Perspectives
‘A soul mission’: The African Americans moving to Ghana
This article by Menenaba was first published by Aljazeera
Accra, Ghana – Ashley Haruna never intended to stay in Ghana. But everything changed for the 28-year-old health coach when she stood facing a dark cell inside the stone walls of Cape Coast Castle. As the tour guide explained that many of the enslaved people who’d once been held there had ended up in Haiti, Haruna says she “felt something”.
Having grown up in the United States to Haitian parents, she realised “my ancestors could’ve passed through here. This place. This ground.
“I wasn’t looking for that,” she reflects. “But it found me.”

The feeling it stirred within her only grew when she returned home to Ohio. After a few months, with her family’s reluctant approval, she returned to Ghana – for good.
That was in December 2021, and Haruna was following in the footsteps of many other African Americans who had sought to reconnect with the country that may once have been home to their ancestors.
In the 1950s, Ghana’s first prime minister and president, Kwame Nkrumah, championed the diaspora’s return as part of his Pan-African dream and nation-building efforts. During the US civil rights movement, he invited Black American activists, including W E B Du Bois, Marcus Garvey, and Julian Bond, to relocate to Ghana. In the 1960s, Du Bois moved there, as did writer Maya Angelou.
Ghanaian leaders continue to encourage the African diaspora to reconnect and relocate. In 2019, the “Year of Return”, marking 400 years since the first enslaved Africans arrived in Virginia, more than 200 people from the US and the Caribbean received Ghanaian citizenship. In 2024, as part of the government’s “Beyond the Return” initiative – the same programme that encouraged Haruna to move to Ghana – 524 African diasporans were granted citizenship.
But, as Haruna discovered, building a new life in Ghana comes with challenges.
Villa Diaspora
Her first apartment was located two hours north of Accra, in the mountainous Eastern Region, and while Haruna had imagined herself integrating into a local community, she instead found isolation. With no grocery stores nearby and no one to help answer her questions – like how to operate a gas stove or what to do when the water stops running – she found herself feeling alone and frustrated.
She recalled a YouTube video she’d seen while still in the US about a place called Villa Diaspora – a co-living space where the owner, herself a “returnee”, as African Americans relocating to Ghana refer to themselves, helps others navigate their new lives in the country. Haruna dug through her browser history until she found the video. A week later, she moved into the villa in an upscale suburb of Accra.
In the warm communal living area and kitchen she shared with two other African-American tenants, she learned how to navigate the practical and cultural challenges of figuring out her new home – from getting an identification card to learning to say “please” before every sentence.
When Haruna was injured in a car accident, it was the villa’s owner, Michelle Konadu, 37, and the community of former tenants who helped her. The villa became her lifeline. Like the other tenants – who tend to stay for between three and nine months – Haruna moved out of the villa after a while, but it is still Konadu she calls when she needs help.
‘They want healing’
Konadu knows the feeling of being caught between worlds. Born and raised in New York City to Ghanaian parents, her family apartment was a landing place for visiting relatives, distant cousins and friends of friends. “We were always housing someone,” she says.
It wasn’t until she visited Ghana for a funeral in 2015 that she first contemplated leaving the fast pace of New York for the slow flow of Ghana. At first, she thought it would feel like home, but she says she often felt like an outsider. “Too American to be in Ghanaian spaces. But too Ghanaian for America,” she explains.
A cousin named Alfred softened her landing by teaching her how to navigate markets, hail a trotro (a local minibus taxi), and understand the unspoken etiquette of greeting elders and never using the left hand to make gestures towards anybody.
Without his guidance, she says, she might have left and never returned.
Recognising that not every returnee has their own Alfred, Konadu decided to help. In 2017, she opened Villa Diaspora, a three-bedroom co-living compound alongside her larger family home in Kwabenya. She invites the tenants she hosts into the everyday life of her neighbourhood and introduces them to middle-income Accra. Beyond providing accommodation, she helps returnees find schools, consults on land purchases, and connects them with social groups and sports clubs.
