Why Ghana Called Me Home: A Black American’s Journey

“Ew— you African booty-scratcher!”
That’s what a fourth grader yelled at Jaylen, my Nigerian neighbor, as we pushed through the morning rush-hour crowd on a gloomy Tuesday. Moments like these defined the cultural fog I grew up in—where Africa was a punchline, not a possibility.

In school, the narrative was no better. History books skipped over centuries of African innovation, skipping from vague images of spears and huts to “slavery” to “development.” There was no mention of kingdoms, empires, or intellect—just a long, bleak silence. As a kid, I internalized that silence. Africa seemed like a place you escaped from, not returned to.

But in my grandmother’s apartment, the story changed.
Her walls were alive with giraffe figurines, carved wooden masks, and warrior statues. I didn’t have the language for it then, but something in those rooms called to me. A sense of ancestral knowing—of something lost and waiting to be reclaimed.

That call got louder the day my grandmother sat us down to watch Alex Haley’s Roots.
I was just a kid, but watching Kunta Kinte resist being renamed, watching his dignity stripped and yet never lost—I felt something awakened. It was the first time I realized I was Black in America. And that meant something. That meant something deep.

Photo by Ifeoluwa A. on Unsplash

What Called Me to Ghana?

It was the Friday morning after Donald Trump’s inauguration. I remember the dread in my chest—and then, my phone rang. It was Joseph Vaughan, my mentor and co-producer on The Black Narrative.

We talked about what so many Black Americans were whispering:
What if we just left?

Thailand, Mexico, Portugal—everyone was talking about escape routes. But for Joe and me, the answer was crystal clear: Ghana. Not just a destination, but a homecoming. Within a week, Joe was on a flight. By the end of that call, I knew: it was my time, too.

I said it out loud to myself:
This is my season to bet on me. To live boldly. To step into digital nomadism. To live without fear.
I needed to see Ghana for myself.

Photo by Tasha Jolley on Unsplash

The New Antebellum

Trump’s election didn’t invent racism—it simply licensed it. We entered what I call The New Antebellum, an era where white America clung to Confederate values under the guise of nationalism. Where racism wasn’t hiding behind policy—it was policy. As a Black man, I felt the grip of the Veil tighten. The surveillance. The slights. The systems.

I wasn’t running from America. I was walking toward freedom.
And for me, that freedom lived in Ghana.

Photo by Richmond Osei on Unsplash

Why Ghana?

I won’t romanticize it. Prejudice exists everywhere. But Ghana offered me something America never could: the chance to be unapologetically Black without explanation.

In Ghana, I felt bold. Whole. Seen.
I stood at the Door of No Return in Elmina and whispered back to my ancestors: I made it home.

Ghana called to me not just spiritually, but strategically. It’s one of the most stable nations in West Africa. It’s rising in political and cultural influence. It has a rich history of heritage tourism and Pan-African solidarity. But more than that—it gave me breath.

There is land here, waiting to be tilled. Communities ready to be empowered. Ancestral promises waiting to be fulfilled.

And so, I came.
Not as a tourist.
But as a returnee.
As a seed—planted, not buried.