Afrikanets Cultural Centre

Close your eyes for a moment and listen.

Not to the hum of your phone or the noise of the city, but to something older and far more constant. It is the sound of the Gulf of Guinea folding itself onto the sand at Keta, at Labadi, at Axim. It is the quiet lapping of the Korle Lagoon before the city stirs awake. It is the distant, steady beat of the atsimevu drum calling a community to gather under the shade of a coconut tree whose roots drink from salt and soil alike.

Now imagine the voices that rise above these sounds. They speak Ewe, a language that dances with tonal precision, where a single syllable can carry a dozen meanings depending on the music of your voice. It is the language of the Agbadza dance, of weavers whose kente tells stories, of a people whose concept of Se (destiny, law, the cosmic order) underpins everything they do. They speak Ga, the language of Accra, of the sea and the old forts, a tongue shaped by fishermen who read the stars and traders who crossed the savannah. It is the language of Homowo, the harvest festival that mocks hunger and celebrates survival. And they speak Nzema, the language of the western coast, where the morning mist clings to the forest and the ancestors are as real and present as the tide. It is the language of the Kundum festival, whose drums echo across the border into La Côte d’Ivoire.

This is the Ghana of the coast and the Volta plains. A land where the horizon is endless water, where the soil is sandy and stubborn, and where the people have learned over centuries that survival depends on reading the waves, respecting the storm, and holding tightly to the net of community. The ocean gives fish, but it also takes fishermen. The lagoon provides calm, but it also hides crocodiles. The wisdom of this place is not abstract philosophy. It is salt crusted, wind tested, and handed down from grandmother to grandchild on porches facing the sea.

We have traveled elsewhere to hear the forest whisper and the savannah crackle with firelight. Tonight, we come home to the shore. We come to listen to the wisdom of the Ewe, the Ga, and the Nzema. These proverbs are alive. They smell of smoked fish and the sea breeze. They will teach you about resilience, about the sacred art of waiting, about the power of a unified voice, and about the quiet dignity of knowing who you are when the tides of life try to pull you under.

Find your footing in the sand. The tide is coming in, and the elders are about to speak.

A Word About the Coast and the Volta

The southeastern corner of Ghana and the western coastline are worlds unto themselves, each with a distinct rhythm and soul.

The Ewe people stretch from the Volta River eastward into Togo and Benin, a civilization of master weavers, drummers, and philosophers. Their society is organized around clans and villages, and their spiritual worldview is complex and nuanced. The concept of Se governs the moral and natural order, and their proverbs often reflect a deep engagement with fate, character, and the consequences of one’s actions.

The Ga people are the traditional guardians of Accra and the surrounding Ga Dangme plains. Their identity is intimately tied to the sea, the lagoons, and the annual cycle of the Homowo festival. Organized into quarters (akutsei) with their own chiefs and priests, the Ga have a rich oral tradition that emphasizes communal responsibility, respect for elders, and a dry, knowing humor about the human condition.

The Nzema people, also known as Appolo, inhabit the coastal strip between the Ankobra River and the Ivorian border. They are renowned for their matrilineal social structure, their vibrant Kundum festival, and a deep reverence for ancestors. Nzema proverbs are often concise and piercing, carrying the weight of a people who have navigated the uncertainties of the ocean and the complexities of coastal trade for centuries.

What binds these diverse coastal traditions? A profound relationship with water as both provider and taker. A deep respect for the collective over the individual. And a way of speaking that values clarity wrapped in imagery: a fish bone hidden in a ball of kenkey, a stone worn smooth by the endless patience of the tide.

On Resilience and the Art of Standing Firm

The coast is beautiful, but it is not gentle. The waves erode the shore. The storms flatten the canoes. The salt corrodes the metal. Yet the people remain, generation after generation. These proverbs are about how to stand when the ground beneath you is shifting sand, and how to endure when the winds of life howl without mercy.

“Aƒe akɔɖa dzi wòle o.” (Ewe)
The house is not on a single forked stick.

A house balanced on one stick is a disaster waiting for the first strong wind. A proper home requires many supports, dug deep into the earth and bound together with care. The Ewe elder is not giving architectural advice. They are giving life advice. You cannot rest your entire wellbeing on a single point of failure. Not on one job. Not on one relationship. Not on one stream of income or one source of validation. The wind will come. It always does. If you are balanced on a single stick, you will fall, and the fall will be total. Build multiple pillars. Diversify your soul’s support system. Cultivate friendships, skills, spiritual practices, and community ties that can hold you up when one part of your life crumbles. The house that stands through the storm is the house with many sticks.