Her goal is simple: to help people belong by providing “an already-made community”.
“Most of them come here with a soul mission,” Konadu explains. “They want healing. Or reconnection. Or just a fresh start. For many, coming to Africa has been a lifelong dream. But the people they meet might not understand that.”
Her family struggled to understand why she moved back when their dream had been to leave. But now other families are relieved to know that their loved ones will spend their first months in Ghana surrounded by people on a similar journey. After 10 years in Ghana, Konadu believes that if people can live with her, they can live among the wider community.
She points to the Brazilian “Tabom” community in Jamestown, Accra, which she sees as a perfect example of a well-integrated returned diaspora group. As descendants of formerly enslaved Africans who returned from Brazil in the 19th century, they settled among the Ga people, intermarried, learned the language, and built lives that blended their Afro-Brazilian heritage within the Ga social structure. Over the generations, their names – De Souza, Silva, Nelson – have become part of the Jamestown story. Konadu expects the same will happen with the newer returnees and that the African-American culture will remain strong but exist within the structure of the larger Ghanaian society.
Haruna understands that integration takes time, and she acknowledges that returnees like her have privileges that others in Ghana don’t. Lighter skin and an American accent often open doors in ways that never happened back in the US, giving her preferential treatment such as faster service in restaurants, locals ready to offer help, and generally being able to make things happen faster, like meetings with authorities.
“It is uncomfortable as a self-aware person to notice that I have privilege, something that is the total opposite of what is happening in the United States. I am still wrapping my head around all of it,” she says.
“I’m Ghanaian. I’m also a returnee,” Konadu says. “We’ve always been connected: Ghana and its diasporans. This isn’t new, but the ‘Year of Return’ made things more visible.”
This increased visibility – and the clustering of returnees in specific settlements, along with rising costs – has caused some friction.
‘The Ghana they won’t see’
Anthony Amponsah Faith runs a business renting out cars and driving clients around Ghana, including returnees navigating the country for the first time. He credits them with allowing him to visit places he had never been to before, such as the Nzulezu stilt village and the middle-belt waterfalls.
“Before, I never got to go anywhere. Now, I’ve seen the whole of Ghana,” says the 32-year-old.
On these trips, Amponsah has witnessed his African-American clients’ emotional visits to coastal slave castles and memorials, but he has also seen friction up close. While wealthier neighbourhoods, where returnees often settle, enjoy continuous electricity, paved roads, and access to supermarkets and cafes, in others, water comes in cycles and basic services require improvisation. Returnees complain about power cuts or heavy traffic, while locals shrug them off as part of daily life. He recalls a client insisting he was being overcharged because “Ghana should be cheap”.
Earlier this year, Amponsah awoke one night to find his mattress floating in a room flooded with water.
“That’s the Ghana they won’t see,” he says. “It doesn’t flood in the areas where returnees stay.”
He is frustrated by the rising cost of housing, which he attributes to returnees’ willingness to pay more. “To them, it’s not expensive,” he says. “They come from places where they earn more. But I blame the government. Why aren’t we getting those same opportunities?”
In 2019, he paid 120 cedis ($10-12) a month for a small studio; he now pays 450 cedis ($42-44).
“The cost of living is rising by the second. It makes finding a place scary,” says Amponsah. He would prefer to be closer to his customers, many of whom live at least an hour away, but he can’t afford to move.
‘A town from scratch’
Many new arrivals feel guilty about their economic and social privileges, but some Ghanaians carry an often unspoken burden tied to their ancestors’ role in the transatlantic slave trade, leading some chiefs to offer land to returnees as atonement.
Across Ghana, at least two diaspora settlements, Fihankra and Pan African Village emerged that way, while other returnee-focused residential projects, including gated communities, are under construction.
Dawn Dickson, an entrepreneur and investor, is building a house for herself in the African-American settlement known as Pan African Village. She moved to Ghana in 2022, after envisaging a life outside the US in a place where she wasn’t “the minority”.
