The African Renaissance man: Preacher, Tour Guide, Dreamer, Hustler

Wisdom has a difficult name to live up to: “The quality or state of being wise; knowledge of what is true or right coupled with just judgment as to action; sagacity, discernment, or insight.”

He was the first man I met in Amedzofe. In Africa, the first person you meet can shape your whole experience. “The person who first takes you through the village is the most important,” a professor friend told me. “That will determine who will talk to you, and how you will be viewed by the villagers.”

I found myself in Amedzofe after a four hour tro tro ride over Lake Volta, through Volta villages via the Ametime Hills. Pure beauty, a part of Ghana that many don’t even know exists. I planned to get off somewhere along the way, but I was not ready to escape the comfort of the front seat, and re-enter the Africa of bargaining for a cheap place to stay amid hustlers who see the white man as a new economic market ripe for exploitation.

We drove to the the German Missionary town of Amedzofe, high up in the mountains, overlooking all of Ghana. The driver dropped me off at the end of the road, and called his friend to meet us and take me to a Guest House. I got out of the van and Wisdom was there to greet me, with a warm smile and a humble handshake. I was excited for my experience to start. Wisdom mentioned that he knew God had brought us together for a reason.

Wisdom and I talked for hours at the Christian African Mission House, the Guest House where I stayed. He knows everything about the area, and told me about the ongoing projects, the volunteers who come through the area to build roads, help at schools, pray with the villagers. About ten years ago a Peace Corps volunteer helped set up a community tourism project. Now the villagers struggle to keep it afloat.

He told me about his American friends, who were his best friends, and now barely write or call him. Of Hillary, who he wanted to marry. “She’s a doctor, and went back to the States and we realized it wouldn’t work,” he told me. He recently married a village woman who he struggles to love. She’s nine month pregnant, and he has already named the baby Chandra, after an American woman who he briefly fell for a few years back.

The next morning I went to church with Wisdom. The day before, he told me that he runs a guest house and is a tour guide. He is also a drummer and dancer. On the way to church, he told me that he is also a preacher. He is one of the leaders of the church. He preaches in English, as a way to sound important, above it all. A man translates his words in the local dialect, and there is a several second delay until the villagers respond.

It is hard to explain church in Africa, mainly because it does not really make sense to most Westerners. First, it is fun. People are happy, dancing, singing, and the smiles on the face are genuine. This church split off from the larger Evangelical Presbyterian because they tried to impose rules on how to pray. No dancing in the aisles, no waving your arms, no singing when you are not supposed to. But that is not how Africans pray, so they split off. For many Africans, church is their only entertainment, and Sundays are social, relaxing, and an important source of satisfaction. Church has legitimacy that political institutions, community based organizations, NGOs do not have, built upon the fear of going to hell. They view the entire institution as a spring towards salvation.

I envisioned a new project of looking at the politics of churches in Africa: when and why they split, how and why people stand up to authority, and how international donors affect the entire process. It could tell us a lot about politics across the continent.

And churches have money. The day I attended church, they raised 650 cedis. One villager told me that he did not have enough money to send his sick wife to the hospital. He begged me for money. He donated 20 cedis to the church that morning.

There were four preachers at the service, and they were all well-dressed in sparkling new suits. They spoke pretty good English, and they were excited to meet me, talk to me, take pictures with me. They were extremely charismatic, and connected with the people in a way that would make President Mills churn; Thank goodness he didn’t have to campaign against them. Many of the preachers had other jobs on the side, like Wisdom, but preaching paid good money. And they could be the Big Man of the community. Churches were an entire market that allowed freedom of expression, association, and mobility. For the preachers, it paid the bills.

Karl Marx was right: religion is the opiate of the masses. But it is also all these people have, and the enjoyment they had at the four hour service could well be worth it.

Wisdom told me of his dream to open an orphanage for children in the area. “I have always been the man who cares for others, and thinks about others first,” he tells me. “I am God-fearing and God-loving, and I want to care for these poor children.” He tells me of his plan to buy land in Ho, paid for by his friend Sara who is a PhD student in the US. Volunteers from the US will help run skills-building sessions and teach computers skills. The orphans will be empowered to set their goals high and be productive members of society. Hopefully they will then have the chance to visit the United States.

