Ghana, the Land of “Akwaaba”: Famous for Hospitality, Feared for Customer Service

Ghana is the world capital of hospitality. This is not up for debate. We smile easily. We greet passionately. We wave at strangers. Every other sentence begins, ends, or is emotionally supported by the word “please”, and we end conversation with chief, Boss, Madam even Daddy and Mummy gets thrown in if you appear to be older than the person speaking to you; all this just to make sure nobody feels unloved. 

We are so polite that if a Ghanaian accidentally steps on your toe, you might be the one apologizing for putting your foot in his way.

And therein lies the paradox. We are globally renowned for our hospitality, yet we suffer from a national deficiency in Customer Service. It is a baffling contradiction. How can a people so culturally wired to be polite struggle so mightily to be helpful?

How did we master courtesy but fail at competence? How did “please” become decorative instead of functional?

Entering a Ghanaian business these days is less of an experience and more of a suspense movie. You never know what you are about to suffer

There is a glorious disconnect between our culture and our commerce. 

We will give a stranger our last bowl of fufu in the village, but put that same Ghanaian behind a reception desk, and suddenly you are an intruder disturbing their peace. We have become a nation of traumatized customers, huddled together in our misery, consoling ourselves with our national anthems of mediocrity: “E be Ghana we dey” (It is what it is), “Fa ma Nyame” (Give it to God), and the classic surrender flag, “We will take it like that.” And because this struggle has lasted for so long, Ghanaians now walk into any service environment emotionally pre-disappointed. We don’t hope anymore. We brace ourselves.

Why does it seem simpler to summon the holy spirit than to summon a waiter? And why do we approach customer service counters like we are about to beg for a favour, not pay for a service?

The Makola Exception: The Ivy League of Hustle

Before we descend into the abyss of corporate incompetence, let us give credit where it is due. There is a place where customer service is not just good; it is platinum-tier, ISO-certified magic. It exists in the chaotic, sweating heart of Makola Market and the denim maze of Kantamanto.

Here, customer service is a tactical weapon used to teleport money from your purse directly into the vendor’s pocket.

Walk into a stall in Makola. The woman doesn’t have what you want. Does she say “Go away”? No. She pulls out a plastic chair. She angles a rusty standing fan directly at your sweating face. She cracks open a cold Malt drink and hands it to you.

Why? Because the sugar and the cold air are designed to replenish your energy and soften your death grip on your wallet.  She treats you like a visiting dignitary. Then, she sprints… literally sprints… to a competitor’s shop three lanes away to find the exact item you need, (remember she only has 5 minutes until you gulp down that refreshing drink), she marks up the price by 20% for her “consultancy fee,” and sells it to you.

This is a level of service excellence that the Western world, with all their ISO/TS 24082 standards, cannot match. It is aggressive, it is manipulative, and it is absolutely beautiful.

Now, let’s look at the rest of the country, where that spirit goes to die.

Let’s dissect the real-life anatomy of our suffering, turning everyday frustrations into sarcasm-fueled lessons. Each scenario shows the default Ghanaian script versus how the dream of good customer service could rewrite it.

1. The Police Stop: The Unauthorized Toll Booth

The Reality:

You are driving home. You see the flashlight. Your heart drops. You aren’t a criminal. You haven’t sped. You haven’t run a red light. But your heart still pounds like you are smuggling plutonium.

The officer walks up. He doesn’t look at your license; he looks at your dreadlocks. He listens to the Amapiano playing in your car.

“Where are you going? Why is your eye red? Please, park well.”

“Chief, have you taken something?”

You deny it. He walks around the car looking for anything… a scratch, a dent, a tire that looks “depressed.” He asks to see your fire extinguisher. You show him. He checks the expiry date with the precision of a nuclear physicist. It is valid. He looks disappointed.

Finally, the real conversation begins, I mean the “Hospitality” kicks in.

“Oh Chief, the night is cold. Your boys are thirsty. Anything for the boys? Just find us something small for water.”

You realize this isn’t a security checkpoint; it is a fundraiser. You are not just a citizen; you are a mobile ATM.

The Dream:

The officer waves you down. “Good evening, sir. Just a routine check.” He looks at your license. It’s valid. “Everything looks good. That’s a nice song, by the way. Drive safely, the road ahead is a bit dark. And there’s a pothole ahead so be careful” You drive away feeling protected, not harassed. No begging. No intimidation. Just service and safety. (I know, I know, stop laughing. We can dream.)