The 46-year-old says she didn’t intend to seek out a diaspora-only community. Dickson, who traces her ancestry to the Akan people in Ghana and Ivory Coast, was struck by the sense of familiarity, warmth and energy among the Ghanaians she met. But when she started looking to buy land, she discovered that other returnees were buying around Asebu town in the coastal Central Region, where a traditional leader had carved out some 20,000 plots for diasporans.
“For me, it was the excitement that I got to be part of building a town from scratch,” Dickson explains.
She bought land and then founded a company that helps other African Americans buy and build homes. Dickson is employing sustainable rammed earth technology to construct houses for 35 returnees as well as roads, a school, a church and boreholes, and is training locals to master this building technique.
The community, however, has not been without controversy.
In 2023, a family challenged the decision to allocate land they claimed was their ancestral property as part of the village. Development has continued despite a high court injunction ordering that construction be halted, and some 150 farmers who relied on this land say they have lost their livelihoods.
Dickson says the land she has helped purchase is not contested, and if farmers are using it, she negotiates shared-crop agreements or payment.
Elsewhere, new diaspora projects are under way and have come under scrutiny.
Sanbra City (“Return City”) is a 300-acre private real estate development outside Accra. The planned eco-friendly gated community caused a backlash over initial reports that the government was behind an exclusive returnee enclave with houses starting at $180,000, which is out of reach for most Ghanaians. Sanbra City founders have said the project is a collaboration between African-American and Ghanaian developers, not a government initiative, and Ghanaians would be welcomed.
In other instances, Dickson says she has seen African Americans scamming their own, advertising houses hours away from Accra as if they’re “15 minutes from the airport,” or charging impossible prices.
A Pan-African refuge and a community hub
The very first planned diaspora community in the country was Fihankra, on the outskirts of Akwamufie town in Ghana’s southeastern Eastern Region.
In 1994, the chief in the Akwamu Traditional Area offered land as a gift to diasporans willing to resettle in Ghana. Fihankra is a Twi phrase that loosely translates as, “When you left this place, no goodbyes were bid.” It symbolises diasporans’ painful separation from their ancestral home.
Once promoted as a Pan-African refuge, Fihankra is now largely deserted and marked by scandal.
Harriet Kaufman, 69, a retired nurse and an Afro-Caribbean from New York, first heard about Fihankra when she and her husband were living in London in the late 1990s.
By the time they arrived in Ghana in 1998, rumours were swirling that Fihankra turned away Jamaicans and Nigerians, reserving land solely for African-American investors and charged inflated prices and rents. So the couple found land on their own, and slowly built a home 15 minutes away from Fihankra.
Over time, some diasporans at Fihankra started calling themselves the royal family, prompting the minister in charge of chieftaincy to take legal action against them for impersonation. Then, in 2015, two female African-American residents were murdered in an attempted robbery. Soon after, the small community was largely abandoned.
Today, only two people live in Fihankra, says Kaufman.
The Kaufmans’ home, meanwhile, named Black Star African Lion and situated on hills overlooking the Volta River, has grown into a local community hub with a small children’s library, cafe, bar, music studio, guesthouse and prenatal care business.
‘I am fortunate’
The community took years to develop, and Kaufman is struck by how easily returnees seem to arrive today. When she first came to Ghana, she and her husband rented from a family in Accra and it took them several years to find land and build the first building. There were no smartphones, and no electricity in the area. There was no Instagram to glamourise the journey or real estate agents curating “Africa” from afar. In her opinion, social media has made return look easy, even luxurious.
“I guess it was a different time than now. When we came, my husband and I sat outside and stared at the stars at night for entertainment,” she says. “Today, all these influencers are posting about Ghana on Instagram, and people think it is just easy and nice villas by the river.”
Kaufman believes this contributes to perceptions that returnees are privileged.
After all these years, when she occasionally sells bananas from her garden in the local market, she is offered prices below what suppliers would typically accept. She says she is still seen as someone who already has more than enough and shouldn’t be seeking profit. Kaufman says she gets it, and considers herself privileged to live as she does in Ghana.
As more recent arrivals build new lives in local communities or choose to be surrounded by other diasporans, many returnees face integration challenges.
