John W. Fountain

Still critical today to life, freedom, justice and equality are the stories of everyday people like the people of Accra, whose stories of daily life in West Africa deserve to be told.

I am torn as I embrace my return to paved roads, an abundance of modern infrastructure and the trappings of the Western world, to friends and family. Torn by the simplicity of life in Ghana, despite its hardship for so many amid glaring abject poverty, which exists side by side with opulence.

I see the violence, and sometimes I’m just glad I’m gone.

Inside of Telie Woods’ new eatery is a sign that says “Shalom,” welcoming all.

Back home to America after being reminded here in Africa that “home” is the beginning of charity.

The words were difficult to process. I couldn’t accept that my cousin William D’Chaun Lockhart, who was more like a close nephew or a son, was dead at 36.

Doing journalism isn’t about accolades. Throughout my career, I’ve endeavored to be a voice for the poor. For the downtrodden. For the invisible. For the forgotten.

There is something in the air here in Ghana. It is hard to put my finger on it. Difficult for me to understand how I can feel the souls of Black folk yearning, speaking, pulling, calling me to stay — ever since I arrived.

African by heritage. American by my social DNA. African American in heart and blood and rhythm and soul. Despised at home.