By Alex Asiedu
Thirty-Seven Years
Thirty seven years ago I watched, starry eyed, as my hosts breezed through Copenhagen’s roads to my new home for a year as an exchange student. I had always wanted to be a doctor, a lawyer or an engineer, as young kids then were told to be. I wasn’t sure. But Denmark, and Scandinavia, changed me.
The streetlights stayed on. The neon was bright and lovely. The grass was green and the streets were clean. There were paved ways for cyclists and a quiet refusal of litter. Chai, I thought, what made this part of the Earth seemingly more livable than my beloved Ghana? Seemingly, because they had won on governance and infrastructure, but at home we were still strong on family, community and closeness to nature. I desperately wanted to one day claim that we had caught up on the governance bit. Not then, but soon.
And so I switched to study Economics back in Ghana, to decipher what made countries rich and what kept them poor, and to help in the race to catch up.
Denmark then: 5 million, around 27,000 dollars per head. Ghana: 14 million, under 400 dollars.
This week I walked the streets of Gothenburg, which might well be Copenhagen. The roads are paved, the streets tree lined, the litter still absent, and most people can buy their next meal. Denmark today: 6 million, about 77,000 dollars per head. Ghana: 36 million, about 3,300 dollars. The ratio has narrowed. The gap, in actual dollars, has nearly tripled. I am in Sweden, not Denmark, but Sweden’s numbers tell the same story.
On what makes modern economies work, governance, wealth creation, strong institutions, the systematic containment of greed, they moved forward. We almost marked time.
We, and much of the continent, now seem freer. Our middle class is larger, our workforce more educated. But our politics is more winner takes all than Ghana first. Our rivers are brown, poisoned by galamsey. Our middle class seems locked in a slow grand dance with the political class; allow us to cut corners to our selfish convenience while we allow you to steal. Our roads are literally from hell, well, a lot of them. Drive through Accra’s outskirts for an hour and your smart watch will say you’ve done ten thousand steps. The potholes make it think you are walking.
Thirty seven years ago I had hope that we would catch up in my lifetime. Walking Gothenburg today, I am almost resigned: my generation may not see that dream. We have quietly hedged our bets, educating our children abroad and encouraging them to stay.
Because we are no longer sure.
Even when we build oases of excellence in our maddeningly lovable and yet chaotic setting, the surroundings threaten to swallow them. All we have left is hope, and a fading refrain to those who care to hear: that one day we, our country, our continent, will rise and take our proud place in history.
By then, we may be gone.
And yet we will plant. For a society whose old still plant trees, in whose shade they may never sit, holds out hope.