“Tsi dzie wole, wo me nye tsi me tɔ o.” (Ewe)
We are in the water, but we are not water creatures.

We swim, but we do not have gills. We navigate this world (this economy, this foreign country, this difficult job, this complicated relationship) but our true home is elsewhere. This proverb is a lifeline for anyone who has ever felt like a fish out of water, especially the Ghanaian in diaspora feeling the weight of cultural dislocation. You can learn the language. You can master the corporate etiquette. You can survive the winter and even learn to appreciate the snow. But you are not a fish. You are a person standing in the water. Remember where the shore is. Remember that you can step out, that there is a place where you breathe easily, where the sounds and smells and rhythms make sense without effort. Your soul belongs to a different kind of air. Honor that. Visit the shore often.

“Ati ɖeka me wɔ na ave o.” (Ewe)
A single tree cannot make a forest.

You have heard echoes of this wisdom across Ghana, but the Ewe voice gives it a particular edge. The forest is not just a collection of wood standing in proximity. It is a community of roots communicating underground, of canopies interlocking above, of countless species depending on one another for shade, for nutrients, for life itself. A lone tree on the savannah is a target for lightning and a perch for vultures. Its shade is limited, and its roots are shallow. A forest endures because it is many. Stop trying to be the only tree standing. Your individual success is fragile and ultimately meaningless if it is not part of a canopy. Plant yourself among others. Let your roots intertwine with the roots of your community. Share your shade. That is how you survive the storm, and that is how you leave a legacy that lasts beyond your own falling.

“Nɔvi nyui wɔna nɔvi.” (Ewe)
A good sibling makes a sibling.

You are not born a brother or sister. You become one through action, through consistent and sacrificial love. Blood may be the starting point, the initial introduction, but it is not the destination and certainly not the definition. The Ewe understand that kinship is a verb. It is something you do. You earn the title “sibling” by showing up when it is inconvenient, by sharing your food when you are hungry yourself, by defending your family’s name even when they are not in the room. Do not rest lazily on the accident of birth. Be a good sibling. Act like one. And recognize, with gratitude, that the people who act like siblings to you (whether they share your DNA or not) are your true family. They are the ones who will hold the roof up when your single stick snaps.

“Ke dse na le, gbɔmei fɛɔ diɔ.” (Ga)
When it is dark, all men are black.

This is a Ga proverb of profound humility and radical human solidarity. In the pitch black of night, our carefully curated differences vanish. The chief and the fisherman are indistinguishable. The wealthy merchant and the street sweeper are the same anonymous shape in the void. The beautiful and the plain, the educated and the illiterate, the native and the stranger: all are equalized by the simple, democratic fact of darkness. The proverb is a reminder that our distinctions of status, tribe, and complexion are temporary and, in the ultimate darkness of death or crisis, entirely irrelevant. Treat everyone with dignity now, while the sun is up, because the darkness is coming for us all, and in that darkness, we are one. Let that knowledge soften your heart toward the person you are tempted to look down upon today.

“Menlidoonwo zo Nyamenle a be kome embu.” (Nzema)
If a lot of people are carrying God, there is no tiredness.

This beautiful and profound Nzema proverb reframes both collective worship and collective work. When the burden is shared (even the sacred, awe inspiring burden of serving the Divine, of carrying the weight of spiritual responsibility) the weight seems to disappear. It is a joyful, almost playful statement about the mysterious power of community to make even the most daunting labor feel light. Do not try to carry your spiritual life alone, isolated in your room with your private prayers and private struggles. Do not try to carry your community responsibilities, your family burdens, or your heavy personal loads without help. Let the village carry God with you. Let others share the weight. When many hands lift, the heaviest load becomes a dance, and the most solemn duty becomes a celebration.

On Patience, Timing, and the Wisdom of the Tide

The fisherman does not command the sea. He reads it. He studies the color of the water, the shape of the clouds, the phase of the moon. He waits for the tide to turn, for the fish to run, for the right moment to cast his net. Impatience on the ocean is not just unproductive; it is dangerous. These coastal proverbs are a masterclass in strategic patience and the art of divine timing.

“Agbe nye tɔmenu.” (Ewe)
Life is a lagoon.

