Image @victorstock
For many in the diaspora, a trip to Ghana is a pilgrimage, a homecoming to the land of their ancestors. They arrive with excitement, ready to connect with their roots, taste the local food, and feel the sun on their skin.
But for their children, the teenagers and young adults born and raised abroad, this “return” can be a different story altogether. It’s a journey to a homeland they’ve only ever known through stories, and the reality often comes with a quiet, personal struggle.
This is the experience of the second generation. They arrive in Ghana with their parents, only to find that the key to truly connecting is language which is a door they cannot easily open.
“They Hear My Accent and Switch to English” – Nia Johnson
A 16-year-old Nia Johnson from London who happens to be my neighbor in the year 2020 when she visited Ghana with her family for the summer holidays. “I look like them, my parents are from here, so they expect me to be able to speak,” she shares, “When a market woman greets me in Twi, I just freeze. I can say ‘medaase’ for thank you, but that’s it. They hear my accent, see the confusion on my face, and immediately switch to English. It makes me feel like an outsider in my own skin.” She stated.
This simple language gap creates an invisible wall. It separates these young visitors from casual conversations, from the jokes their cousins share, from the easy vibes in a tro-tro. They are often labelled as “abrofo” or “the one from abroad,” a tag that, while often meant without malice, constantly reminds them they don’t quite belong.
The challenge runs deeper than just vocabulary. It extends to the unspoken social codes that Ghanaians learn from childhood.
An encounter with Kwame Ansah, a 22-year-old boy from Toronto who moved to Ghana with his parents a year ago, he explains. “It’s not just about speaking Twi. It’s about how you speak to elders, the respect, the slight bow when giving or receiving something. It’s the way you greet everyone when you enter a room. Back home, we’re more casual. Here, if you don’t do these things, you can come off as rude or proud, even when you don’t mean to.” He s
For these young people, every social interaction can feel like a test they haven’t studied for. The pressure to “act Ghanaian” is high, but the rulebook was never handed to them.
A Home That Doesn’t Quite Feel Like Home
This struggle often leads to a complex mix of emotions. They feel a deep pull to love and embrace Ghana, yet they are acutely aware of their differences. They are caught between two worlds, not quite fully integrated into the Western society they left, and not quite accepted in the Ghanaian society they are expected to call home.
“It’s a weird feeling,” admits Nia. “You want to fit in so badly, to feel that connection your parents talk about. But then you do something ‘wrong’ or can’t understand something, and you feel this loneliness. You’re homesick for a place you’re technically supposed to be home in.”
So, what is the way forward?
Community leaders and parents have to recognize this quiet struggle. Some have to advocate for more structured “culture and language immersion” programs for visiting diasporan youth safe spaces where they can learn Twi, Ga, Ewe and all the native languages so that they can ask about social norms without judgment.
The hope is that with a little more understanding from both sides, patience from the local community and effort from the younger generation, the gap can be bridged. The journey of return for the second generation is not about a perfect, seamless integration. It is about allowing them the space to build their own unique relationship with Ghana, one imperfect, learning moment at a time.
For these young hearts, finding home is not just about arriving at Kotoka International Airport. It is about slowly, and sometimes awkwardly, finding their voice in a land that has always been waiting for them, even if they’ve never known how to say hello.
By: Eunice Adjei