2. The Restaurant: The Hunger Games

The Reality:

You walk in. The waiters are gathered in a corner, discussing the latest episode of a telenovela or a TikTok trend. You sit down. You become invisible. You are now a piece of furniture or a decorative plant.

You wave. You make signals like a plane landing at Kotoka, that doesn’t get you noticed, then you wave frantically like a Titanic shipwreck survivor, finally! A waiter sighs, peels herself off the wall, and approaches you like she is doing you a favor by acknowledging your existence.

You: What do you recommend? 

Waiter: Everything is nice. This is a lie.

Wait a minute…”Nice”  is not a description. Nice is a personality trait.

You ask about spice levels. They say: “It’s okay.”

Okay is not a measurement.

You ask what’s popular. They say: “People buy it.”

People also buy mosquito coils. That doesn’t make them delicious.

The funniest part is when they recommend a dish they have never tasted. They sell it with confidence, like a motivational speaker who has never succeeded.

“It’s very nice, you will like it.”

You order the Grilled Salmon.

She says: “Oh, Salmon is finished.”

You order the Steak.

She says: “Steak is finished.”

You realize the menu is not a list of available food; it is a list of theoretical concepts. It is a wish list.

You settle for Jollof. 

30 minutes passes, You hallucinate from hunger. It arrives 45 minutes later, cold, the chicken is hard enough to be used as a construction material, it came with a side of coleslaw that looks like a background actor for a low budget movie. When you complain, she looks at you with shock and pity. “Oh, is it cold? Let me get them to microwave it.”

The bill arrives, charging you for a cocktail you never saw.

You pay. You say “Thank you.” You hate yourself and vow never to go back, but all other restaurants operate from the same handbook.

The Dream:

You sit. A waiter appears instantly. “Welcome! I’m sorry, we are out of Salmon today, but the Grouper is fresh and fantastic.” They write the order down. They bring it hot. They smile. You pay the bill without feeling like you’ve been scammed and leave a big tip because you are actually impressed that this is happening in Ghana.

3. The Hospital: The “Do You Know Who I Am?” Game

The Reality:

You are sick. You are dying. You walk into the ER. The nurses are eating kenkey behind the counter. They do not look up.

You say, “Please, I need help.”

One of them points to a bench with her pouted lips without looking at you. “Sit down. Doctor is coming.”

“Coming” in Ghana is a relative term. It could mean 5 minutes; it could mean the Second Coming of Christ.

You ask a question. They sigh.

You ask for clarification. They sigh harder. Now you are sick and ashamed.

You sit there, fading away, until you remember the Ghanaian Survival Code: Protocol! You pull out your phone. You call your uncle who went to school with the Hospital Administrator.

Suddenly, a call comes through to the desk. The mood shifts. The nurses rush to you. “Oh, Daddy, why didn’t you say you know Dr. Mensah? Please come this way!”

In Ghana, your vitals don’t save you; your contacts list does.

The Dream:

Triage is based on pain, not connections. The nurse sees you suffering, drops the kenkey, and rushes to help because empathy dictates that a human life is more important than lunch.

4. The Security Guard: The Mini Dictator

The Reality:

Some security guards in Ghana guard nothing but their mood.

You arrive at a bank or office. The security guard is standing there. He has been given a uniform and a clipboard, and he intends to use them to compensate for every disappointment in his life.

He doesn’t just open the gate; he grants you access to his kingdom. He frowns, barks orders, and treats visitors like potential invaders. He believes his job is not to just secure the premises, but to humble the population.

“Hey, Madam, Please, where are you going? Park there! No, not there! Back! Back!”

He screams at you like you are a rebellious toddler. He demands you sign a book, with a BiC pen that is missing it’s housing, it’s just a tube of ink with a nib, and you can bearly hold it because you have nail extensions. He treats you like a suspect until proven wealthy. He is the CEO of the Parking Lot, and you are his subject.

The Dream:

He smiles. “Good morning, Madam. Please park in slot 4. Let me help you reverse.” He opens the door. He understands that he is the first point of contact for the business, not a bouncer at a nightclub.

5. The Civil Servant: The “System is Down” Symphony

The Reality:

You go to get a passport or a license. You arrive at 7 AM. The office opens at 8 AM. The officer strolls in at 9:15 AM, picking his teeth.

You get to the front. You ask a question.

