As the child of Ghanaian parents who immigrated to the UK in the mid-1980s, I have always felt a deep pride in my dual identity: British by birth and West African by heritage.
For most of my life, these two worlds have coexisted harmoniously. London is my home, but Ghana – where the majority of my family resides – is where my heart feels anchored. That balance remained intact until a recent visit to Ghana became a stark awakening to the emotional cost of living continents away from family for an entire lifetime.
During this trip, my mother and I made it our priority to spend meaningful time with my grandmother, now approaching her nineties, who lives in Asankragua, an 11-hour journey from Accra, Ghana’s capital city. Once a quiet village, Asankragua has evolved into a bustling commercial hub driven by gold trading and open markets.
Yet beneath this modern façade lie the remnants of village life: terracotta, thatch-roofed homes; goats roaming freely from house to house like neighbours; unreliable electricity that can disappear for hours or days; and the absence of formal waste collection. Sewage is often burnt instead, leaving behind an unsightly landscape and a heavy, lingering stench.
But what the town lacks in infrastructure and sanitation, it more than compensates for in warmth. The love I receive from locals – many of whom have known me since my first visit at four years old and have watched me return every five years since – remains unwavering.
My grandmother has long been a pillar of the community and the formidable matriarch of our family. She raised 12 children – only five of whom survived – and somehow kept our sprawling family united across continents. When I last saw her five years ago at my grandfather’s funeral, she was healthy, resilient and the embodiment of strength in widowhood.
This time, however, I was unprepared for the sight before me. She was frail, reduced to skin and bone, bedridden on a makeshift mattress on the floor, with no access to the kind of elder care that would be routine in the UK.
Her once booming, melodic voice had dwindled to a whisper, barely audible. The only sign of vitality that remained was her infectious smile – the same one she passed down to my mother and, in turn, to me.
My first instinct was anger: fury at my family for allowing her to deteriorate and live in such conditions. But I stopped myself, recognising that I was no longer in the West. Here in Africa, resources are scarce, funds are limited and knowledge of adequate elder care is often lacking. Perspective softened my judgment.
So my mother and I got to work, determined to restore some measure of health and dignity to my grandmother’s life. At 89 years old, we bought her her first proper bed so she no longer had to sleep on the floor, and a wheelchair so she could sit outside and feel fresh air on her skin.
I spent days secluded in her room, caring for her: massaging her fragile limbs, combing her hair and playing hiplife, which is traditional Ghanaian music. It would lift her spirits hearing some of her favourite music from yesteryear and seeing me dance, which she can only do now from the confinement of her wheelchair.
Despite the lifelong language barrier between us, this was the first time in nearly 40 years that I felt our bond fully, deeply and without words. Holding her hand, I understood that her prayers – quiet, constant and enduring – had been the glue holding our family together for generations.
That visit unearthed a flood of emotions. I felt overwhelming guilt for the privileged life I live in the UK and for having unintentionally relegated my grandmother to an afterthought. I felt jealousy toward my cousins who have constant access to her, whose bonds with her are naturally stronger. I even felt envy toward my friends in the UK who have enjoyed conventional, everyday relationships with their grandparents. At times, I felt like the black sheep –arriving sporadically, performing this grand display of care for a relative I see only every few years. It is a guilt I am still learning to sit with.
Leaving my grandmother this time was unbearable. I cried as I stepped out of her room, unsure if it would be the last time I would see her alive or when I would ever return. I ached to stay, to care for her myself. I briefly considered abandoning my life in London to become her full-time carer, but the financial reality of it made that impossible. Doing so would also mean walking away from the life my parents and I have built in the UK over nearly four decades.
I take comfort in knowing that we left her in a better condition than we found her. Thanks to technology, we can now video call her, bridging some of the distance between us. Our visit served as a wake-up call for our family in Asankragua, and they have since stepped up in caring for her. I hope she will live many more years. I dread the day I receive the call that she is gone. But until then, I know that the 4,904 miles between us do not diminish my love for her.
In a world where immigration is heavily scrutinised and a source of deep division, I wish people understood the wider impact it has on generations of British African children like myself.
We are proud to be British, yet many of us quietly carry the emotional burden of having unwell elders or losing them from afar, simply because our parents made the tough decision to leave everything they’ve known to seek a better life here in the UK. The feeling of being unable to help, combined with a sense of guilt and shame, is an experience few can truly relate to.
Would I change my life? No, I wouldn’t. But I do feel a growing desire to bridge the gap between my life in London and the other place I also call home – the place where my grandmother lives, and where a part of me still remains.
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