There is a building in Kumasi where the gate does not just open. It speaks.

Wrought into the iron, before you even step inside, is the symbol Bi Nka Bi. It means “no one should bite the other.” You do not read it in a book. You feel it as you walk through. The building itself is telling you how to behave while you are in its presence.

This is the quiet work of Adinkra symbols in Ghana today. They are no longer just stamped on cloth for funerals and festivals. They have moved into the walls. Into the floors. Into the places where we live, work, and gather. And they are speaking to us whether we notice or not.

From Funeral Cloth to Foundation

Adinkra started somewhere else entirely. The word itself comes from di nkra, meaning to say goodbye. The stamped patterns on cloth were once messages for the departed, a way of sending loved ones off with wisdom tucked into the fabric.

But symbols that carry meaning do not stay in one place for long. Slowly, they slipped off the cloth and into the world.

Walk through almost any public building in Accra or Kumasi today and you will see them. Gye Nyame on the wall of a church, reminding everyone inside who is in charge. Sankofa carved into the entrance of a school, telling students before they even sit down that the past is not finished with them yet. Funtumfunafu Denkyemfunafu, the conjoined crocodiles, on the floor of a community hall, whispering that even in competition, we share the same stomach.

The Architects Who Listened

There was a moment, somewhere in the last twenty years, when Ghanaian architects stopped copying glass boxes from Dubai and started looking at their own feet.

They realized that a building in Ghana should not look like any other building. It should carry the weight of where it sits. So they began asking questions. What if the railings carried Nyansapo (the knot of wisdom)? What if the courtyard was laid out in the shape of Ese Ne Tekrema (the teeth and the tongue), reminding people that even when they disagree, they must live together?

The work of people like Joe Osae-Addo and others in the Ghanaian architecture scene has pushed this forward. Not by forcing tradition onto modern buildings, but by letting the symbols find their natural place. A Sankofa on a school gate is not a decoration. It is a lesson that does not need a teacher.

What the Walls Are Saying

If you pay attention, the symbols start to read like a map of Ghanaian values.

Gye Nyame appears where people need reassurance—churches, mosques, even the front of some trotro stations. Dwennimmen, the ram’s horns, show up at courts and council buildings, reminding officials to be strong but humble. Mate Masie, meaning “what I hear, I keep,” sits quietly in libraries and archives.

The buildings are not just shelters. They are philosophy made visible.

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Why It Matters Now

There is a reason this is happening during Adinkra Month, and there is a reason it matters beyond our borders.

The world is hungry for meaning. Everywhere, people are tired of buildings that look like airports, that feel like nothing. When a tourist walks into a hotel in Accra and sees Akoma (the heart) woven into the terrazzo floor, they are not just seeing a pattern. They are standing in a culture that decided not to forget itself.

For Ghanaians, it is something else. It is a reminder that we do not need to import identity. It is already in the ground. In the iron. In the wall.

Next time you walk into a building, look down. Look at the gate. Look at the pillars. There is a symbol there, and it has been waiting for you to notice.

A new initiative is shining a spotlight on the remarkable achievements of Ghanaian heritage in the United Kingdom with the launch of UK Black Stars 2026 — a list honouring 100 influential British-Ghanaians making major contributions across fields such as arts, finance, politics, entertainment and business.

The program, created to recognize outstanding British-Ghanaians in the UK, highlights individuals whose leadership, innovation and impact reflect both British society’s diversity and Ghana’s cultural influence abroad.

Parliamentary Celebration in London

On March 6, 2026, Ghana’s Independence Day, the All-Party Parliamentary Group on Ghana will host a special reception at the Houses of Parliament in London to celebrate honourees, including:

Actor and advocate, Adjoa Andoh

Journalist and author, Afua Hirsch

Music star, Stormzy

Footballer, Kobbie Mainoo

And a wide range of cultural figures, professionals, and creative leaders from across the diaspora.

The event, hosted by MP Bell Ribeiro‑Addy, aims to honor Ghanaian influence in Britain and foster connections between the diaspora and heritage communities.

A Platform for Representation

UK Black Stars emphasises the breadth of Ghanaian heritage influence in the UK, celebrating both established icons and emerging leaders. The list includes cultural innovators like Michaela Coel and creatives such as Fuse ODG, as well as professionals in finance, law, media and academia.

One notable name on the list is Afua Kyei, whose recognition as one of the UK’s most influential Black figures — including topping last year’s Powerlist 2026 — reflects the depth of Ghanaian impact across British public life.

Strengthening Diaspora Pride

The UK Black Stars platform also invites public nominations for future honourees, extending an opportunity for community members to elevate local leaders and unsung heroes.

As the event draws near, supporters hope the initiative will deepen appreciation for Ghanaian heritage and spotlight the significant roles British-Ghanaians play on the global stage — from culture and creativity to policy and public service.

The first time I truly understood what it meant to be Ghanaian, I was seven years old, sitting on a wooden stool in my grandmother’s courtyard, watching her kill a chicken.

Not for drama. For dinner. And for the ancestors.

She spoke to the chicken before she killed it. Whispered words in Twi that I pretended to understand. Then she poured its blood at the base of a dried plantain tree and called it mpata—appeasement. I asked her why. She looked at me like I’d asked why the sky exists.

“The chicken knows,” she said. “The ancestors know. One day, you will know too.”

I’m thirty-two now. I still don’t fully know. And that terrifies me.

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The Thing About Preservation

Ghana is doing a lot of talking about cultural preservation lately. Committees meet. Reports are written. Festivals are announced with press releases. The Ministry of Tourism, Arts and Culture releases statements about “leveraging our heritage for economic growth.”