The more and more I talked to Wisdom, the more he reminded me of Silas and Mothibi in South Africa. Kofi in Accra. All of these Africans I met were pretty well-educated, but never had the resources to complete the highest levels of education. They entered the tourism industry, learned the basic rules and norms of American and European tourists, and were charming as hell. They could immediately put people at ease, and tourists were so excited to finally meet somebody with whom they could speak freely. Someone who didn’t initially appear to care about money, somebody who even invited them into their home. The stories were eerily similar: they fell in love with white women, showed off their white friends to their village friends as if they “had” something special, and expressed their desire to empower their community through local projects. They all had big dreams.

But they also felt cursed. Silas was accused of rape by a woman in his community; she could not take it that the father of her baby was now dating a white woman. Mothibi had to move to Pretoria where he was not hassled for money. They all expressed these concerns with me, and begged me to “help them.”

On Monday, Wisdom was not his self. For the first time I saw him anxious, not sure of what was happening and what he should do. He told me that his wife was in extreme pain, and he was horrified that something was wrong with his baby. That night, a group of Scottish missionaries came to Amedzofe, accompanied by a Ghanaian preacher from the outskirts of Accra. A city preacher. He asked us to come pray for her, so we went to his village home. His wife was clearly in incredible pain, and Wisdom told of us the problem.

“Ever since we got married, things have not been good for us. I used to be in love with a white woman, and it angered many in the community,” his voice shook. “Then I decided to marry her [pointing towards his wife] and things have not been good since. This other brother was in love with her, and was very angry that I married her. He said that he cast a spell on us, and came over many times to cause trouble. My wife said that the last two evenings she has felt somebody come in during the night and sit on her, as if they were trying to kill the baby. These spirits are real, and they have possessed us and we are scared.”

Wisdom continued, “Please pray for us.”

While village Africans were Christians, they still believed in traditional African spirits, and many are still horrified of witchcraft. George, the city preacher then quietly spoke, “I just want to be clear. We will definitely pray for your wife, but what is more important is that you take her to the hospital tomorrow. She may be sick, may have malaria, and she must be checked by the doctor.”

He then wildly began preaching, “In the name of Jesus, please dispose of the evilness from within. In the name of Jesus, may her baby be blessed with everlasting life and good health. In the name of Jesus, In the name of Jesus.” He grasped her forehead, and the group of missionaries chanted behind him. After five minutes of intense screaming and praying, they just stopped. Wisdom’s wife immediately felt better. The Scottish pastor said, “I can tell she feels more at ease. Is healthier already.”

She remained that way until we left. Then she was in pain the entire night.

On the surface, village life is much simpler, much more peaceful. More serene. I went to bed each night to the sound of the birds chirping, and children laughing in the distance. The Church and the Chief dominate, and the forces of their authority are clearly demarcated. The chief is in charge of land and small disputes, while the church provides a semblance of spiritual order. Local government does not do anything. Local traditions and culture remain intact and important, and constantly adapt to, but also re-form these other institutions. Local communities make these institutions work for them. Whereas contrasting regimes of representation complicate city life, village life appears easily understandable.

Yet hardly comprehensible.

The city preacher tells me about how many people who move to cities leave their car at the nearest town when they return to their village, because they will be expected to bring back lots of money. The jealousy of the villagers will only affect his immediate family. My friend Kofi avoids going back to the village unless he has something new and special to bring. “They just have too many expectations.”

In my interviews in the worst slum in Accra, called Sodom and Gomorrah for its filth and desperation, I ask a resident if he prefers the city to the village. He responds, “Yes, because I do not want to go backward in life.”

Wisdom’s wife did not sleep Monday night; she was in incredible pain. She had to go to the hospital. Wisdom arranged a taxi to pick her up at 8 am Tuesday morning, but it never came. The driver promised that he was “on his way,” but that doesn’t mean much in Ghana. Wisdom paced back and forth, until the Scottish missionaries were kind enough to lend them their vehicle. He was extremely grateful because now he could rush his wife to the hospital, easily, comfortably, and fast.

