The night the ocean came for us, the wind howled like a warning, then came the roar, fierce and unrelenting, as if the Atlantic itself had broken free from its boundaries.
It was just past midnight when 8-year-old Afi and her grandmother Abla were jolted from sleep in their home in Fuveme, a small coastal village in Ghana’s Volta Region. By the time they stumbled outside, the tide had already swallowed half the compound.
Their ancestral house, built by their great-grandfather with clay, seashells, and palm wood, was torn apart by the waves.
“I grabbed her hand and ran,” Abla said, her voice trembling. “We left everything. Our history. Our life. The sea has taken it all.” This is not just a disaster story. This is a cultural funeral.
Along Ghana’s 560-kilometer coastline, from Keta to Ada, tidal waves are more than a force of nature; they are merciless intruders uprooting thousands, turning proud communities into ghost towns, and leaving behind a void where culture, memory, and tradition once thrived.
The rise of Ghana’s climate refugees. Over the last decade, tidal waves, locally called sea defense failures or coastal erosion, have displaced over 4,000 people in Ghana, according to the National Disaster Management Organisation (NADMO).
Entire communities like Dzita, Agavedzi, and Salakope have been ravaged repeatedly, forcing families to flee inland with little more than the clothes on their backs. What’s unfolding on these shores is climate-induced displacement.
These Ghanaians, fisherfolk, traders, teachers, and elders are not fleeing war. They are fleeing the ocean. They are climate refugees, unprotected by international refugee laws, yet exiled from the only home they’ve ever known.
Ancestral homes, cultural graves. In the fishing town of Anloga, 74-year-old Efo Komla used to gather children around the village square under the baobab tree to tell Ananse stories. But now, he says, there are no children left to tell stories to.“When the water came, they moved the families inland.
The children now live in tents near Sogakope. They don’t speak Ewe anymore. They speak English and Twi,” he said, wiping his eyes with a frayed cloth. “Soon, no one will remember who we were.”
Houses built with native knowledge, crafted to withstand coastal winds, have been replaced with temporary shelters that leak when it rains. Traditional fishing rites, naming ceremonies, and clan dances are fading. Sacred sites, including ancestral graves, have been washed away.
Culture dies when people are forced to forget where they come from. What’s happening on Ghana’s coast is not just physical destruction; it’s cultural extinction.
Young, uprooted, and adrift for the children of these communities, displacement is not just about losing a home. It’s about losing a sense of identity.
Take Kwame, a 17-year-old whose family relocated from Kpoglu after a tidal wave collapsed their compound in 2022. Now living in a makeshift settlement outside Akatsi, Kwame struggles in school.“My friends laugh at my accent. They don’t understand our traditions. I feel like a stranger in my own country,” he says.
Disconnection breeds disillusionment. Without land to farm or a sea to fish, many youth in displaced communities are turning to urban migration, odd jobs, or even petty crime. Some fall prey to gambling and depression.
A generation is being raised without roots. They don’t know the songs of their ancestors. They’ve never danced the Agbadza. They don’t even know what they’ve lost.
The impact isn’t just emotional, it’s dangerously physical. Tidal waves have claimed lives and left villages in ruins.
In November 2021, over 3,000 people were rendered homeless in the Keta-Aflao stretch when tidal waves surged inland. Schools were shut. Markets collapsed. Boats and nets lifelines of fishermen were shredded and swept away.
That same year, in Agavedzi, a pregnant woman died after being trapped in her flooded house. In Salakope, a father drowned trying to rescue his son from rising waters.
These are not isolated events. According to Ghana’s Hydrological Services Department, tidal wave frequency and intensity are increasing due to rising sea levels and unpredictable weather patterns, direct consequences of climate change.
Despite the magnitude of the crisis, government response has been slow, sporadic, and insufficient. Communities have pleaded for sea defense walls only to see piecemeal projects delayed for years.
In Keta, a coastal protection project stalled in Phase 2 due to “funding constraints.” Meanwhile, lives are slipping into the ocean. “They come with cameras after each disaster, promise us help, and leave,” says Deborah Mensah, a market woman from Adina. “We are tired of being headlines. We want solutions.”
The $10 million needed to complete coastal protection in Keta could save thousands, but remains trapped in bureaucratic limbo. In the meantime, citizens are left with sandbags, prayers, and heartbreak.
This crisis demands not just compassion but comprehensive climate action. The government must urgently fund and complete the stalled Anloga-Keta coastal defense wall. Expand protection to Ada, Jomoro, and Nzema East, which are also at high risk.
If communities must be relocated, it must be done with cultural respect, sustainable housing, and livelihood support. Current relocation efforts often dump families in unfamiliar environments without jobs or social cohesion.
Support mangrove reforestation in degraded coastal areas. Mangroves are natural barriers against tidal waves and storm surges. Projects in Anlo and Ada East have shown promising results.
Install community-based flood early warning systems using mobile alerts, radio, and traditional town criers. Time can mean the difference between life and death. Fund programs that preserve and teach oral histories, traditional music, and coastal languages in schools and media. If the land is lost, the culture must not be.
The sea may be rising, but so must we. We must rise in empathy to feel the pain of displaced elders and the confusion of children. We must rise in solidarity to stand with coastal families who didn’t cause this crisis but are bearing its worst impacts.
We must rise in action to demand urgent intervention, policy reform, and climate justice. Because what’s being lost is not just land. It’s lineage. It’s language. It’s legacy.
The waves may return tomorrow. But if we act today, perhaps we can keep the songs alive.
The writer, Shadrach Assan, is the lead producer for Adom FM’s morning show, Dwaso Nsem.
Source: Shadrach Assan
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