A lagoon is not a river that rushes past in a hurry to reach the sea. It is a body of water that stays, that deepens, that reflects the sky and holds the rain. It has its own slow, mysterious currents, its own hidden depths, its own quiet ecosystem. The Ewe are telling you that life is not a sprint to an imagined finish line. It is a deep, still, complex basin of time. You cannot rush a lagoon. You can only enter it, swim in its waters, and learn its depths over many seasons. Stop treating your life like a race against others or against time itself. Treat it like a lagoon. Let it be deep. Let it be still enough to reflect the stars.

“Ne ati aɖe le nya dim ɣesiaɣi le fíá wo ŋuti la, mumu ye le dzrom.” (Ewe)
A tree that provokes axes is asking to be cut down.

Do not draw unnecessary and foolish attention to yourself. Do not flaunt your wealth in a way that invites jealousy and plots. Do not speak carelessly or boastfully in a way that makes enemies of people who would otherwise have been neutral. This is not a call to hide your light or to shrink yourself into invisibility. It is a call to be wise about where and how you shine. The tree that stands quietly in the deep forest, doing its work of providing shade and shelter, is safe. The tree that blocks the road, waves its branches in the chief’s face, or boasts of its superior wood will feel the axe soon enough. Move through the world with quiet competence. Let your results speak for you, not your noise.

“Alomte efon miau bo.” (Ga)
The cat does not cease to cry “miau.”

This is a proverb about essential nature, about consistency, and about the futility of pretending. A cat will always sound like a cat. It does not wake up one morning and decide to try barking, or chirping, or roaring. It cries “miau” because that is what it is. The Ga elder is reminding you that your character, your deeply ingrained habits, and your true self will eventually reveal themselves no matter how elaborate the mask you wear. Stop pretending to be something you are not. The effort of the performance is exhausting and ultimately doomed. The audience usually sees through the act anyway, often long before you realize it. Be the cat. Cry “miau” with your whole chest. There is immense freedom and power in authentic consistency.

“Tsɔfatse enuu tsɔfa ehaa helatse.” (Ga)
A physician does not drink medicine for the sick.

You can diagnose the illness. You can prescribe the remedy. You can offer the best, most loving, most accurate advice in the world, drawn from your own experience and wisdom. But you cannot swallow the pill for someone else. You cannot do the healing work on their behalf. This proverb is a boundary setting masterpiece, essential medicine for the chronic fixer, the overfunctioning parent, the friend who carries everyone’s emotional burdens until their own back breaks. Stop drinking medicine for people who need to heal themselves. You can lead a horse to water. You can describe the water in vivid, compelling detail. You can even sweeten the water and stand there holding the bucket. But you cannot make the horse drink. Protect your own energy. The physician must stay well in order to heal others. Your first responsibility is your own health.

“Mɔ bɛn na wɔ tu.” (Nzema)
A journey is not walked in a hurry.

The Nzema elder looks at the young person rushing headlong down the path and shakes their head with quiet, knowing concern. The path through the coastal forest, the path along the shifting shore, the long path of life itself: none of it rewards the frantic. The hurried foot catches on hidden roots and twists an ankle. The hurried mind misses the sign of danger, the warning call of a bird, the change in the wind that signals a coming storm. Take your time. Breathe. The destination will still be there whether you arrive sweating and anxious or calm and observant. And the one who arrives calmly will have seen more, learned more, and be in a far better state to meet whatever awaits.

“Saa wo akole tunli nu bo a wo edea o.” (Nzema)
If the inside of your chicken coop smells, it is yours.

This is the Nzema version of the universal wisdom that one must clean one’s own house before criticizing the neighbor’s yard. You cannot credibly blame the wind for the stench coming from your own backyard. This proverb is a sharp call to personal and communal accountability. Before you stand up to criticize the government, the chief, your rival, or your spouse, attend to the smell in your own coop. Fix your own character. Heal your own family tensions. Put your own business in order. The world will be better for it, and your voice will carry moral weight when you finally speak. A person who tends their own coop faithfully has earned the right to speak about the village’s cleanliness.

“Toonwo engo toonwo.” (Nzema)
No condition is permanent.

This is perhaps the most famous Nzema proverb, and its wisdom has traveled far beyond the western coast because it is universally true and universally needed. It is the ultimate statement of both hope and humility, a two edged sword that cuts through both complacency and despair. The good times (the season of plenty, of health, of joy) will not last forever. So hold them loosely, with deep gratitude, and do not build your identity on their continuation. The bad times (the season of lack, of illness, of grief) will also not last forever. So endure them with patience and with the support of your community. Everything is toonwo. Everything is a temporary condition. The wave that crashes over you and steals your breath will recede. The tide will turn. The sun will rise on a different shore. Hold on.

