Obimanso, the struggle is real !
By Dr. Ato Kwamena Danso · 27 February 2026 · Culture
I write to you from the belly of a distant land, carrying a heart swollen with the stories of Obimanso and the quiet battles of our people scattered across oceans. This week, the airwaves of Ghana trembled with the voice of Nana Yaa Brefo. To hear a woman of her stature, a journalist whose words once held a nation still, confess to driving through foreign streets just to deliver food for a few dollars… it stings. It strips away the golden illusion of “abroad” and shows the naked truth: this place that glitters from afar is often a furnace that bends the spine and tests the soul. Our journey is one of disappearances. We vanish from the weddings of our sisters. We vanish from the funerals of our elders. We become memories that flicker in family prayers and disembodied voices floating through WhatsApp notes. We live between two worlds and two time zones, our hearts rooted at home while our bodies labor in the cold winds of another world. I remember my own road, Osagyefo. It began at Techiman Hospital and stretched all the way to Chicago in the thick heat of summer. But summer is a temporary kindness. Winter arrives like an uninvited guest, bitter, merciless slapping your cheeks as you shiver at a bus stop, begging the universe for a train that will take you to a job where no one knows your name. I remember the desperation of those early days. I found work at a payday loan company, recovering debts for strangers. Picture it: memy Ghanaian tongue heavy with home, trying to navigate their maze of laws while customers on the other end of the line hurled impatience at me. After a year, they let me go. They said it was “performance.” But we both know: it was my accent they could not stomach. And after twenty years, Osagyefo, that accent is still here. My fufu accent, warm, insistent, unashamed, clings to me. It is the one thing America could not wash off. I cannot help it. It is the last stubborn reminder that my tongue still belongs to Ghana, no matter how long my feet have walked foreign roads. And so I disappeared into the shadows. I left the professional world and entered the steamy belly of a hotel kitchen, scrubbing dishes as clouds of hot vapor blurred my vision and my thoughts drifted home, to the cool evenings, the laughter, the smell of the earth after rain. I slept on a couch in an overcrowded apartment, a visitor in a space that never felt like mine, praying for the day I could finally own four quiet walls. I see our people dropping out of school, Osagyefo. They arrive with dreams of degrees, but the hunger of the present devours the promise of tomorrow. Twelve-hour shifts become chains. Books gather dust while uniforms become second skins. You too were given an opportunity to study abroad, the same door that opens for many who dare to step into this so‑called “land of the free.” But every opportunity abroad carries its own weight. Once you step through that door, you carry it alone. To Nana Yaa Brefo and all who walk through the fires of Obimanso: do not let the humility of your current season steal the glory of your spirit. There is no shame in honest sweat. To those whose depression has become a silent roommate, who drink or numb themselves just to quiet the ache of displacement, hear me: you are not alone. This land can be a desert of loneliness, but your story is not over. And to our brothers and sisters who miss home with a grief too heavy to speak. We carry the dust of Ghana in our bones, even when we cannot step on its soil. The spirit of Obimanso does not break. It bends, it aches, but it does not break. We endure the underground trains, the swollen feet, the exhaustion, the silence, until the tide turns. I write to tell you that most people survived the breaking. Those who once stood shivering at the train station now drive the highways with confidence. The climb is steep, the cost is high, but still we reach for the gold, carrying the hopes of those we left behind deep in our pockets. The struggle is real, the winter is long, but the fire of home burns eternal. Yours in the struggle, Ato_KD