How surfing is challenging tradition in a Ghanaian town

Featured in Surfer magazine, the article titled 'Africa - Home of Surfing?' depicted a heavy-handed caricature of a tribesman hauling a surfboard from the waves. Penned in the 1960s, it resurfaced nearly 60 years later when colleague Sarah Hughen shared it with Ben Lalande via Instagram, sparking contemplation among the filmmakers.

A few months later, in Busua, a quaint Ghanaian fishing town, their lens focused on surfers drifting in the Atlantic amidst the ethereal blue morning light. As the vintage article elucidated, this coastal scene has roots stretching back centuries. Yet, within the images they captured, a new narrative unfolded.

In this tableau, all the surfers were female—a departure from tradition. And in Ghana, this departure is forging a new wave of change.

"Once, I went surfing and my mother beat me with a pan," Vanessa Turkson reminisces, a smile gracing her lips as she sways gently in a low-slung hammock.

"She kept saying, 'I don't want to lose you.'"

Another friend shares how her own parents would meticulously inspect her feet for traces of sand, ready to mete out punishment if they found any.

Their concerns weren't unfounded. The sea commands respect. Off the coast of Ghana, the Gulf of Guinea churns with treacherous currents, and until two decades ago, swimming skills were rare, particularly in Busua.

The ocean sustains livelihoods—tuna fishing is vital to Busua's economy—but it also claims lives. Every few months, another body would wash ashore.

Parents harbored genuine fears for their daughters, yet these fears were compounded by gender bias.

While they restricted their daughters from the beach, their sons learned to conquer the local waves, transforming Busua into one of Ghana's premier surfing destinations.

Justice Kwofie lies at the epicenter of Busua's vibrant scene, spearheading a surf school alongside his six brothers.

Observing the entrenched gender divide that confined girls to domestic chores after school—cooking, assisting their parents, and tending to the land—Kwofie resolved to dismantle it.

"I lost both my parents at a young age and was raised by my grandmother," he recounts. "After she passed, another woman cared for me, and now my surf shop is sustained by a woman."

Recognizing the relentless toil shouldered by women across Africa, Kwofie asserts, "It shouldn't be solely the men on the beach while their sisters labor at home. We must take action to integrate girls into our community."

Five years ago, Kwofie and his brothers launched a program called Black Girls Surf, aimed at teaching female surfers to swim and ride waves.

Turkson, once chased around the kitchen by her mother wielding a pan, was among those who persuaded her parents to allow her to participate.

Through the program, she not only learned to surf but also gained much more.

"I feel joy when I'm out in the water with my friends, chatting and enjoying ourselves," she expresses, her smile radiant. "And when I'm standing on the board, it feels like I'm flying.

"It brings me comfort, relieving my stress. Anyone can surf; it's like dancing.

"Surfing has taught me that in the past, they said only boys could surf, not girls. Now I know that whatever a man can do, a woman can do better!"

Kwofie notes a decline in teenage pregnancies in Busua since the establishment of Obibini club, Ghana's sole female surf club, providing young women with a space to engage in recreation, learning, and socializing.

This club is emblematic of a burgeoning scene that has emerged after decades of dormancy in certain parts of Africa.

Since the publication of the Surfer article, evidence supporting the notion that surfing independently evolved in Africa, rather than being imported from Polynesia, California, or elsewhere, has continued to mount.

One notable account comes from a Scottish soldier stationed 150 miles up the coast from Busua at Accra in 1834. James Alexander documented an unfamiliar activity that intrigued him.

"From the beach, meanwhile, might be seen boys swimming into the sea, with light boards under their stomachs," he penned in his diary. "They waited for a surf; and came rolling like a cloud on top of it."

Busua's contemporary narrative, characterized by empowerment and enhanced resources, has captivated filmmakers and photographers and has been commercialized by brands.

Sandy Alibo, the founder of Surf Ghana, an organization utilizing action sports to empower and educate youth while fostering the development of a sustainable surfing infrastructure, underscores the pragmatic reality underlying Busua's narrative.

"Money is the primary concern in the village," she asserts. "Life is exceedingly challenging. People may earn 400-500 cedis (£26-£32) monthly. Every parent's priority is ensuring their daughter's well-being and securing a marriage to someone who can provide for them, and possibly the family as well.

"Surfing isn't a priority—it's still considered a luxury. Leisure time isn't even on the agenda. According to village tradition, women shouldn't venture outdoors. They attend school, return home, and assist their parents in household chores, end of story.

"I believe that if surfing can generate income, parents will be more receptive. I also promote skateboarding in Accra, and I've observed a notable shift as soon as it offers employment opportunities. That's what catalyzes change—direct and efficient action. If you're a surfer, you can find employment.

"That's the only way for the community to recognize the benefits of these initiatives."

Lalande and Hughen's acclaimed film champions a donation page, aiming to raise funds for essential resources such as equipment, teaching certifications, safety training, sex education, and menstrual supplies in Busua.

With backing from skatewear brand Vans, Alibo and Surf Ghana have spearheaded the establishment and unveiling of a new clubhouse in the town, providing young individuals with a central space to foster their community beyond the waves.

The movement is gaining momentum, and its impact is reverberating.

"When I see them riding the waves, it holds significant meaning for me," reflects Kwofie on the female surfers he once mentored. "It's monumental."