Wisdom picked up his wife, and four preachers got in the van, all feeling as if it was their duty to make sure the woman was safe, all craving the credit for saving her, making her healthy.

Wisdom’s demeanor then totally changed. “Let’s make money. We can make some money.” He immediately became a hustler, and tried to get as many villagers in the van as possible so they would pay for the ride to town. They squabbled for several minutes over the price, while his wife lay in pain, wanting to be at the hospital already. The van picked people up and dropped them off the entire way, turning the thirty minute ambulance ride into an hour and a half tro tro trip.

The preacher next to me could tell that I was annoyed, worried for Wisdom’s wife. He leaned over and said, “This is just how we do it up here.”

James Town Pride

“I have lived in James Town my entire life and there is no place like it. It is the center of the city; it is Old Accra,” Kofi tells me about his home. His family has been there for decades, and his father owns one of the few storey buildings in the area, with a wonderful view overlooking the neighborhood. He continues, “I am James Town born and bred.”

James Town has a charm I have not seen in other parts of Accra. People speaking Ga, children running around naked in their own way, a naked dance that is unique to this area. James Town expresses a type of poverty that is not only African, but an urban African that is only understood through the lens of an African city. Malnourished children, obese women, complete overpopulation. Kind of like India in a way: the stench, the colonial buildings, but an aliveness that inspires residents to go on, live on, dream.

But its African-ness, its Ghanaian-ness, spews out of the smelly, open sewers, the music blasting through the speakers, and the horns of the tro tros. The chief’s house up the street creates a semblance of order, while the African women pound their fufu and the youth sit on the corners, on top of run-down cars. All night. It is too much to quantify, to make sense of, to understand, but it makes you want to return. To hear stories. To figure out the “fucked-up-ness” that keeps James Town going.

We sat in a run-down courtyard at dusk, drinking palm wine out of bowls, listening to Ghanaian reggae, and watching the sun set above us. James Town was where it all started: the international slave trade in the 16th century, large migration of the Ga people to the city in the 17th century, and the beginning of the bustling metropolis of Accra. While the rest of Accra seems confused – a mish-mash of Soviet architecture, faux American influence, and the blitz of British buildings, with its own African aroma and flavor – James Town has an identity.

“They are proud people,” an NGO representative told me about the James Town residents, “They feel that the city is theirs. They feel like they have given their land to the capital city.” They have a sense of ownership: a right to the city. The Ga people settled in James Town in the 1600s, and they have been moving to the neighborhood ever since. Many of the housing structures have been in people’s families for decades, and the “family house” is still viewed as a foundation for most James Towners. “It is a safety net for the poor Ga people. There is always the house to come back to when times are rough.”

During the 1940s and 50s, James Town was the center for political independence. Kwame Nkrumah founded the Convention People’s Party at the Paladium, a central structure in the area. The struggle between the CPP and the opposition UGCC was played out in Old Accra, and it was not until Nkrumah won over the people of James Town and its surroundings that Nkrumah paved the way for his presidency. Today, the Ga Mashie district (of which James Town is a part) is considered the political hotbed of the country. The saying goes, “If you win Ga Mashie, you win the National Election.”

James Town exposes a life of endurance, of survival. Survival enlaced with pride, passion, and heartbreak. Of political apathy mixed with political heat. I could just feel the tension, the energy, the "about to break out" but a security that did not come from courts, or even the chief. Perhaps it came from history, from tradition, from somewhere within James Town itself. A mixture of it all. James Town is why I study cities. There is the “urban crisis” and the “emerging economies” that are so prevalent in the literature, the ability to form a new life but also descend into chaos and disorder. The questions just flow, fascinating puzzles are everywhere. It feels alive.