“I know that most of my ancestors dreamed of returning to Africa, and I am fortunate enough to have that chance,” Haruna says, admitting she still feels like an outsider. “[But] I will always say I moved here, not that I am from here.”
Commentary
Africa Doesn’t Have a Creator Economy Problem, It Has a Middle-Class Problem
Africa’s creator economy is constrained not by a lack of talent or content, but by a weak and insufficient middle class that lacks the disposable income to pay for digital content, subscriptions, and creative products, forcing creators to seek revenue from diasporas or global markets instead of domestic audiences, writes Layo.
AFRICA’s creator economy isn’t short on talent, ambition, or cultural influence. Everywhere you look, creativity is spilling over. Lagos is printing trends, Nairobi is birthing digital studios, Accra is shaping global sound, Johannesburg is turning creators into micro-enterprises. The work is there, the hunger is there, the momentum is undeniable.
So why does it still feel like something isn’t clicking?
Why does every creator debate always circle back to the same roadblocks, low brand budgets, inconsistent income, weak platforms, poor IP enforcement, and limited pathways to scale?
Here’s the truth nobody wants to say out loud, yet every industry operator knows at gut level.
Africa doesn’t have a creator economy problem, it has a middle-class problem. Until that shifts, everything else is decoration.
The Creator Economy Only Thrives When the Middle Class Can Pay for It
Globally, creator economies explode when people have disposable income.
They subscribe to newsletters, support artists on Patreon, buy digital products, pay for workshops, purchase merch, attend events, and sponsor creators directly.
In the US, over half of adults now pay creators directly through subscriptions or digital purchases. In South Korea and parts of Europe, digital content spending is considered a standard household expense.
But across Africa, that structure barely exists.
Africans love creativity, but love doesn’t pay creators. Consumption power does.
And consumption power doesn’t grow without a strong, confident middle class.
Africa’s Middle Class Isn’t Growing Fast Enough
Across the continent, the middle class is thinner than statistics imply. The African Development Bank once projected around 350 million Africans in the “middle class,” but a large portion of that group earns between $2 and $5 a day, which isn’t sustainable. Many of the people counted as “middle class” sit one emergency away from poverty.
Inflation keeps stripping purchasing power. In some African markets, food inflation has stayed above 20 percent. Currency depreciation continues to weaken earnings. Youth unemployment makes upward mobility painfully slow.
And in Nigeria specifically, nearly half of citizens earn less than N50,000 a month, which is roughly $31.25. That amount can’t feed a family of two for a week, let alone support discretionary spending on courses, ebooks, subscriptions, or paid communities.
So when a creator offers a paid class or launches a digital product or subscription, the audience is interested, but the spending appetite doesn’t match the enthusiasm.
Creators aren’t failing.
The economic ladder is.
Brand Budgets Are Not the Problem, They’re a Symptom
When agencies reduce influencer spend, when brands prefer micro-creators, when campaign cycles shrink, everyone blames the brands.
But brands reflect the same structural issue. If their target customers have limited disposable income, budgets follow that reality.
Across many African markets, household consumption per capita has either stagnated or declined in real terms. When people can’t buy, brands can’t justify big marketing budgets.
So creators fight over the few high-value deals available, and the market feels overcrowded even though the continent has one of the world’s youngest populations.
Brands aren’t being stingy.
They’re being realistic in an economy where the average customer is struggling to stay afloat.
The Real Creator Economy Crisis Is Domestic Demand
Creators who make the most money in Africa usually do one of three things:
Sell to diaspora
Sell to global markets
Sell services to businesses instead of fans
Why?
Because domestic monetization is a dead end when the middle class is small and stretched thin.
This isn’t just an influencer issue. It affects filmmakers, designers, writers, musicians, storytellers, podcasters, SaaS builders, and digital educators.
You can build audience in Africa.
You can build influence.
But revenue?
That often has to come from elsewhere.
Not because Africans don’t value creativity, but because too many can’t afford to pay for it.
