Obroni Wawu: How Ghana Became the World’s Wardrobe, and Its Wastebasket
At dawn, Kantamanto wakes before Accra does. Before the sun fully lifts its head over Accra, Kantamanto is already awake. The sky hangs bruised blue as the first trucks rumble in, heavy with tightly bound bales, each one packed with hundreds of garments from faraway homes. Knives flicker, ropes give way, and clothes spill onto the ground: denim, lace, cotton, polyester, the second lives of millions unfolding at once. Women squat low, knees bent, backs curved, hands flying, because because here munyi nu low, munshe nu high, buy it cheap and wear it with pride. The early bird does not catch the worm, it catches quality. This is why they call it Ben Down Boutique. You don’t stroll here. You bend, you search, you hope, because by the time the sun rises, the best stories will already be worn by someone else. By 5 a.m., the best pieces are already gone. Joyce has been here for 27 years. She can tell the quality of a bale by how heavy it feels. “The old ones,” she says, “they were ...
