I was born in Accra, Ghana at Osu R.E. Clinic. I was raised here, schooled here. I speak the local languages, Ga and Twi, fluently. I know the streets, the food, the rhythms, the unspoken codes. Ghana is the only home I’ve ever known.
And yet, because of my name, a Nigerian one, I’m often seen and treated as a stranger in my own land.
To some Ghanaians, especially those in positions of authority, I don’t look Ghanaian enough, don’t properly sound or act Ghanaian enough. And no, I don’t speak with a Nigerian accent, nor do I carry the typical mannerisms. But that doesn’t seem to matter.
Why? Because of my name: Oshodi.
It’s a well-known Nigerian name. There’s a major suburb and a large market in Lagos called Oshodi. It’s a royal name, rich with significance in Nigeria. And just like that by name alone, I am “othered”.
My Roots
My mother is Ghanaian. I come from a large and beautiful Ghanaian family. Lamptey and Amponsah are very well known and respected Ghanaian names with historic lineages. My father, whom I never met, was Nigerian, because he passed before I was born. I grew up with my Ghanaian family and only began piecing together my Nigerian heritage in 2019. But that’s another story for another time.
Where It All Started
From childhood, I learned early that my name marked me. It made me an outsider. In school, I wasn’t fully seen as Ghanaian, by classmates and teachers. Some mocked me. Some excluded me. Some treated me like there was something off about me. And you know how cruel kids can be. I often felt like I didn’t belong. Ironically, I gravitated towards the foreign students at my boarding school in Tema, not because I wasn’t Ghanaian, but because they too understood what it meant to be treated like you didn’t belong.
But this wasn’t just a childhood issue. It followed me into adulthood, deeper, quieter and the marginalisation became more brutal.
The Ghana Card Ordeal
In 2019, I tried registering to obtain my Ghana Card, a national identification meant to affirm one’s citizenship. It should have been a simple and straightforward process, instead I was met with suspicion.
There was this particular lady official who accused me of fraudulently acquiring a Ghanaian passport (Something I’ve had for years and travelled extensively with). She claimed I was using it to deceive the system into obtaining a Ghana card. I was publicly humiliated, yelled at, manhandled and escorted to the police station like a criminal.
It was a very embarrassing ordeal and it was only after calling my Ghanaian uncles to vouch for me that I was allowed to proceed. I won’t even go into the manner in which the officer in charge also spoke to me and deemed me guilty upon reaching there before I even had a chance to prove myself. No apology came after the confirmation. No accountability. Just trauma.
And I’m not alone. Many Ghanaians of Fulani origin have reported similar discrimination during the Ghana Card registration.
Harassment by Law Enforcement
Some of my most traumatising experiences have come at the hands of the police.
In 2011, after buying my first car, the joy and pride with which I rode in it was short lived as I was stopped, searched, and had my license seized without explanation.
My first time being detained and spending the night in police cells happened because of that. And it wouldn’t be the last time the police took particular interest in me solely because of the name on my license. It always made me a suspect. That ordeal alone taught me a lot.
But the worst happened somewhere mid 2019. It was the most terrifying and traumatic incident I’ve ever encountered. I was on a date at a beach resort when plainclothes men approached our table, no IDs, no introductions. I was actually on my phone typing an email as I waited for my bill so we could depart. All I heard was cuff him. I didn’t even think I was the one they were referring to till the harassment begun.
They beat and dragged us into a taxi, not even a police car, and drove us away. I genuinely thought I was being kidnapped. I remember saying stuff like, ”God ein eye de see everything” over and over again. For a moment, I even started suspecting my date was working with the kidnappers so when she tried consoling, I yelled at her not to touch me.
I started getting hopeful when I saw the police station in sight only for my ordeal to worsen when we got there. The officer who assaulted me, continued slapping, beating and threatening me, for daring to ask for his identification, even behind the counter. They separated my date and I and locked us both up.
It wasn’t till I spoke Ga with one of the cell mates that the officer on duty, surprised, asked “Ga nyo ji bo?” meaning “Are you Ga?” And then followed up with “So you’re Ghanaian? Why didn’t you say so? And why do you have such a weird name?
That brief conversation, in a language they didn’t expect me to speak, earned me the single phone call that saved my life.
My cousin (who unbeknownst to them was a lawyer) came alone at first but they ignored him. It wasn’t till officials from my work showed up in official vehicles before I was finally taken seriously.
Even after giving a formal statement about the abuse, the CID officer in charge of the case said: “Do you know your statement implicates a police officer for harassment and assault?”
No action was taken the next day. The officer never came forward. The commander apologised when I met with him in his office and that was it.
If this incident doesn’t reek of an extortion attempt, which I strongly suspected the entire incident was, I don’t know what to make of it.
I always wonder, what if I couldn’t speak Ga? What if I never got that phone call?
Unfortunately, stories like mine are common. Foreigners especially Nigerians in Ghana often face routine extortion and abuse by law enforcement.
The Emotional Toll
This incident broke me. I wasn’t even aware how deeply scarred I was till I started experiencing PTSD for the first time. Every sighting of a police officer sparked anxiety. I couldn’t be myself. I stopped dressing like myself, toned down my style, my confidence and my light just to avoid attention.
Anyone who knows me knows how I carry myself: with intention, with flair, with boldness and purpose. But I dimmed my shine out of fear. It took several months to regain a semblance of normalcy.
The constant questioning of my identity, being asked, “Where are you from?” or being told, “You don’t look Ghanaian”, has been a recurring theme and a persistent reminder of my perceived otherness. I’ve been called “Anago nyo” or “Alata ni” in a dismissive and derogatory manner.
Often by people under the assumption that I didn’t understand Ga or Twi. On several occasions, I’ve overheard insults, plots and threats against me in the local languages but I usually stayed quiet and on rare occasions before I walk away, I’d calmly reply, in the same language, just to let them know: I heard you. I understand you. And I forgive you.
A Call for Change
Ghana prides itself in hospitality and unity. But experiences like mine, and those of countless others, tell a different story. It’s time we reexamine, redefine even what it means to be Ghanaian.
It’s not just your name or where your father is from. It’s about your life, your experience, your love for this land, your contribution to its growth.
Discrimination based on names, accents, or perceived heritage is not just painful, it’s un-Ghanaian and we must push for change, especially in institutions like the police, the NIA and other systems that should be protecting and validating our identity, not weaponizing it against us.
Note: This article incorporates personal testimony and publicly available reports to illuminate a broader issue. The goal is not to shame institutions but to encourage reflection, reform, and inclusivity.
P.S.: This post isn’t to shame the police, it’s to spark awareness and advocate for reform. Many Ghanaians with foreign names are just as Ghanaian, sometimes even more so, than those who question their identity. And truthfully, many Ghanaians without “foreign” names have also suffered similar abuse at the hands of the police. This is about all of us.
If you’ve faced similar discrimination because of your name, heritage, or identity, I see you. You’re not alone. Let’s speak up and push for a more inclusive Ghana.
