The Women from the Gold Coast

Much of the success of the Convention People’s Party has been due to the efforts of women members. From the very beginning, women have been the chief field organisers. —Kwame Nkrumah  

AS THE SUN descended, casting a cloak of darkness over the capital of Gold Coast, shadows danced across the landscape beneath which a woman hastened through the night, her gaze darting anxiously from side to side as if pursued. Long shadows stretched across her face, adding years to her youthful visage. She quickened her pace when she reached a junction full of dilapidated houses. A bustling family paid no heed to her as she walked by. They were preparing for impending nightfall, a tableau of domestic activities, illuminated by the flickering glow of oil lamps and the soft chatter of familial exchanges—the mother, rushing in and out of the house trying to pull together a meal for her family, the father religiously poring over every word from his radio, his head bobbing up and down with every chhiiii sound accompanying the rising and falling voices, and their son, sitting by the door subsequently awoken by the sting of mosquitos that paraded his body.

The woman walked past them without offering a greeting. She moved past the houses and walked by an old bar. The walls smelled of piss and regret.  A record player blasted Akwanuma Dede loudly over the speakers. The few inside were singing and dancing to the music. Three drunk men were standing by the doors.

“Maame,” they called to her when they saw her.

“Bra ha, bra.” One of them gestured with his shaking hands. 

“Wobenum nsa anaa? Bra, bra.” The other replied. Will you drink alcohol? 

She rolled her eyes at them, spat, and kept walking, jutting her chin towards a house isolated in the darkness.

It was late at night but not so late that few souls were not lingering around. As the night winds enveloped her in a tight embrace, she did not shiver. How dare she? Everything she had spent the last year working on threatened to crumble. When she arrived at her destination—the isolated house—the light from within was still on. She knocked thrice, and someone behind the door replied by knocking thrice as well.

“Agnes Oforiwa Tagoe Quacoopome! Open the door before I remove it from the hinges and beat you with it!” She said. 

“Hannah, you could not even if you tried,” Agnes replied, opening the door and letting in Hannah, who walked in slowly, her coy eyes taking everything in as she sat down. She was short, heavy, and dark-skinned, with a shrewd, placid face. 

“You did make sure that no one was following you, right?” Agnes asked her. 

“Yes, I did.”

“Good. We cannot afford to make mistakes.”

“Are they all in?”

“No, but they told me they were coming,” Agnes replied, shutting the door behind them. 

“How they managed to arrest all six of them is what I am having trouble comprehending.”

“Men are stupid,” Agnes replied. “They think with their egos, not their brains. After the riot, I told them to be careful. All six of you should not be in one place, and they all nodded like fools.”

“Everything we have been fighting for, freedom for us all and eventually equality for us women—”

“All down the drain because we trusted men to do the job. Who knows what they will do to them there.” The silence that followed hung in the air. Hannah rose and began pacing the room.

The room was a small parlour with shelves for walls, each filled with books and newspaper articles. There were wooden chairs and tables scattered everywhere, and at the far end, close to the only window, was a television set that was gathering dust. The old and rusted antenna stood on the television, supported by books and a broken jug. Next to the television was a dying plant with brownish flowers that Hannah had not seen before. She wanted to ask Agnes but did not want to sound ignorant. She would always be the smartest, even if it killed her. It was her smartness, after all, that brought her this far. Being the youngest of ten children had not been easy. Her life had been a series of struggles following the bullying she had endured from boys, being one of the few girls who went to school. 

Hannah’s gaze fell on a picture in the room; it was a picture of Kwame Nkrumah, J.B Danquah, Obetsebi Lamptey, Akuffo Addo, Ako Adjei and Ofori Atta, together with her brother and other members and executives of the United Gold Coast Convention, UGCC. It was men in different kente apparel, others in suits, fugu and women in gowns, floral dresses and kaba and slits—a perfect visualisation of how determined they were to win. She picked up a newspaper lying on one of the tables. She read the headline and slammed the newspaper on the table.

“They already printed it in the newspaper!” she shouted, fuming. Her face was scrunched up in anger.

“Newspapers are controlled by Obroni. If they want to instil fear in our people and quench their thirst for freedom, the best way is to show them, and clearly, arresting the six of them is the best way to do that. This will cause trouble for the party and us.”

“Bullshit.”

The sound of rattling keys behind the door drew their attention. They both turned to each other before turning to the door again.

“Who is there?” Agnes inquired, her voice shaking. 