“Go and bring photocopies.”

You bring them.

“Go and buy a folder.”

You buy it.

He looks at your form. He looks at you. He looks at the ceiling.

“The network is down.”

Or the classic: “Go and come tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow”

Tomorrow becomes next week. It implies a future that may never arrive. If you persist, the final boss move is unleashed: “My friend, who sent you?” Who sent you becomes “Go and sit somewhere.”

You start ageing in the chair.

Your beard grows (even if you are a woman). Your dreams fade and you develop the kind of patience you never asked for.

 You ask for directions on what to do next. He points vaguely at the ceiling and says, “Go straight.” As you are reading this you are either nodding in agreement or rolling in the floor laughing because I have just described your recent experience and thinking of who to share this article with.

The Dream:

“Good morning. The network is a bit slow, but let me manually process your form so you don’t have to wait.” They value your time. Because time is not a renewable resource.

They treat “Public Service” as service to the public, not punishment of the public.

Now, The Diagnosis: Unintentional Mediocrity

Why is this our reality? Are Ghanaian service workers wicked? Are they plotting our demise?

No!

Why is it like this? Why can the woman in Makola treat you like a king, but the waiter in Osu treats you like a beggar?

Most are decent, hardworking people. They are not trying to be difficult. The tragedy is simpler and sadder: They simply don’t know what good customer service looks like.

It is a culture of unintentional mediocrity.

It’s like asking someone who has only eaten plain rice their entire life to describe a buffet. They will say, “It is nice.”

They don’t have reference points.

Think about asking for directions in Accra. You roll down your window. The kind stranger points vaguely at the horizon and says, “Go straight.”

They want to help. But they lack the precision to tell you to “turn right at the blue kiosk, then left after the gutter.” They leave you more lost than before, but they did it with a smile.

It is the same with the waiter recommending the salmon. He isn’t lying to trick you; he is operating in a vacuum. He has never tasted the salmon. Product Knowledge is zero.

The waiter recommending the “Honey Glazed Salmon” has never tasted it. He suspects it is fish. That is the extent of his knowledge. He is winging it. He has never been trained to ask the chef what it tastes like. He relies on the default Ghanaian setting: Politeness without substance.

We suffer from a culture of Unintentional Mediocrity.

Many of them were raised in systems where: Authority shouts. Customers beg. Workers endure. Excellence is suspicious.

Service is Shame: Serving people is seen as “boy-boy” work, not a profession. So service providers minimise themselves and minimise their ability to serve.

Survival is king. When life is choking you with bills and inflation, empathy becomes a distant rumour. A two-hour wait? Not your problem. Cold soup? Character building. Delayed service? See you tomorrow. You are not heartless. You are just exhausted, underpaid, and fighting for economic oxygen.

Think of it this way: if you are driving a trotro with broken suspension, bald tyres, and a fuel guage that reads like a political promise, your priority is not passenger comfort. You are not aiming for a smooth ride. You are just trying to make it to the station without meeting your ancestors. Comfort is a luxury. Survival is the assignment.

It boils down to trauma, and  trauma travels.

The waiter was shouted at by his boss. The nurse was disrespected by the doctor. The policeman is broke. They project that misery onto you. It’s a relay race of unhappiness, and you just took the baton.

So, we end up with a workforce that is kind but clumsy. Warm but inefficient. We have “Hospitality” in our DNA, but our “Customer Service” software hasn’t been updated since 1957.

The Cure (And a Business Idea for the Brave)

This tragedy is actually an opportunity.

This can change. Customer service is not a spiritual gift; it is a skill. It can be drilled into people.

Imagine if we took the hustle and attentiveness of the Makola woman and combined it with the polish of a corporate environment?

Empathy can be taught. “How to smile when you are tired” can be trained.

If someone is brave enough to start a hardcore Customer Service Training Academy or a Mystery Shopping agency in Ghana, they will be a billionaire. (Or they will go bald from stress, but it’s a risk worth taking).

Imagine teaching a generation of Ghanaian workers one simple golden rule:

“Treat the customer the way you want to be treated when you go to the passport office.”

If we can fix this, we will be unstoppable. Ghana has the hardware, which is the smiles, the “Akwaaba,” the peace. We just need to upgrade the operating system. We are running on Windows 95, and the world is on Windows 11.

Until that upgrade happens whenever you leave the house, carry your patience, your charger, and “something small for the boys.”