On Community, Unity, and Collective Power

The coast understands, at a bone deep level, that a single canoe cannot pull in a large net. The Homowo festival is not celebrated by one person alone in their room. The Kundum drums do not sound for a solo dancer. These proverbs are the soundtrack of collective action and the wisdom of the village.

“Dua koro nngye ɔman.” (Ga)
One person does not hold a town.

You cannot lift a community alone. You were never meant to. The weight of a village (its problems, its future, its survival, its joy) requires many hands and many shoulders. This Ga proverb is a direct, loving challenge to the “solo hero” myth that infects so much of modern life and leaves so many people exhausted and resentful. Whether you are building a business, raising a child, leading a team at work, or trying to effect change in your neighborhood, stop acting like the entire weight is on your back. It is not. Look around. There are other hands ready to lift. Let them. The town is held by everyone, or it is held by no one.

“Wiemɔ kpakpa dseɔ mlifu.” (Ga)
A good word removes anger.

The Ga know the immense power of the tongue: to wound or to heal, to inflame or to soothe. A well timed, gentle word, spoken with genuine care, can diffuse a bomb that is ticking in someone’s chest. A harsh word, spoken in haste, can detonate one and destroy relationships that took years to build. This is the ancient, practical wisdom of de escalation. When conflict flares (at work, at home, in the market, online) do not meet fire with fire. Find the good word. It might be a sincere apology. It might be a gentle redirection of the conversation. It might be a proverb that reframes the issue. Speak it calmly, without ego. Watch the anger dissolve like morning mist over the lagoon.

“Nɔhale le ayile.” (Nzema)
Truth is a cure.

This is a short, potent Nzema proverb that carries the weight of a thousand page philosophy book. In a world saturated with spin, misinformation, half truths, and comfortable lies, the Nzema elder offers a simple, radical, and uncompromising proposition: truth heals. It may be bitter going down, like the strongest herbal medicine your grandmother ever brewed. It may make you sweat and grimace. But it is the only thing that cures the deep sicknesses of mistrust, confusion, resentment, and fractured community. Tell the truth. Even when it is hard. Especially when it is hard. Tell it to others, and tell it to yourself. It is the only medicine that actually works.

“Bɛnzi ko ɔ yɛ ɔ bo la, ɔ ne zo.” (Nzema)
When one finger is hurt, the whole body feels it.

The body does not negotiate with pain. It does not hold a committee meeting to decide whether the stubbed toe is worth responding to. When a toe is injured, the mouth cries out. The eyes water. The back tenses. The hands reach down to comfort the injured part. This Nzema proverb is Ubuntu in its most visceral, undeniable, physical form. You cannot claim to be fine, to be whole, to be at peace, while your brother suffers. You cannot ignore the pain of a community member and expect your own peace to remain undisturbed. The hurt finger is your hurt. Address it. Tend to it. The body is one.

“Menlidoonwo zo Nyamenle a be kome embu.” (Nzema)
If a lot of people are carrying God, there is no tiredness.

This proverb returns here because it belongs equally to the themes of resilience and community. When the sacred burden is shared, the weight becomes a dance. Find your people. Share the load.

On Identity, Character, and Inner Truth

The waves crash endlessly against the shore, but the great rocks remain. These proverbs speak to the unshakeable core of who you are, the identity that persists beneath the changing tides of circumstance.

“Ka ofo loflo.” (Ga)
A crab does not beget a bird.

You come from somewhere. You are the product of a lineage, a culture, a set of values, a specific history. A crab may dream of flying, may look up at the birds with longing and envy. But its children will be crabs, not birds. This Ga proverb is a call to know your roots and to accept, with grace and honesty, the gifts and limitations of your heritage. It is not a limitation on ambition but a grounding in reality. Honor the crab in you. Walk sideways if you must (that is your unique gait). But walk with the dignity of knowing exactly what you are and where you come from. There is no shame in being a crab. The shore needs crabs.

“Silafo etsoo filafo gbe.” (Ga)
A blind man does not show the way to a blind man.

Do not take direction from someone who is as lost as you are. In an age of social media gurus, unqualified influencers, and people who confidently offer advice on topics they have never lived, this proverb is a survival tool. Look at the fruit of someone’s life before you follow their path. Are they leading you toward a cliff? Are they walking in circles? A blind guide is more dangerous than no guide at all. Seek out those who have vision, those who have walked the road you are on and come back with their eyes intact. Their guidance is worth more than gold.