Kofi tells me of the boxers who train nearby, of the comedians who make their start in James Town. The “noisemakers” who create problems and get the public riled up. He tells me how there is a fight between chiefs, and the police had to come in and settle the dispute. Thankfully, it’s quiet now. He tells me about the parties, and says, “You have to come here for the parties. The funerals. This is the place to be.” He grew up here, and he tells me of his life going to school, and then escaping to University of Ghana. He says he could leave Ghana and study in the US or the UK, but he would not want to leave James Town and Old Accra. He does not want to leave home.

He tells me of his daughter, who is three years old. I ask him if she lives in James Town. “Oh no, of course not. I don’t want her growing up here!”

Somewhere in Between

Hot, hectic and half-working. Sums up Accra nicely.

After a month of no water, my apartment complex finally got running water. Kind of. I stepped in to take a shower, but there was not enough pressure for the water to come out of the shower head. I was left attempting to take a shower with water from the bottom spout, at my knees. As I began washing myself, the light in the bathroom stopped working. But water is water; it still felt like I struck gold.

Meanwhile, I have air conditioning. My apartment is freezing while it is 100 degrees outside. I also have a refrigerator and freezer so my food doesn’t spoil. I just killed the biggest cockroach I have ever seen.

On my way into the main part of town, I pass children sleeping on the steps of businesses. Sound asleep. An old Ghanaian professor once told me, “Nobody is homeless in Ghana. Everybody has a home, a place to come back to. Some people move to the cities to find work, and they end up sleeping on the streets. But don’t be mistaken, they have a home.”

The sewers in the city are all open, filled with garbage, feces and god knows what else. There are taxis everywhere; in fact, I don’t know how all of these drivers are still employed. It seems like there are always empty cabs honking at me, waiting to pick me up, to attempt to rip me off until they realize I have been here long enough to know that a five minute taxi ride is one cedi, not five. They laugh when they realize I’m not a complete fool. The funny thing is, they play the same game with Ghanaians.

I finally found a coffee shop, owned by Lebanese, with wireless internet. It allows me to use a computer that does not have a broken or sticky keyboard, like most of the computers at the other internet cafes. I can have an overpriced cup of real coffee and surf the net, feel connected to my friends in America. As I am about to push “send,” the internet stops working.

I need to print off a proposal, so I walk to another 24 hour internet café to use their printer. “Sorry, the internet is down. Come back tonight,” the clerk tells me. I walk to the café around the corner. Same thing. I return to the café at night to check my email, and the internet is still down.

After my fifth last-minute cancellation of the week, I am stuck in the area around Parliament in my button-down shirt, in need of a beer. I pass the Mali embassy, with a huge fence. On the fence, there are stencils every five feet that say, “Post no bill.” This means, “Don’t advertise here,” and “No vandalism or graffiti” They have to post this on private property in attempt to prevent this. Below these stencils, are the words “Don’t urinate.” I look across the street, and a man steps out of his car and begins to pee. He made sure not to urinate on the side of the street where the sign was.

Everybody has a cell phone, probably two. There are people selling phone credit refills on every corner. If a person is too cheap to spend money on a phone call, they will call you and immediately hang up. You must then call them back. They pick up the phone surprised that you have called.

When I visited the slums, most houses had televisions. All had electricity. I wondered why my expensive apartment was without water, while these slums had pipes that brought water to every dwelling. Kids run around and dance. You know a peaceful and loving culture when the children dance. Especially when they dance naked.

If you want to get anything done in this city, you must have the women on your side. The men make promises; then they break them. But women won’t lie. They are the ones who get shit done. At a restaurant, you simply need to hiss at them. It’s the equivalent of snapping your fingers. But it is not rude here; you simply want your food.

But the food always comes, and it is usually quite tasty.

If only I could find a functioning bathroom when the meal is over; it is always needed.

God Bless Kwasiada

Accra doesn’t sleep on Kwasiada, or Sunday. It prays. Then parties. “God’s Gift” Hair Salon is closed; “Providence” bar does not service customers. The morning is drenched with Hallelujahs and spurts of rain, while the day is spent watching football, barbecuing, and spending time with family. Then drinking into the wee hours in Osu, Central, or Labone. “Ghanaians work hard, long hours,” a restaurant owner told me. “But on Sundays, they relax with their friends and family.” Even the Nigerian migrants take a day off.