But here’s what those statements don’t capture:

My cousin in London just named her daughter “Ama” because it sounded cute on Instagram. She doesn’t know that Ama means “born on Saturday.” She doesn’t know the naming ceremony involves water, gin, and prayers she’s never heard. She just liked the way it looked in her daughter’s birth announcement.

That’s the problem with preservation. We’re so busy building museums for our culture that we forgot culture actually lives in how we name our children, greet our elders, and pour libation before we open that expensive bottle of champagne.

The Funeral That Shifted Something

Last December, my great-aunt died. She was ninety-four. Maybe ninety-seven. Nobody kept exact records because, as she always said, “The ancestors know my age. Why do you people need papers?”

Her funeral became the event of the season. Three days. Two villages. One cow. And somewhere between the firing of muskets and the distribution of aseda—thank-you money—I watched my London cousins struggle.

They didn’t know when to remove their sandals. They didn’t know why the widow had to sit on a mat. They didn’t understand that the wailing wasn’t just grief—it was a performance, a required ritual, a language the dead understand.

One of them whispered to me: “Why didn’t anyone teach us this?”

I didn’t have an answer.

The Kente Weaver’s Empty Loom

Two weeks ago, I visited a kente weaving village in the Volta Region. The master weaver—seventy-three years old, hands that move like water—showed me his loom. Beautiful. Intricate. Ancient.

“Nobody wants to learn,” he said. “The young people say it takes too long. They want to make money fast. They go to Accra. They sell phone credit.”

I asked him what happens when he’s gone.

He laughed. Not a happy laugh.

“The loom will wait,” he said. “For who? I don’t know. Maybe a ghost.”

His grandson was there, glued to TikTok. Wearing a Manchester United jersey. Speaking English with an accent he learned from American YouTubers. When I asked him in Twi what his favourite kente pattern meant, he shrugged.

“I don’t speak Twi well,” he said. In perfect English.

The Language Problem Nobody Wants to Address

Here’s the uncomfortable truth Ghanaians don’t say out loud:

We’re embarrassed.

We send our children to international schools and feel proud when they struggle with Twi. We correct each other’s English in mixed company but never correct someone who butchers our own language. We’ve decided, collectively and silently, that speaking our mother tongues fluently is somehow less sophisticated.

A friend told me recently, “I speak English to my kids because I want them to succeed globally.”

Global success, it seems, requires local amnesia.

But here’s what I’ve noticed: the most successful Ghanaians abroad aren’t the ones who assimilated completely. They’re the ones who brought something with them. The ones who could explain sankofa to their American coworkers. The ones who wore batik to the office potluck and told the story behind it.

The Ancestors Are Not on Wi-Fi

There’s a moment in every traditional ceremony—whether it’s a wedding, a funeral, or a puberty rite—where the elder pauses. Looks up. And speaks to those who came before.

“Grandfathers,” they say. “Grandmothers. We have not forgotten you.”

The first time I witnessed this, I was embarrassed. Who are they talking to? The air? The ceiling?

Now I understand. They’re talking to continuity. To the thread that connects a chicken killed in 1994 to a chicken killed in 1820. To the idea that we are not alone, not the first, not the last.

My grandmother died ten years ago. Sometimes, when I’m cooking her groundnut soup recipe—the one she never wrote down, the one I had to watch and memorise—I find myself talking to her.

“Too much pepper?” I ask.

And somehow, I know the answer.

That’s culture. Not the festivals. Not the museum exhibits. Not the tourism board campaigns. That quiet knowing. That sense that you’re not starting from zero.

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Not everything is dying.

Walk through Nima Market on a Friday afternoon. Young women buying waakye from women who’ve sold it for forty years. Young men arguing about politics in Hausa and Twi mixed together. Children running between legs, speaking whatever language gets them the best response.

Visit any funeral in any village. Watch the teenagers. They’re rolling their eyes, yes. They’re on their phones, yes. But they’re also watching. They’re also learning. They know more than they admit.

And there’s this: the same globalisation that threatens our culture is also preserving it. YouTube videos of adowa dancing. TikTok tutorials on tying kente. Instagram pages dedicated to Ghanaian proverbs with English translations.

A girl in New York can learn her grandmother’s funeral songs from a phone. A boy in London can watch his uncle pour libation and understand why.

It’s not the same as sitting in the courtyard. But it’s something.

What I’m Actually Trying to Say

Ghana’s culture isn’t fragile. It survived colonialism. It survived the transatlantic slave trade. It survived missionaries telling our ancestors their gods were false. It survived independence, structural adjustment, and now, globalisation.

What I’m worried about isn’t survival.

I’m worried about meaning.

We can preserve the forms—the dances, the drums, the cloth—while losing what they actually mean. We can have festivals without understanding why we’re celebrating. We can wear kente without knowing which pattern belongs to which clan. We can call ourselves Ghanaian without knowing what that actually requires.

My grandmother didn’t worry about cultural preservation. She just lived. She greeted properly. She poured libation. She named her children on the day they were born. She didn’t need a committee to tell her what mattered.

We do now. Because we’ve forgotten.

The Challenge

If you’re reading this and you’re Ghanaian, here’s my challenge:

Learn one thing this year.

Not everything. Just one thing.

Learn the story behind your surname. Learn why your family eats that weird thing at Christmas. Learn to cook one dish your grandmother made. Learn what the symbols on your funeral cloth actually mean. Learn to greet an elder properly—not just the words, but the bend, the pause, the eye contact.

And if you’re not Ghanaian, if you’re reading this from somewhere else:

Pay attention to what you’re losing too. Because I promise you, something is slipping. Something your grandchildren will wish you’d held onto.

The ancestors are watching. They’re patient. But even patience runs out eventually.