Living with the Pain of Silence: Indigenous Slavery Legacy in Ghana

Alima Adam was overjoyed when she landed a job at one of the most prestigious companies in Accra. It was a dream come true — a reward for years of hard work, resilience, and determination. As a Northerner and a Muslim woman, her success represented more than just personal achievement; it was a step forward for inclusivity and diversity.

But Alima’s excitement would soon be dampened by an unexpected confrontation — not with foreign discrimination, but with a legacy hidden in plain sight, buried in silence, and carried in the hearts of people who looked just like her.

Despite earning her position on merit, Alima quickly noticed that she was treated differently. She was spoken to with condescension, overlooked in meetings, and subtly excluded from decisions that concerned her work. Her identity — as a Northerner, a Muslim, and someone from a region often stereotyped as “poor” — became the lens through which others measured her worth. Her colleagues seemed to believe that she was lucky just to be there, as if she had been granted a favour rather than earned her seat.

Alima is a humanist at heart. She believes that our shared humanity should rise above all differences. In her mind, no one deserves to be disrespected because of where they come from, how they worship, or the language they speak. So the discrimination she faced was baffling — and painful.

What hurt the most wasn’t coming from strangers, but from fellow Ghanaians.

For a long time, she couldn’t understand it. Why would her own people treat her like an outsider in her own country?

Then one day, everything changed.

She returned to the office after lunch, having forgotten her phone. As she approached her desk, she overheard a conversation between two colleagues that made her freeze in her tracks.

R: “Why is that village northern girl acting like she’s our equal? Do they even have real roads up north?”
S: “Don’t mind her. No matter how hard she works, we’ll always have better benefits. This is our company — she’s just being used like the slave she’ll always be.”
R: “Slave?”
S: “Yes. Our ancestors defeated her people — the Gonjas and Dagombas — in war and forced them to send slaves and farm produce every year. So nothing has changed. She works, we benefit.”

Alima’s heart sank. The cruel words stung more than anything she had ever heard. The discrimination she faced wasn’t just casual bias — it was a legacy, a historical wound passed down like a family heirloom.

She had never learned about this in school. No one had told her that, hundreds of years ago, her ancestors were forced into submission, their labour and resources extracted to develop the south. The silence around Indigenous slavery in Ghana had kept her blind to this part of history — and made her unprepared for the prejudice it still breeds today.

But why should history justify hate?

She had done nothing wrong. Her only “crime” was being born in the north. She had assumed, like many, that Ghana was one nation, one people. But now she understood: historical injustice, when left unspoken, can quietly breed new injustices — until it begins to look normal.

Alima didn’t feel ashamed. If anything, she felt pride. Despite the chains of history, she was thriving. Her work was excellent, her passion undeniable. Yet others couldn’t see beyond a 500-year-old narrative. They believed dominance was their birthright — and oppression, her destiny.

But history is not a prophecy.

The idea that people should be punished for their ancestors’ suffering — or feel entitled because of their ancestors’ crimes — is absurd. It is the beginning of madness. No group deserves eternal inferiority. No group deserves eternal superiority.

So Alima asked the questions many are afraid to ask:

• Don’t poor people have the right to become rich?
• Don’t formerly enslaved people deserve to be free?
• Don’t marginalized communities deserve a chance to grow and prosper?
• Why must the sins of the past be used to justify injustice in the present?

If we cannot show love to those within our own borders — those who share our land, our history, our identity — how do we expect others, across oceans and cultures, to treat us with love and respect?

We cry out when foreigners mistreat us. But are we any better when we dehumanize one another? The cruelty Alima endured was not from an outsider — it was homegrown. And that’s what makes it even more dangerous.

The Real Enemy is Silence

Silence allowed this history to be buried. Silence allowed hate to simmer under the surface. Silence allowed people like Alima to walk into war zones disguised as offices, unarmed, unprepared, and unprotected.

But silence does not erase history — it only lets its ghosts linger longer.

If we are to move forward as a nation — and as a global community — we must start by breaking the silence. By acknowledging painful truths. By choosing empathy over ego. By remembering that, before tribe, region, or religion, we are all human.

The Lesson for Humanity

Until we prioritize our shared humanity over our inherited differences, inequality will remain our reality. And injustice will not discriminate — it may one day visit the very ones who once ignored it.

So be humble. Be kind. Be just.

Because the tables always turn — and when they do, may you not find yourself at the receiving end of the injustice you once enabled.

“The pain of silence is real. Let us speak, let us heal, and let us rise — together.”

By: Huzeima Mahamadu

Disclaimer: This article is not meant to incite hate or blame, but to honour truth, resilience, and the ongoing journey toward justice. It reflects the unseen chains many continue to carry — not to dwell on pain, but to awaken empathy. Our goal is unity: to promote love, mutual respect, and the shared responsibility to confront injustice wherever it exists. Let this be a step toward healing, dignity, and deeper understanding for all.