People from all over West Africa come to Accra to work. Sundays are their resting days.

My friends from Gabon came to Accra to learn English. Stepson of the President, Yannick’s brother is now in line to become President of the country. He came to Accra to learn English and get away from it all. Who needs African royalty? He wants to be independent. Become a rapper. His brother Stephan dons a New York Yankees hat, flat rim and all. They rap in French, play pool, smoke cigarettes. Ami, the chick who “hangs around” is from Mali; she’s here to learn English as well. “I want to make lots and lots of money, that’s why I’m here,” she tells me.

Peri rented me my apartment. Classic, professional businessman. He’s Ghanaian, but grew up in the UK. He worked as a teacher for many years, then was an administrator in a few different technical schools and colleges. He moved back to Accra four years ago for business. “This is where the money is now,” he says. “The US and the UK had their days in the sun, the opportunities are here now.”

“With my music you gonna feel alright…everybody wanna dance all night…” Shepherd sang to me as he watched his friends barbecue beef kebabs. His pseudonym is “Shephdon.” His reggae tunes span from “Situation,” where he explains the political situation in Nigeria – full of corruption, false promises, and chaos – to “Who be this guy” where he gently tells us who he is. “I want to be a reggae artist, a big star,” he told me as I sat next to him drinking a beer. He took Sundays off from his grueling job of selling ice cream out of a cart at the market, Monday through Saturday. Shephdon is Igbo, but he lived in Lagos for many years. He loves Nigeria.

He recorded a few singles there, but ran out of money. “I had no money, and trying to become a star there, I could not sink to the level of selling goods on the street. People would have laughed at me. So much shame.” So he came to Accra. He makes 10 cidis a day, on the good days. Barely 8 dollars. On the bad days, he barely reaches five. He gets to Central Accra around 8, and works until 10, then goes to Osu, where the night crowd hangs out and sells until midnight. “I’m just trying to save enough so I can go back, home. I need $1,200 to be able to produce a quality tape that will make me a star.”

I have a house boy too – Appiah. He’s from the north, as so many people in Accra migrate from the less-developed, poorer Northern regions. 17 years old, lives in a small room out back. His English is not very good, but we manage to have broken conversations. “My family lives in a close town, but I am here to work.” I asked him if he goes to school, and he said he finished basic schooling. He would like to continue to college, but it is too expensive. “I need 300 cidis (about $200) a year to pay for school, he told me, “and my family doesn’t have it.” He does my laundry, sweeps and mops my floor; he even ran to get me cooking oil this morning. I give him $4. While he irons my shirt, I sit and read my book.

He had to work on Sunday.

Are Ghanaians afraid of blood?

“Ghanaians themselves are peace lovers, they talk more than they act,” an officer with an organization that advocates on behalf of slum dwellers told me.

“We talk, not act,” the boy cleaning the owner of my hostel’s Lexus told me in response to why Accra is a safe city. “We fear blood.”

“Ghanaians are just happy, peaceful, democratic people,” my Twi professor who teaches at Harvard lectured to me. “It’s deep in our culture.”

It seems like all the people who I have met who have had interactions with Ghanaians say the same thing. What joyful people. Always smiling. Pleasure to be around. Ghanaians seem to attribute this to their religion. “We are god-fearing Christians,” a woman told me.

It’s hard to argue with this non-violent assessment when on the streets of Accra. Just today, I saw a cocky teenager knock down food from a man selling fried buns. The man jumped off his cycle and started chasing the kid, pissed. A crowd gathered and the kid simply threw some money in the air and fled. Afraid of a confrontation. Everyone else just stood around and smiled.

I remembered constantly feeling uncomfortable and unsafe in South Africa. Jamaican cities were no better. But I have not had a single problem in Accra, and people always just leave me alone, unless I have a question. Then they are more than willing to help.

But Ghanaians are not passive, or non-confrontational. Amartya Sen wrote a book called The Argumentative Indian, explaining that arguing has been part of Indian culture for thousands of years, and that this democratic trait has been well institutionalized in India for many years. He argues that this is one reason democracy flourishes in the country. Could the same be said for Ghana?