The door suddenly flew open, and someone cleared their throat. Three figures appeared. Ama Nkrumah—as everyone called her—stumbled in, followed by Naadei and Mrs. Danquah. Unlike the others who were dressed in their slit and kaba, Mrs Danquah wore a black dress. Her eyes were puffy and swollen, and her hair was wind-tousled like she had just returned from war.

“Did someone die again?” Hannah asked.

“Her brains did,” Ama replied.

Mrs. Danquah shot her a stern frown. “You would do the same if your husband had just been arrested. Oh wait, you don’t have one,” she replied.

“Ladies, we did not come here for this.” Naa Dedei cut in as she took her seat. The others also sat down.

“Where are Sophia, Theresa and Efua?” Hannah asked

“They are on their way. We can’t wait for them, so we will start,” Naa Dedei replied.

Ama nodded. “Okay. Shall we begin?” She pressed her hands on her temples and sighed. 

“Sisters, we are in serious trouble,” she began. The others nodded, and the meeting commenced. Hannah knew what was at stake from the beginning. They were not in the public eye, which gave them the freedom to pull strings and do what the others could not do, and no one suspected a thing. Tell any man that the brains behind the success of the UGCC were women. They would laugh in your face and call you crazy. Women, as the men always say, were fragile, broken things, unable to stand on their own. How wrong they were.

---

OUTSIDE, THE ATMOSPHERE mirrored a sombre graveyard, enveloping the house in an eerie stillness despite the nocturnal symphony of owls hooting and crickets chirping. On the left of the room, a tapestry of African history adorned the walls: paintings capturing moments of resilience, photographs immortalising iconic figures, and relics of indigenous culture—framed shards of African pottery and ancestral masks. Among the revered faces were Frederick Douglass, Marcus Garvey, and W.E.B. Du Bois, alongside other stalwarts of racial justice. At the heart of the room lay a wooden plaque bearing the likeness of Yaa Asantewaa, a symbol of defiance and leadership, flanked by a monochrome portrait of the women. It was their inaugural photograph, captured in the nascent stages of their collective endeavour. As Hannah’s gaze fell upon it, memories flooded back, each frame a testament to their undertaken journey – the triumphs and the tribulations. How far we have come. Hannah mused, a wistful smile gracing her lips as she reminisced about the trials and triumphs of yesteryears. 

Four months after her husband left her, her world shrunk blacker and more flaxen. It was as though she was a bottle of ink, and he had sucked her dry and left her a powdery mess. She was made to believe that a woman is nothing without a man, so was she to become nothing? Despite that, she became happier. She was free, and freedom had not felt so good. Prior to this, the dilemma plagued her mind until she met Kwame Nkrumah. 

She had gone to visit her brother, who was a member of UGCC, and during that visit, she met and discussed independence and freedom for Ghanaians at a meeting she attended with him. It was at that meeting that she met the other five women. They were the only women present. They connected, and their bond was what birthed their secret movement. They knew how important they were to UGCC. This was how the “WLM” Women’s Liberation Movement was formed—a secret movement for women by women.

---

MRS. DANQUAH WAS the first to speak.

“They will not kill them, right?”

“Crazy Creasy is not stupid,” Ama replied. “He knows how integral the six of them are to Ghanaians. Killing them will result in a war he is not ready for. He will not touch them yet.”

“What do you mean yet?” Mrs. Danquah asked. “We need to get them out of there.”

“Not yet,” Ama replied.

“When washing your face this morning, did you use akpeteshie or water, or has the stress of leading caused you to digest your brain?”

“We will get them out of there, just not now.”

“Why?” Naa Dedei asked. “They are the ones we need to gain independence. Without them, all our hard work and money would be useless. When I told you about the veterans’ protest, I assumed you would do something, but you didn’t. Three people died that day, and you could have prevented it.”

“Nkrumah and your husband endorsed that protest,” Hannah replied, pointing to Mrs Danquah. “And it was a peaceful campaign. No one was expected to die.”

“I told all of you when we began. What we are fighting for is not something we will get peacefully. Sacrifices will be made. People will die. Men will die.”

“I thought it was a joke,” Naa dei replied.

“Was I laughing?” Ama asked, her face stern and starved of any other expression.

“Can we all agree that you just hate men?” Mrs Danquah exclaimed.

“I don’t hate men; I just want to establish the right for us women to control our own lives, our businesses and if we have to use them, sacrifice some of them, then so be it.”

“What do we do now? We need to act fast, and time is not on our side.”