“Nme kome fiteo nmei fe.” (Ga)
One bad nut spoils all.

This is a proverb about association and environment, and its truth is observable in every sphere of life. A single rotten palm nut, left in the basket with the good ones, will infect the rest. The Ga elder is warning you about the company you keep and the culture you tolerate. One toxic team member, left unchecked, can destroy the morale and productivity of a whole organization. One bad habit, left unaddressed, can spoil a lifetime of good character and hard won reputation. One draining relationship can sour your entire emotional landscape. Remove the bad nut quickly and without excessive sentimentality. Protect the basket. The good nuts depend on you to do so.

On Hope, Legacy, and the Return Home

The ocean takes, but it also gives back. The tide goes out, leaving the shore exposed and vulnerable, but it always, always comes back in. These final proverbs are about the long view, the inevitable return, and what we leave behind for those who will walk the shore after us.

“Agbe nɔa dzo na mɔ.” (Ewe)
Life is like a journey on the road.

The road is long. There are potholes that jar your bones. There are bandits who wish you harm. There are unexpected hills that leave you breathless and beautiful views that stop you in your tracks. There are sudden storms and long stretches of quiet, lonely walking. This Ewe proverb is a simple, expansive metaphor for existence. You do not control the road. You did not build it, and you cannot repave it to your liking. You only control how you walk it. Walk with companions who lighten the load. Walk with a song in your throat, even when the song is sad. Walk with the awareness that the road will end one day, and the only thing that will have mattered is how you traveled: the kindness you showed, the burdens you helped carry, the beauty you noticed along the way.

“Ke o ya nɔ ko nɔ, o ba nɔ ko nɔ.” (Ga)
If you go and stay somewhere, you will come and stay somewhere.

This Ga proverb speaks to the profound and comforting inevitability of the return. The diaspora experience, the migration to the big city, the long journey abroad for education or opportunity: none of it is the final chapter. You will come back. Whether in this life, with your pockets full of foreign currency and your accent slightly changed, or in the next life, returning to the ancestral realm from which all life flows, the return is certain. This is a deep comfort to the homesick soul lying awake in a cold foreign bed. And it is a quiet warning to the arrogant one who thinks they have escaped their roots and owe nothing to the place that formed them. You will come and stay somewhere. Make sure the place you left still has a door open for you. Make sure you have sent something back. Make sure your name is still spoken with warmth around the evening fire.

“Saa wo akole tunli nu bo a wo edea o.” (Nzema)
If the inside of your chicken coop smells, it is yours.

This proverb returns here as a final, anchoring word on legacy. The smell you leave behind is yours. The reputation, the memory, the impact on your community: it all belongs to you. Tend your coop well.

The Tide Goes Out

The elders have fallen silent. The last of the libation has been poured onto the sand, and the sound of the waves now fills the space where their voices were. You can smell the salt in the air, sharp and clean. You can feel the cool, wet sand under your feet, shifting slightly with each retreating wave.

The wisdom of the Ewe, the Ga, and the Nzema has been laid before you like treasures washed up on the shore. You have been told that life is a lagoon, deep and still, not a river to be rushed. You have been reminded that a single tree cannot make a forest, and that a good sibling is made, not born. You have heard the Ga elder say that when it is dark, all men are black: a call to radical, humbling solidarity. You have received the Nzema truth that no condition is permanent, that the stench in your own coop is yours to clean, and that when the tide of trouble finally recedes, you will stand again.

These are not just words. They are anchors. When the world feels like shifting sand beneath your feet, drop one of these proverbs deep into the water and hold on. They have held our people steady for centuries, through storms and calms, through departures and returns. They will hold you too.

The next time you stand by the ocean (at Labadi, at Keta, at Axim, or on some distant, unfamiliar shore far from home) listen closely. The ancestors are still speaking in the rhythm of the waves. They are saying: You are not alone. You are not forgotten. You are part of a long, unbroken shoreline of wisdom, stretching back to the beginning and forward to a horizon you cannot yet see.

And when you are old, and the sand is warm beneath you, and a young person sits at your feet and asks you about life, open your mouth and let these words fall out. They will sound like home.

This is the second installment of our Ancestral Library series, honoring the wisdom of Ghana’s Volta and Coastal peoples: the Ewe, the Ga, and the Nzema. Did your grandmother from Keta say something different? Did your uncle from Nzema have a saying we missed? Does your Ga family use a version of a proverb we have not captured? Share it in the comments or write to us. The tide is always bringing new treasures to the shore, and this library belongs to all of us.