It seems like Ghanaians are always arguing about something: the price of the tro-tro, the price of bread, business, directions, etc. And this isn’t just a male quality: men argue with women, men with men, and women with women. Voices are always raised, people get very close to one another, but never is there a physical confrontation. If a woman is involved, the argument ends with the Ghanaian “Umph.” If men, the loser of the argument walks away, still arguing, shouting. Laughter and smiles always seem to break out.

Far and away, people argue the most about politics. Americans learn that during business you never bring up politics or religion. Not the case here. There is always squabbling about NDC versus NPP. People are never content with the government, no matter who is in power, and they let their frustrations flow. Talk radio is the most common outlet to vent, but you don’t even have to call in: go anywhere; you will hear complaints about politics.

It is commonly assumed that this type of political engagement is good for democracy. Everyday citizen engagement tends to spur political participation, which in turn helps hold the government accountable. For “deliberative democracy” theorists, this interaction is the key to a healthy, democratic society. But is this activity really good for democracy?

A researcher at a top democracy think-tank told me, “There are plenty of phone-in shows, but no constructive collective action. This has always been the case in Ghana.” He attributed this to a culture of deference steeped in the deep history of traditional authority, “You don’t question the Chief.” While people are always squabbling and expressing their disillusionment to one another, they have not figured out the proper way to turn this into positive political action and hold their leaders accountable.

But Ghana’s history has not been all peaceful. Kwame Nkrumah imprisoned many political dissidents. There have been several coup d’états. Military leader turned President Jerry Rawlings ruled Ghana with an iron fist. Even during the recent national elections there were many violent skirmishes.

I asked my contact at the organization that advocates on behalf of the urban poor about these clashes. He responded with full honesty, “The problem we have in Ghana is the Northerners. In the South we are peaceful and tolerant.” Ironically, he continued, “It is because they are Muslims. Islam just is not peaceful.” He continued to tell me that these people do not send their children to school, and like to make lots of money and drive nice cars. They don’t care how they make their money, even if it is criminal. “In fact,” he responded, “the Northerners only fight amongst themselves.”

Perhaps it is only the Southern, Christian Ghanaians who are afraid of blood.

Of course, I disagree, but clearly ethnicity and religion still cause deep divisions in Ghanaian society.

Providence

“Dodoo ho, Dodoo ho,” the man barked at me.

The words sounded familiar, but I had no clue what he was saying to me. It was the way my entire first two days in Accra felt: everything sounded and seemed familiar, but I had no clue what was going on.

Instead of feeling sorry for myself by staying in my depressing hostel and reading Travels with Charley by John Steinbeck, which I would have much rather done, I decided to take a walk. Alone. In the pitch black.

I wanted food, but instead found a bar. I tend to have this problem. The same thing happened in London. Guinness became my dinner.

“Dodoo ho, Dodoo ho,” the man laughed as he urged me to sit down…or leave…or drink…or fight…or talk… I sat down after ordering my beer. Thankfully I did the right thing.

He smiled, very pleased.

“Do you know what I’m saying? Do you know what dodo ho means,” he asked me. I nodded my head no.

“Sit down, relax, take your hat off. Chill.”

Oh, of course. You sure were doing a good job of expressing that.

The bar was called Providence. Typical Ghana.

Ghana’s version of a hole in the wall, neighborhood bar. A bad-ass woman stood behind a screen making drinks for the men. Various colored liquids of hard liquor in unlabeled bottles. An old man hunched over in the corner with his cane and stoic face. Clearly tired, or disillusioned. A group of men arguing over directions. “Go this way.” “No, that way.” Men always know the right way to go. A woman walked in with her husband. He ordered a drink, she sat at a table, lightly smiling. He pulled out a cigarette and walked to the corner to smoke with a friend. She screamed, “Umph, smoking kills!”

Leaving a joint like this always makes me anxious because I have no clue what the bill will be. I could have just drunk a fifteen dollar Guinness or a dollar-fifty one. I was bracing myself for something in between.