A Strong Middle Class Changes Everything
If Africa had a larger, financially confident middle class, you wouldn’t need huge brand deals to survive. You’d have:
- Paid newsletters that scale
- A thriving digital product ecosystem
- Large event industries
- High consumption creative communities
- Independent creators hiring teams
- Bigger domestic ad markets
- More profitable platforms
- Stronger licensing revenue
- A market for niche creative experiences
- Sustainable creative employment
The future of Africa’s creator economy will be determined not by how many creators emerge, but by how many consumers grow into stable spenders.
The Creator Economy Needs Economic Reform to Grow
If you ask policymakers how to support the creative sector, they list:
- training
- hubs
- funding
- regulations
- IP reform
- market access
All important.
None sufficient.
You can’t legislate creativity into a thriving economy if the population can’t afford to consume.
The conversation must widen. The creative sector needs to advocate for:
- inflation control
- youth employment
- SME growth
- digital infrastructure
- stable currency environments
- consumer credit systems
- stronger tax incentives for creative businesses
The future of creators depends on the economic health of their audience.
The Deeper Truth: Africa’s Creative Promise Is Outpacing Its Consumer Base
The continent is culturally rich and economically stretched.
Fast moving and slow growing.
Overflowing with talent and underpowered in consumption.
That gap is the real challenge.
Creators aren’t the problem.
Platforms aren’t the problem.
Brands aren’t the problem.
The market is the problem.
And until Africa builds a middle class big enough and confident enough to support the creative industries, creators will continue to rely on foreign revenue, diaspora markets, and brand deals that fluctuate with economic cycles.
So What Does This Mean for the Future?
Africa is not short on brilliance.
But brilliance without buyers is charity.
And creators don’t want charity, they want sustainability.
The continent’s creative superpower is undeniable.
Its cultural footprint is spreading fast.
But if Africa wants a robust creator economy, it must do more than celebrate talent, it must grow the consumers who can pay for it.
The creator economy is not broken.
It’s just sitting on top of a fragile economic pyramid.
Fix the base, and the entire structure rises.
And when it rises, the world won’t just enjoy African creativity, it will invest in it, buy from it, and rely on it.
That’s the future worth building.

The author, Layo, describes herself as “a curious mind exploring the crossroads of creativity and insight.”
Perspectives
Ghana’s security strategy has kept terror attacks at bay: what other countries can learn from its approach
Ghana stands out in west Africa as a nation that has not experienced terrorist attacks, even though it’s geographically close to countries that have. In Burkina Faso, Mali and Nigeria, extremist groups such as Boko Haram and Islamic State in West Africa (ISWAP) have wreaked havoc.
This resilience is not accidental. It is the result of deliberate counter-terrorism strategies employed by Ghana’s security institutions.
Ghana’s counter-terrorism framework was set out in 2020. It has four pillars: prevent, pre-empt, protect, and respond. The idea is to coordinate multiple agencies, including the Ghana Police Service, Ghana Immigration Service, Ghana Armed Forces and the National Intelligence Bureau.
These pillars guide strategies to address both immediate threats and underlying vulnerabilities. Poverty, religious radicalism and porous borders are common drivers of terrorism in west Africa.
I am an international security and global governance researcher. My co-author is a government and international studies scholar.
Four years ago we wrote a paper examining Ghana’s resilience against terrorist attacks. Our findings are still relevant given the increasing activities of terror groups in the west African region.
We wanted to identify what works as a potential model for other countries.
Using a qualitative methodology, we interviewed stakeholders — including police officers, members of the armed forces, Muslim community leaders, and immigration officials. We also analysed the national framework for preventing and countering violent extremism and terrorism.
Our findings showed that Ghana’s success is traceable to an approach that integrates community engagement with advanced border technology, inter-agency training, media collaboration and intelligence operations. And it addresses both immediate and underlying threats.
We argue that Ghana’s ability to balance prevention with security offers solutions for stability in a geopolitically volatile region.
Community engagement
One of the standout strategies is community engagement. This serves multiple purposes, from guiding people away from extremism to gathering intelligence.
