Travel Series: My 1994 Journey to Africa
Post 3: Days 9–13 | Adawa Egyiriwa and the Ashanti Kingdom
August 17, 1994 – Day Nine
Adawa the Antelope
By this point in the journey, it felt like I was being both unraveled and remade. On this day, we visited a community shrine of the Ashanti people where we underwent a traditional naming ritual. That’s how I became Adawa Egyiriwa. I’m still not sure what “Egyiriwa” means, but I was told “Adawa” translates to “antelope” in Twi. Considering how I danced during the ritual, the name was likely earned—my movements must’ve mirrored the light, agile grace of the animal. There’s also a traditional Twi dance called the Adowa, so perhaps it was a nod to that as well.
Later, we witnessed a man enter a trance-like state and become a vessel for a River God. It was equal parts eerie and sacred. That experience was followed by a visit to a herbal treatment center. I’ll be honest—I wasn’t particularly interested. While the guide discussed the rarity of HIV in the area and how the virus behaves differently here, it didn’t feel like new information. And when they referred to “the cure” as something that only suppressed symptoms, I couldn’t help but think of the half-truths and wishful thinking that so often accompany suffering.
August 18, 1994 – Day Ten
Mosquito Bites and a $2.50 Adventure
My cousins, my dad, and a few tour companions decided to break away from the official itinerary. We made our way to Kumasi on our own to buy traditional Ashanti stools—beautiful, symbolic wooden pieces. Skipping the tour guide saved us over a hundred dollars. The tradeoff? We stayed in a hotel that could only be described as negative four stars. My stay cost $2.50. You get what you pay for.
I refused to sleep under the sheets, so I wrapped myself in my shirt instead. I counted seventeen mosquito bites on my arms the next morning. I didn’t even use the bathroom that night—I was too afraid—so I held it until daylight.
That wasn’t the only drama. Reva left her camera behind at the stool market. When we went back to retrieve it, the scene nearly escalated into a riot. Apparently, our desperate search for the camera stirred confusion and tension. We got it back, but not without chaos. What a wild day.
August 19, 1994 – Day Eleven
In the Presence of Royalty
This was the day we met the Ashanti King.
Before stepping into the royal court, we were told to stop and purchase bottles of Snapp liquor for our offering. Custom dictated that we drink a sip before pouring libation. This moment felt heavy to me—not just because of the ritual, but because my father is a recovering alcoholic. I watched him carefully. When he took a small sip, I caught his eyes and silently asked if he was okay. He assured me he was. Still, I prayed.
We also saw the Ashanti Sword, a revered artifact believed to be immovable. The royal palace tour was humbling—a physical representation of centuries of pride and resistance.
We returned to Accra by the evening, the ride back a quiet one.
August 20, 1994 – Day Twelve
The Last Dance
With no formal excursions planned, we had a free day. That evening, we attended a farewell dinner hosted by the tour agency’s owner. The food, unfortunately, didn’t agree with my system. Still, I managed to dance one final time—hoping to sweat the sickness away. A literal attempt to move the discomfort out of my body. My last dance on African soil.
August 21, 1994 – Day Thirteen
Homebound and Holding On
Our return flights were uneventful, but the airport staff? Not the friendliest. Still, I found humor in the small things. There was a cutie on the plane I kept running into throughout our travel. Funny how even in chaos, your teenage girl radar stays on.
We later learned our trip had been cut short by a day due to threats of a potential government coup. A jarring reminder that even the most sacred trips exist within the realities of geopolitics.
✨ Unwritten Memories
Because no journal could ever hold all the stories…
There are a few stories that didn’t make it into my journal back then, but they’re too good not to share now.
Like the time in Dakar, Senegal, when my dad stepped out of our hotel late one night for a stroll. Picture this: he’s wearing biker shorts, knee-high gym socks, sandals, a black mesh tank top, aviator shades, and a sombrero. Yes. A sombrero. The hotel doorman literally chased him down, begging him not to walk the streets dressed like that. To this day, it remains one of my favorite travel moments. When I later told my brother Vernon, he made a vow to take our father shopping as soon as we got home.
And then there was my Auntie Diana, the queen of haggling. I watched her in awe as she negotiated better prices from seasoned market vendors. I learned fast that in many West African markets, paying the first quoted price was a sign of weakness. I didn’t have my own money back then, so I couldn’t get the musical instruments I wanted—especially the djembe drums—but the skill stayed with me.
Years later, those lessons would pay off. I once spent two whole days haggling in Harlem, after accidentally discovering a hidden store while looking for the Malcolm Shabazz African Market. I ended up buying over $2000 worth of goods, hauling it all home via cab and subway. Thank you, Auntie D.
📿 Final Reflections
This journey planted more than memories in me—it planted roots.
I left Ghana and Senegal with names, rhythms, and wisdom woven into my spirit. The Adowa dance still lives in my legs. The haggling lives in my hustle. The rituals live in my reverence. And the stories—oh, the stories—live in my heart.
📖 Scripture Takeaway
“Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel, because you have struggled with God and with humans and have overcome.” — Genesis 32:28 (NIV)
Like Jacob, I was renamed. And like Israel, I left changed.
© 2025, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.