It was a dollar-fifty one.

I gave the Auntie two cedis (a little under $2) and she was thrilled. “Please come back. Please come back. You are always welcome.”

I found Providence.

Political Development of African Cities

African cities have been described as “cities in motion” and “works in progress.” Bare bodies seeking employment, melting pot of Ancient ethnicities, an amalgam of archetypal Africaness amidst a globalizing geography. At Independence, cities were hailed as the modernizing force, the key to spreading democracy and economic growth to the “heart of darkness.” They were considered the engines of civilization.

Today, African cities are considered by many to be “in crisis”: barriers to progress, centers of disease, violence and hopelessness. In fact, the major academic concerns are with fixing, improving, saving and democratizing African cities.

But aren’t all cities “in motion” and “works in progress”? Isn’t that what attracts us to cities in the first place? This leads to a fundamental question: Is there anything distinctly African about African cities?

Cities are important for all the reasons mentioned above, but also for the symbolic power they bring a country. Imagine the United States without New York, France without Paris, England without London. But also imagine Argentina without Buenos Aires, Thailand without Bangkok, and Kenya without Nairobi. What is it about these cities that are so indispensable? Are these “global cities” as Saskia Sassen would lead us to believe, superseding the nation-state and acting independently within the global economic sphere? Or are they intimately connected and dependent upon national political structures in a way that helps determine the trajectory of national governance?

In the next two months I hope to shed light on these questions. By focusing on the African city, I hope to uncover the Africanness of African cities, while at the same time placing these urban areas in a comparative framework. Furthermore, I hope to expose what cities can tell us about national politics. Since Independence, Africa has been understood largely as a rural continent. Agriculture was the economy, rural communities held the culture, and cities were merely a product of the colonial outsider.

But this view of cities is mistaken. First, cities have been important to African political and economic development for many centuries, far before colonialism. Second, Africa is rapidly becoming an urban continent. In 1950, 86% of the population lived in rural areas. By 2000, this number had decreased to 63%. By 2025, the majority of Africans will be living in cities. Finally, the process of urbanization plays a fundamental role in the prospects for democratization. This is because as individuals and families move to urban areas, identities are re-formed, authority structures are transformed, and new economies develop. Thus, the rapid development of urban areas plays an instrumental role in political stability and governmental activity. In the next two months, I hope to show how this process occurs through interesting anecdotes, interviews with ordinary Africans, and observations of everyday life.

Studies of urban Africa typically focus on Nairobi, Johannesburg, Cape Town, Lagos, Dakar, and Cairo because of their large populations and importance for regional economic activity. My focus will be Accra, Ghana because of its newfound place as a sign of optimism for democracy and economic stability in an otherwise politically unstable region. Ghana shares many of the same structural conditions that plague its neighbors: a history of ethnic conflict, dictatorship, coup d’états, economic mismanagement, corruption and extreme poverty. Yet Ghana is unique in contemporary Africa because of its relative success with democratic government. Since 1992, Ghana has had four multi-party elections, deemed free and fair by international observers. While its counterparts like Ivory Coast, Kenya, and Zimbabwe have descended into political disorder and economic instability, Ghana has weathered the storm.

So what is the relationship between increasing urbanization and democracy? Cities have historically been the hotbed for positive growth of civil society and increases in levels of education, both positive indicators of democracy. On the other hand, they bring together thousands of poor migrants with very little rights who are very susceptible to political manipulation by elites. This often acts as a barrier to democratization. Why has Accra been an engine for democratic consolidation whereas cities like Nairobi have not?

I am most interested in the question: Why do poor, ordinary, Ghanaian citizens – who live in the poorest informal settlements or shantytowns with little access to public services, live in squalid conditions, and their lives do not seem to be improving – still have trust in the Ghanaian government? This will help me answer, “How is democracy deepening (or improving) in urban Ghana?”

In order to understand Africa better, I will try to uncover the political development of African cities. By exposing the relationship between local urban governance and national politics I hope to show a little bit of Africa that until now has been understudied. This will help us understand what types of “works in progress” African cities really are.