From Ghanaian courtyards to city streets abroad, libation remains a bridge between the living and the departed

Before the speeches begin and before the drums find their rhythm, a quiet ritual often unfolds. A bottle is uncorked.

A small amount of drink touches the earth. Names are spoken. Heads bow. For a moment, those who are absent become present.

In Ghana, libation is far more than a ceremony. It is an act of remembrance rooted in the belief that death does not sever a person’s connection to family and community.

Across many ethnic groups, ancestors are regarded as active members of society—guardians who continue to influence the fortunes, health, and wellbeing of the living.

The details vary from one community to another. In some homes, schnapps is preferred. Elsewhere, palm wine or water may be used.

The words spoken differ between Akan, Ewe, Ga, Dagbani, and other languages. Yet the purpose remains remarkably consistent: to acknowledge those who came before and invite their blessings.

What makes libation particularly fascinating is how its spirit has travelled far beyond its traditional setting. Across the African diaspora, echoes of the practice can be found in unexpected places.

In parts of the Caribbean and the United States, people still pour a drink onto the ground in memory of a loved one. The gesture may not always be described as libation, but the message is strikingly familiar: the departed have not been forgotten.

As migration, urbanisation, and modern lifestyles reshape cultural practices, libation continues to endure. It survives because it fulfils a deeply human need—the desire to remain connected to those who shaped our lives.

A few drops on the ground may seem insignificant. Yet within that simple act lies a profound idea: that memory is a form of presence, and that conversations with our ancestors never truly end.

A centuries-old ritual continues to spark debate over culture, justice, and human rights

Imagine a child leaving home, not because she chose to, but because someone else in her family committed an offence.

She has stolen nothing, broken no law, and harmed no one. Yet her future is handed over in the name of spiritual justice.

For generations, this was the reality of trokosi, a traditional practice historically associated with some Ewe communities in southeastern Ghana and parts of neighbouring Togo and Benin. The word is commonly interpreted as “wife of a deity” or “servant of a god.”

Under the custom, a young virgin girl could be dedicated to a shrine to atone for the wrongdoing of a male relative or another member of her family.

To those who upheld the tradition, the ritual restored harmony between families, ancestors, and the spiritual world. In societies where divine justice was woven into everyday life, such acts were believed to prevent misfortune and heal fractured relationships.

The shrine was not simply a religious institution; it was regarded as a guardian of moral order.

Yet another story unfolded behind those beliefs. Critics argued that innocent girls paid an unbearable price. Many were denied formal education, separated from their families for years, and stripped of the freedom to determine their own futures.

The debate was never merely about religion. It became a national conversation about whose rights mattered most when culture and individual liberty collided.

That conversation reached a turning point in 1998 when Ghana amended its Criminal Code through Act 554, outlawing ritual and customary servitude.

The legislation marked a significant shift, affirming that cultural practices could not override fundamental human rights.

Since then, thousands of women and girls have been released from shrine servitude through the efforts of government agencies, traditional authorities, faith leaders, and human rights organisations.

The legacy of trokosi continues to provoke reflection. It reminds Ghanaians that culture is neither frozen nor untouchable. Traditions evolve, especially when societies confront practices that no longer reflect their values.

Today, the story is remembered not only as a painful chapter in Ghana’s cultural history but also as an example of how nations can honour heritage while embracing justice, dignity, and the protection of the vulnerable.

For many gallery visitors, the first instinct is to ask what a painting means. Standing before the abstract works of Nicholas Kowalski, however, a different question emerges: What does it make you feel?

That subtle shift lies at the heart of contemporary abstraction, a genre often misunderstood as distant or inaccessible.

Yet in Ghana, where visual storytelling has long thrived through symbols, textiles, body adornment, and traditional motifs, abstraction may be more familiar than it first appears.

Recent works exhibited at Tiga Art Gallery demonstrated how colour, texture, and movement can communicate experiences that words struggle to capture. Rather than presenting recognisable landscapes or portraits, the paintings invited viewers to navigate emotional terrain.

Thick layers of paint rose from the canvas like sculpted memories, while energetic brushstrokes suggested moments of tension, joy, uncertainty, and reflection.

Kowalski’s artistic approach is particularly interesting within Ghana’s evolving cultural landscape. Born of Ghanaian and Polish heritage, he occupies a space between multiple traditions and perspectives.

That dual inheritance is not expressed through obvious cultural references but through a willingness to embrace complexity, contradiction, and experimentation.

His observation that he creates from what he feels, thinks, and sees in the world speaks to a broader truth about artistic practice.

Abstract art is not an escape from reality; it is another way of processing it. In societies undergoing rapid social, economic, and cultural change, such forms of expression can offer a valuable space for contemplation.

As Ghana’s contemporary art scene gains increasing international attention, exhibitions like this highlight a growing appetite for art that prioritises emotional engagement over easy interpretation.

The viewer is no longer a passive observer but an active participant, bringing personal memories and meanings to each encounter.

Perhaps that is abstraction’s greatest gift: not providing answers, but creating room for discovery.