trip, Daphney initiated a virtual book club, and we all agreed to read Silencing the Past by Michel-Rolph Trouillot — a book that challenges the way history is written and remembered, with the Haitian Revolution as a central case study. It became more than a book club. It became our way of confronting the reality that the stories we've inherited — whether African-American, Haitian, Ghanaian, Nigerian, or otherwise — are each partial truths. To truly unite, we must be willing to learn history from all sides.
This need for broader understanding isn’t new. It’s the very reason the Pan-African movement emerged. Leaders like Kwame Nkrumah, W.E.B. Du Bois, Marcus Garvey, and George Padmore saw early on that our power as people of African descent would always be limited if we allowed borders, colonizer-imposed languages, or incomplete narratives to keep us apart. From the 1900 Pan-African Congresses to Nkrumah’s 1963 call for African unity at the founding of the OAU, the goal was clear: reclaim our shared identity, organize across continents, and build Black global power.
But that vision remains unfulfilled. Today, the diaspora is still fragmented — intellectually, politically, and emotionally. Many of us are only barely fluent in the histories of our immediate heritage, unaware of the interconnected liberation stories that stretch from Accra to Port-au-Prince to Montgomery. That’s not just a historical blind spot. It’s a strategic weakness.
This is exactly why the TIA Travel Program exists. TIA is not just about tourism — it’s about truth-seeking. Our itineraries deliberately weave in historical immersion, cultural exchange, and heritage exploration. Because when we journey across the continent with open minds and hearts, we begin to reconcile the fractured stories of who we are. We learn to see our individual pasts as pieces of a collective puzzle. And only when we put those pieces together can we begin to bridge the divide that has held us back for generations.
Watch TIA Travelers Share Their Ghana Experience:
Daphney's Testimonial Video
Valentina's Testimonial Video
Cynthia's Testimonial Video
Beyond the Pain: Discovering Our Power
The rest of the trip was a journey of contrasts. We hiked to Kakum National Park, biked through Aburi’s forests, explored the creative energy of Accra, and connected with locals at the Afropolitan Cultural Mixer. We shopped in lively markets, lounged on beaches, and partied at Polo beach club, etc.
This balance was intentional. We wanted travelers to confront Ghana’s history but also experience the vibrancy, resilience, and progress that define Ghana today.
Accra’s skyline tells a story of modern Africa — thriving businesses, upscale hotels, fine dining, and nightlife as electric as any global city. Ghana isn’t frozen in its pain; it has evolved into a 21st-century destination of luxury, heritage, and opportunity.
Seeing this side of Ghana was just as important as visiting Cape Coast Castle, because it reminded us that we are more than our trauma. We come from thriving civilizations, rich traditions, and a legacy of brilliance that long predates colonialism.
A Personal Awakening
For me, as the founder of Afropolitan Cities, this trip was more transformative than I could have imagined. Even though I grew up in Ghana, I had never experienced the country like this. Walking through the dungeons, standing between the cannons, and watching travelers reconnect with their roots gave me a renewed sense of purpose.
For years, I’ve been curating diaspora experiences across the U.S. — creating platforms that showcase African culture, celebrate our differences, and build bridges across borders. My goal has always been to connect the global Black diaspora, foster cross-cultural collaboration, and spark curiosity and pride around our shared African heritage.
But this recent journey to Ghana — paired with the deep, unfiltered conversations among our group — led to an epiphany: something vital was missing. True unity isn’t built on cultural connection alone or moments of shared celebration. Without historical context, there can be no real foundation for understanding — only surface-level bonds. I realized that travel isn’t just a bridge, it’s a catalyst. A transformative tool essential to our mission of uniting the African Diaspora.
I returned from this trip inspired and more determined than ever. Our goal is bold but necessary: to take 10 million people of African descent back to the continent in the next 10 years — a mission we’re calling the “10 Million in 10” campaign
Because the true beginning of our unity lies in the return. In coming home, we reclaim our identity, reconnect with our heritage, and awaken to the power we hold as one people. Our progress — our ability to unite, join forces, and realize the full potential the world has long feared — begins the moment we return.
Awesome work @TIA team and great insights about the trip .