The Ghana Police Service, for instance, engages Muslim-dominated communities, known as “Zongos”, to counter radical Islamic ideologies that could be exploited by terrorist groups.
By collaborating with local religious leaders, police make communities aware of the dangers of radicalisation. They foster trust and encourage residents to report suspicious activities. This approach also works in tackling illegal arms circulation.
Ghana has an estimated 2.3 million small arms in circulation – 1.1 million of them illegally possessed. The availability of so many weapons fuels terrorist activities across west Africa.
Community based de-radicalisation aligns with global best practices. In Norway, for instance, it was used to disengage youth from extremist groups.
Technology at borders
Ghana’s border control management is another part of its counter-terrorism strategy. Ghana Immigration Service uses advanced security software and integrated systems like the “Immigration 360” system, designed to fully automate passenger processing and data management.
The system manages records of fingerprints and other data to improve reporting and intelligence sharing between Ghana Immigration and other security agencies.
The technology makes it possible to quickly identity individuals on terrorist watchlists and detects concealed goods. This helps prevent illegal cross-border movements.
There are gaps in Ghana’s defences, however. The influx of migrants fleeing extremist violence in Burkina Faso, Mali and Niger in 2024 highlights the urgency of scaling up investments in the technology.
Training for preparedness
Ghana combats new and varying forms of terrorism by uncovering trends and training personnel to deal with them.
A notable example was the six-day joint training in 2022 involving the Ghana Immigration Service, Police Service, Customs, Economic and Organised Crime Office, and the National Intelligence Bureau.
The country also works with regional neighbours like Burkina Faso, Togo and Benin, and partners such as the United States, through initiatives like “Operation Epic Guardian”.

Media as a strategic partner
Terrorists rely on media to amplify fear and publicise their causes. Ghana’s security agencies counter this tactic by actively engaging media houses to report accurately.
The Ghana Armed Forces, for instance, works with media to debunk false reports, which can cause public panic and inadvertently aid terrorists.
The Ghana Police Service emphasises regular dialogue with media to ensure sensitive information is verified before publication, reducing the risk of tipping off suspects. However, media competition for viewers poses a challenge.
Surveillance and intelligence gathering
Surveillance and intelligence gathering is critical. Plainclothes armed forces and immigration personnel blend into communities to monitor potential threats. The approach has worked but is constrained by resources.
It can also risk human rights violations, such as wrongful profiling, and is less effective against multiple targets compared to technological solutions like facial recognition or CCTV.
Challenges and regional implications
Despite its successes, Ghana’s counter-terrorism framework faces challenges that could undermine its long-term efficacy:
- logistical and financial constraints
- the influx of migrants fleeing regional violence
- a lack of harmonised security cultures within the regional body, Ecowas.
In all, Ghana’s strategies offer lessons for west Africa, where terrorism is a growing threat.
Its community engagement model could be followed in Nigeria, Burkina Faso, Mali and Niger to counter radicalisation and arms proliferation, provided it avoids religious stereotyping.
Article by Paa Kwesi Wolseley Prah, Postdoctoral Fellow, Dublin City University; and Timothy Chanimbe, PhD Candidate, Hong Kong Baptist University
This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.
Commentary
What Ghana Can Learn From U.S’ CROWN Act and Protect School Girls’ Natural Hair
Ghana has, for many years, been confronting the uncomfortable reality of how its school grooming policies clash with cultural identity.
A weeks ago, the viral video of a crying first-year student at Yaa Asantewaa Girls’ Senior High School, forced to cut her long hair before she could be admitted, ignited a nationwide conversation on autonomy, dignity, and the colonial hangovers embedded in the education system.
As public outrage intensifies, many Ghanaians are pointing to a global model worth studying closely: the CROWN Act, a sweeping U.S. civil rights law now adopted by 28 states, banning hair discrimination in workplaces and schools. While American and Ghanaian contexts differ, the underlying cultural struggle is identical — the policing of Black hair, especially on Black girls, through outdated, Eurocentric standards of “neatness.”