Ama walked to the shelf and picked up all the newspapers she could hold. “This is how we win.” She dumped the papers on the table.

“We use their weapons against them.” She pointed to the newspaper articles.

“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Danquah muttered.

“The newspapers are everywhere on the Gold Coast. People are already angry.  There is an economic slump, shortage of food, and rising unemployment, and the government has already begun cutting down cocoa trees affected by the swollen shoot disease, but they are not compensating the farmers. People are vexed, and we let them know who they are. We must spread the gospel of the Big Six everywhere. East, West, North and South. We need everyone to know of the Big Six and their sacrifices, such as going to prison to fight for their people’s freedom from the hands of Obroni. They must become heroes to everyone: men, women, children, and everyone. Stir up the chaos. Let everyone on the Gold Coast know that all these problems can be avoided if our rule is over us.”

“And how do you suppose we do that?” Agnes asked, and Naa dei laughed.

“We are women, and we will do what we do best. Every woman in Makola market would have heard this by nightfall; by the next morning, every man would have heard of the Big Six. Leave that to me.”

Hannah smiled. “I will take the gospel to Tarkwa and spread it to my fellow market women.”

The door behind them burst open, and Sophia entered. She was sweating profusely and breathing fast and hard.

“Good evening, sisters.” She greeted them as she walked towards a chair and threw herself into it. “They have moved them up to the northern part,” she said aloud. “But they are still alive.”

“Oh, thank God!” Mrs Danquah exclaimed.

There was a short and loaded silence, uncanny in the bustling city, and then Ama nodded.

“We needed a potential motive, and now we have one.”

Sophia cocked her tired, sweaty head to one side. “Huh?”

“We are sending a cable to the secretary of state in London.”

“And you think those fat white bastards will read a cable sent by some Ghanaian women?” Mrs Danquah chipped in.

“No, but they will read one sent by the Big Six. The leaders of the United Gold Coast Convention.”

“You want us to lie?” Mrs Danquah asked.

“More like feeding the beast.”

“If we are going to do this, we must do it tonight.” Naa dei added.

“No matter what happens, that cable has to be sent tonight.”

“Someone has to get to Efua Sutherland and tell her to craft that message and fax it tonight,” Sophia added. 

“Also, who among you is aware that Nkrumah has started plans for a new party, his party?” Naa dei asked.

“That’s impo—” The door flung open, and Hannah was cut short.

For a moment, they froze like cockroaches under a lamplight. They all turned to the door to meet a masculine figure holding a cutlass. The sharpened edge of the cutlass glistened under the light.

“This is where the plotting takes place, huh?” the man asked. His voice, low and gruff, showed no sign of alarm. He was tall and blond, and his skin was botched with freckles and sunburns. 

“Obroni, please, we are market women.” Naa dei stuttered.

“You are the brains and the support behind those men.” He said. “Killing you all would mean the end of whatever stupid idea you black monkeys have about freeing yourself.”

A bead of sweat trickled down Hannah’s face as the man’s eyes darted left to right. He scanned the room, towering over them at roughly six feet.

“Who are you?” Ama asked.

“You do not need to know my name. I am here on an assignment, and I always finish my assignments.” 

Ama made for the window in an attempt to escape. The strategy, as it turned out, was futile. The white man ran to her before she reached the window and seized her by the scuff of her neck.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he sneered.

“We are innocent women,” Ama replied. Her voice was shaky from fear.

“That you are.” He lifted her and threw her towards the bookshelf. She landed on her side, bruising her ribs.

He shut the door and barked an order. They froze with fear.

“Move out to that corner!” he cried out. “Sit down!” The women all sat down. Hannah’s heart leapt as tears came to her eyes. She glanced at Agnes, who met her eyes, her face blank. The fear held her frozen to the floor. She looked nervously past her to the door behind him.

The man smiled. “Don’t worry, we won’t be interrupted. I made sure of it.

“So, now that I have captured your attention, I want only answers. First question, who are those funding UGCC and what—”

Naa dei grabbed the wooden statue of Yaa Asantewaa and flung it at him. The man raised his cutlass and hit it immediately. Before he could React, Hannah leapt into the air and lunged at him, knocking him onto the ground. The cutlass fell out of his hands. Mrs Danquah Immediately grabbed it, and as the man got up, she lifted it, striking him in the chest. He rocked back, momentarily awkward, like a baby bird. He went over backwards, fell and lay in his pool of blood. Mrs. Danquah dropped the cutlass and sighed. She wiped her brows with her kaba. She turned to her sister. 

