An Enlightening Journey to the Tallest Waterfall in West Africa
On a bright, humid day in July 2013, I embarked on a hike through the lush forests of Ghana's Agumatsa Wildlife Sanctuary. With my camera ready to capture any wildlife we might see and a backpack containing water and a change of clothes, I was 21 and full of anticipation.
This marked my first trip outside the United States, a dream I had nurtured through postcards, travel shows, and countless magazines at Barnes & Noble. A professor from the University of Houston spotted me at a study-abroad fair while I was seeking options for Italy and encouraged me to 'come home' instead. Because of her, I obtained my first passport stamp, added a minor in African American studies, and set out on a journey that would profoundly alter my life.
Like many African Americans, my understanding of my family's history beyond the legacy of enslavement in the United States is scant. I had no ties to Ghana, only the awareness that my ancestors were taken from the continent during the transatlantic slave trade. Yet the notion of returning was enticing — as was visiting a nation that has diligently examined and sought to heal from the painful impacts of slavery.
After arriving in Accra, my study-abroad group spent the initial days meeting with members of notable groups such as the Ashanti, Fante, and Ewe. I discovered how Ghana — despite its tragic history as a major port for the enslaved — had managed to heal from centuries of colonization and exploitation.
This realization deepened as we journeyed to Agumatsa — the site of the stunning 250-foot Wli Waterfalls, the tallest in West Africa. Before this trip, my image of the continent had been shaped by media that often depicted only poverty and conflict. Africa was often viewed as a single entity; all countries seemed alike, and beauty appeared absent. However, as I hiked through Ghana's Volta Region, with its undulating hills, fishing villages, and shimmering waters, I discovered what many Black travelers already knew — the continent and its people are far richer and more diverse than historical narratives suggest.
Yet I quickly recognized that beauty in West Africa often carries the weight of a painful history. As we trekked toward the falls, we passed a glimmering gray lake, home to fruit bats, playful mona monkeys, and a variety of birds and butterflies. Wiping the sweat from my brow due to the lingering humidity, our guide Adwoa Adu, an Ashanti, pointed to the river feeding the lake. She recounted a harrowing story: nearly 400 years prior, European slavers forced countless imprisoned Ghanaian women to drown their infants there. Mothers, shackled and stripped of their dignity, were made to forsake the only thing they had left.
The remnants of slavery in Ghana are ever-present. Coastal castles that once held slaves still stand, and some streets retain names of colonizers. The tales persist in the forts scattered throughout the land that once confined enslaved individuals, in the trees that bore witness to their suffering, and even beneath rivers like the one flowing through Agumatsa. While the injustices of slavery were not new to me as a Black woman from Texas, the sheer scale of the horror was overwhelming, and it weighed heavily on my heart as we walked.
While some classmates found the long hike daunting, I remained close to Adu. As we progressed, she stressed the significance of looking ahead, of recognizing beauty and resilience. I reflected on the lives lost centuries ago, as well as those that persist, moving — against all odds — towards hope. I took in the vibrant vegetation, the rich earth, the ripe mangoes hanging from the branches. As we advanced, I captured photos. Just as beads of sweat began to form on my tank top, I heard the roar of rushing water. Adu turned around with a beaming smile. 'Alright, everyone,' she announced. 'We’re here.'
The water cascaded over lush plants and stones, spilling into a pool where tourists laughed and splashed in the refreshing spray below. My classmates and I dashed in, snapping countless photos, reveling in the joy of the moment. One classmate, usually reserved, erupted into a hearty laugh, the first I’d heard from him. Another, who had complained throughout the hike, found solace sitting on a small dock, gazing at the falls.
I spotted a group of tourists standing close to the torrent. The water wasn’t too deep, and I decided to join them.
As I approached the roaring cascade, my mind was filled with thoughts of freedom. The freedom that had been violently taken from my African ancestors, the freedom that my enslaved forebears fought so hard to attain. Most importantly, the freedom I was determined to claim for myself. I would pursue experiences they could not — travel on my own terms, explore the lands of my childhood dreams, and stand beneath a waterfall.
I heard my classmates calling my name, surprised at my boldness. But as the sound of the falls intensified, their voices faded away. I drew nearer, stepping over pebbles and plants. A fellow traveler smiled at me and extended a hand as the water pressure grew stronger. Together, we ventured directly beneath the falls, where he let go, allowing me to embrace the water's rejuvenating force on my own.
A version of this story first appeared in the February 2022 issue of Dinogo under the headline Taking the Waters.
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