African Childhood Diaries:Childhood in Ghana – Growing Up Ghanaian: A Love-Hate Journey
I love Ghana. From the culture to the food, it’s a place that feels like home in every sense of the word. Speaking of food, I can’t get enough of anything yam—yam with palava sauce, egg stew, grilled chicken wings, or palm nut soup. And let’s not forget the almighty fufu with goat light soup or groundnut soup.
The people are vibrant and full of life, even though living in a small town like mine, Elmina, comes with its challenges. In places where everyone knows everyone, judgment can be harsh, and opinions about you, your choices, and your preferences seem to float in every conversation. But above all, I love the culture—it’s breathtakingly beautiful.
In today’s Ghana, all you need is a smart phone and 1 Ghana cedi worth of data to scroll TikTok, YouTube, or Facebook, and you’re guaranteed a hearty laugh. It’s part of the charm of living here. Especially for those of us who lived in compound houses, the memories are endless. Bathing outside with your squad, peeping through a neighbor’s window to catch your favorite cartoon, and playing in the rain as it poured were everyday adventures. Wrapping a cloth around your neck and sitting by the old storyteller in the compound was a rite of passage. And sleeping in a neighbor’s room was perfectly normal—unless mom or dad was having one of those mood swings.
Growing up in Ghana, however, is a bittersweet experience. It’s fun yet frustrating in ways only Ghanaians can truly understand. Life was unpredictable, suppressive, and often confusing. What was okay one day could earn you a scolding the next. No matter your age, you were always treated as a child. Phrases like “I’ll give you a dirty slap” or “Why do you think you’re too grown to be beaten?” were as common as the morning sun.
Children had no say in anything—not in whether they wanted those tribal marks etched into their faces, what they wanted to eat or wear, or even which school they wanted to attend. Beatings were the answer to everything. Talking too much? Beaten. Not speaking up? Beaten. Nodding your head to answer a question? Beaten. Spilling food or losing a pencil? You guessed it—beaten.
Eating was its own battlefield. If you ate too fast, you were beaten for not eating properly. If you left food on your plate, you were beaten for wasting it—and sometimes forced to eat it the next day, regardless of whether it was fufu, banku, or rice. You could never win.
What truly got on my nerves, though, was the beating after you cried. “Why are you crying?” they’d ask, as if the cane wasn’t the culprit. And if you didn’t stop crying quickly enough, another round of punishment followed—starting with a warning, then a knock on the head, then a slap on your back, and finally, the almighty cane.
Eating from neighbors was another no-win situation. If you ate their food, you were beaten for doing so without permission. If you refused, your parents would scold you for making the neighbors think they’d told you not to. More beatings followed, of course, and the neighbor’s kids would suddenly develop serious mood swings towards you.
As a child in Ghana, one of the greatest cultural sins you could commit was failing to greet an elder properly. It wasn’t just about saying “Good morning” or “Good afternoon.” No, you had to add the right title—“Good morning, Ma,” “Good afternoon, Sir,” “Good evening, Grandma.” It didn’t matter if it was a formal or casual setting or whether you were related to them. Skipping the title was a guaranteed way to be labeled disrespectful and untrained.
And heaven forbid you greeted but not loudly enough for their liking! That would earn you a string of disappointed remarks like “Disrespectful!” or “Untrained!” I remember my beloved late grandmother—may she rest in peace—would often respond with a sharp, disapproving tone when someone greeted her casually. If a passing stranger said simply, “Good afternoon,” without adding the proper title, she’d snap, “Who is your mate?” And it was always worse if the age gap was significant, say 20 or 30 years.
In Ghana, the child is always wrong. It doesn’t matter if the elder is just a year, a month, or even a minute older than you. Age is power, and the hierarchy is unshakable. Arguing with an elder is a losing battle. Trust me, you’ll never win. Even if you try to explain yourself to others, seeking support or understanding, forget it. At the end of the day, you’ll be forced—either willingly or unwillingly—to apologize.
Questioning an elder’s decision or expressing a different view? That’s a guaranteed ticket to being labeled rude and disrespectful. Whether it’s asking for five more minutes to finish a TV program before turning it off or saying you’re not comfortable doing something they’ve asked, it’s all considered insolence. Saying no to an outfit they want you to wear or suggesting an alternative idea? You’d hear, “Do you think you know better than us? What do you know?”
I’ll never forget the beating of my life over what I thought was a harmless remark. It was a Saturday, and I was running late for a choreography dress rehearsal. Dad was in the living room watching a live football match—Chelsea versus Real Madrid. He was rooting for Chelsea, while I supported Real Madrid. I was just about to leave the compound when I heard him call me back.
Reluctantly, I turned around to hear him out. He asked me to get him a bottle of water from the fridge. Now, don’t judge me—I was young and naive. I responded, “Ah, Dad, but the fridge is right there, and it’s closer to you. I’m running late, so please help yourself.” And with that, I dashed out, thinking nothing of it.
Later that evening, I came home to find my food waiting on the dining table—jollof rice with a drink and some biscuits. I ate happily, took a bath, and went to bed.
At dawn, I felt a sharp sting on my leg. My sleepy brain thought it was a mosquito. But as I tried to swat it away, I realized it was my dad, standing over me with a cane in hand. Apparently, I had committed the unthinkable by telling him to get his own water.
The punishment was swift and brutal. The marks on my body were so bad I couldn’t go to church the next day. To make matters worse, my screams from the beating had echoed through the neighborhood, and the teasing from my neighbors lasted for weeks
Despite all these frustrations, Ghana remains home—a place filled with beauty, warmth, and a culture that stays with you no matter where life takes you. The laughter, the shared experiences, and the resilience of growing up here shape us into who we are.
The things that once seemed frustrating, the lessons learned through discipline, the disagreements over what’s right or wrong—these are the experiences that shape us. They teach us respect, patience, and the importance of community. And when you leave, no matter how far away you go, that sense of belonging lingers with you. Whether it’s in the way you greet others, the way you share a meal, or the memories of those “what were you thinking?” moments, Ghana never truly leaves you.
Some of the methods used to teach respect, obedience, and discipline can unintentionally have long-lasting negative effects on children. They can suppress confidence, discourage kids from being vocal, and foster fear rather than understanding. As a society, we must find ways to balance discipline with encouragement, structure with freedom, and tradition with empathy.
As frustrating as it sometimes can be, there’s a magic in the madness. Growing up Ghanaian, with all its contradictions, makes us stronger, more compassionate, and more connected to the essence of who we are. It’s a journey that stays with you, and no matter where you go in the world, a little piece of Ghana always walks beside you. And for all the quirks and frustrations, that’s something we wouldn’t change for the world.
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