Here’s what Ghana can take away from the CROWN Act movement — and what meaningful reform could look like.
What Ghana Can Learn From the CROWN Act
1. Hair Is Not “Just Hair” — It’s Identity
The CROWN Act legally recognizes that hair texture and protective hairstyles such as locs, braids, twists, and afros are expressions of racial and cultural identity.

Ghana’s short-hair rules for girls — a policy designed during colonial administration — still treat African hair as something to be managed, tamed, or minimized. The U.S. experience shows that when governments acknowledge the cultural and psychological significance of natural hair, discrimination becomes easier to identify and eliminate.
2. Respect for Students Begins With Respect for Their Bodies
The Pennsylvania legislation stresses dignity in personal appearance as a civil right.
Ghana’s approach — forcing girls to shave their heads, sometimes in tears — sends the opposite message: compliance over consent.
The viral YAGSHS incident struck a nerve because many Ghanaians recognized the humiliation in that 30-second clip.
The CROWN Act reminds policymakers that rules meant to “discipline” should never strip children of bodily autonomy.
3. “Neatness” Standards Can Be Modernized Without Sacrificing Discipline
U.S. districts that have adopted CROWN Act protections haven’t descended into chaos. Schools still enforce hygiene and safety policies — they just can’t discriminate against natural hairstyles.
Ghana’s argument that long natural hair compromises “uniformity” or boarding supervision has been challenged by scholars like Emmanuel Antwi and Ginn Bonsu Assibey. Their research shows students can maintain locs, braids, or afros responsibly — if schools teach proper care rather than impose outdated punitive rules.
4. Outlawing Hair Discrimination Protects Mental Health
American advocates pushed the CROWN Act partly because children were being suspended, humiliated, or made to feel unfit for their own classrooms.
The psychological damage visible in the YAGSHS video — the sobbing, the pain — mirrors the emotional toll chronicled by U.S. researchers.
Protective legislation forces institutions to reckon with the long-term harm caused by seemingly “simple” grooming policies.
5. The Law Can Be A Tool for Cultural Restoration
The CROWN Act reframes the conversation: Black hair is not a deviation from norms — it is a norm.
Ghana, a Black African nation, still enforces appearance rules invented during colonial schooling systems. Fixing this is not just policy reform; it is cultural reclamation.
6. Parents and Students Deserve a Say in Grooming Rules
In the U.S., the CROWN Act passed because families, teachers, business leaders, and activists demanded it.
Ghana’s hair rules have persisted largely because students — minors with limited power — bear the consequences while most adults defend tradition. A modern approach would involve listening directly to girls, parents, and natural-hair experts.
7. Change Does Not Have to Be Radical — Just Respectful
The CROWN Act doesn’t force anyone to wear locs or braids. It simply protects the choice.
Ghana could adopt a similar principle:
- allow natural and Afro-centric hairstyles
- maintain reasonable hygiene rules
- remove discriminatory practices
This would honor Ghanaian identity while keeping school environments orderly.
8. The Law Can Prevent Future Trauma
In the U.S., legislation has become a safety net.
A child cannot be forced to shave her locs. She cannot be suspended for her braids. The YAGSHS incident has shown Ghana what happens without such safeguards.
Creating a legal framework — even if not identical to the CROWN Act — could prevent future abuses of authority.
A Moment for Ghana to Rethink
Ghana has made strides before — the 2021 Achimota school ruling was a breakthrough. But the recurring nature of these controversies suggests the country is still negotiating the boundaries between culture, control, and education.
The viral haircut video of the visibly upset YAGSHS student has become more than a moment of outrage. It is a cultural mirror. And it raises a powerful question:
Why should the descendants of a people who fought for independence still be governed by colonial grooming rules?
The CROWN Act offers a blueprint — not a copy-paste solution, but a framework rooted in dignity, identity, and respect. Ghana has an opportunity to craft its own version, grounded in Afro-centric values and local realities.
The debate is no longer about hair. It is about the freedom to be whole, even in a school uniform.
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