“What do we do with him?” Agnes asked.

“Is he dead?” Mrs. Danquah asked.

Her legs trembling, and her breath short. The rush of adrenaline had long left her body. She stood there in the room, ossified by terror. The fear was enough to loosen her grip on the bloody cutlass that was held tight in her right hand.

“What just happened…I killed a person? I just…killed a human being.” The blood of the victim, whom they did not even know, drew crimson red maps all over the floor as they observed with trembling hands under the dim light. Mrs. Danquah let out a sob. She felt as if it would consume her whole self. Hannah tried to shake off the feeling by wiping her hands off her clothes, but it was in vain. 

“Wipe those tears from your faces,” Ama chided them. “This was no fault of ours. He came here to kill us. We only did what we had to do to survive.” She turned to her friends, still cradling her bruised ribs. “This is a secret that we will carry to our graves.”

“How do we get rid of him?” Hannah asked. “We cannot take him out of here. An unconscious white man and six black women? People will talk.”

“We burn him,” Mrs. Danquah answered. Her voice had changed, now charged and emotionless.      

 “People are already burning down stores that belong to Obroni.  Burning this place down will make no difference. We burn this house down with him inside.”

Hannah turned to Agnes. “Agnes, bring the matches and kerosene.”

Agnes walked to a shelf and came back with matches and kerosene.

Hannah took it from her and sprinkled the kerosene onto the books, pictures and tables. She poured the rest onto the body. She took the matches and struck it. Bright orange flames came to life. She stared at it before dropping it onto the kerosene-soaked books. Immediately, flames licked at the books, and fire roared from within the house. The women rushed out.

Ama turned to Sophia and Naa dei. “Go now! No matter what happens, that cable has to be sent! Now!” 

The two women exchanged resolute looks, a silent conversation between them. With a nod, they turned and sprinted into the inky night. The fire moved quickly through the building, a one-story wood-frame structure. Flames spread along the walls, bursting through doorways, blistering paint, tiles, and furniture. Smoke pressed against the ceiling and then banked downward, seeping into each room and through crevices in the windows, staining the morning sky.

Ghosts of smoke drifted across the street. They smelled it. It was not heavy, but it had a pungent smell. Hannah started to cough as the smoke enfolded them. The air surrounding them was becoming less breathable by the second. Her mouth was filled with the bitter taste of the smoke. She wanted a draught of clean air to rinse out her polluted lungs. The cough aggravated the pain in her head. Her eyes were becoming puffy and watery. Soon after, the fire got entirely out of control as the house was engulfed. But she could not leave. They needed to wait and make sure the body was completely burned. 

Nothing inside was likely to survive.  Sophia, Theresa, Efua and Naa Dei soon returned. 

Ama turned to them and hugged them.

Efua was the first to speak. “Are you okay?” she asked Ama. 

“Yes. I will be,” Ama replied. 

“Were you able to send it?” Hannah asked. 

“Yes,” was Sophia’s reply. 

Hannah turned to Agnes. “Our papers, pictures, everything. Proof of our organisation’s existence, everything with our names, is in there. Wasn’t there another way to get rid of him?”

“No, there was no other way,” said Agnes 

“What if they find out?” Naa Dei asked. “They will take us all to prison.”

“No one will find out if we don’t say anything.”

A heavy silence followed. They stood by each other and watched as the house burned.

“Do you think they will remember us, our sacrifices? Do you think they will write about us in the newspapers and books like they do to Nkrumah and the others?”

Ama chuckled. “We are women. When has history ever been kind to us?”

Voices rose out of the darkness as people ran towards the fire.

“Ogya! Ogya! Ogya!” People shouted as they ran helter-skelter. Fire! Fire! Fire! The house had completely burned to a crisp. Nothing but ash remained.

Ama turned to the other women. “Let’s get out of here,” Ama uttered. A sense of urgency enveloped the group, and they took to their heels. They melted into the shadows, their determined strides echoing into the night as they disappeared from view, leaving only the whisper of their footsteps fading into the darkness.

---

Benjamin Cyril Arthur is a University of Cape Coast graduate with a bachelor’s in English and linguistics and works as a Chinese translator. He was the first runner-up in poetry in the 2020 Samira Bawumia Literary Prize competition, published in the anthology All Ghana a Stage. His poems and short stories have also appeared in Tampered Press, Lunaris Review, Ghana Pride anthology and Ama Atta Aidoo Centre for Creative Writing.