When I was 20, I ended up in Accra, Ghana, working as an IT consultant due to my experience in a similar situation in Lagos. My memories of the city are shrouded in darkness, not because of any sinister undertones, but simply because I arrived late in the evening. My accommodation was a colonial-style two-storey house within a walled compound, a residence of one of the ex-pats from the company I was assisting. The house boasted a wrap-around balcony on the second floor, a perfect spot for the resident Rhodesian Ridgeback to chase the light from a laser pointer, a peculiar way of walking a dog that remains etched in my memory.

My work involved setting up an IT system for a shipping company, a task that had me working closely with the local IT manager. He was a pleasant chap, albeit fervently Christian, and our professional relationship extended to him sending me emails about Jesus long after my assignment was over.

The food was good, comforting in its West African familiarity, and added a layer of warmth to my brief sojourn in Accra. One particular memory that stands out is a late-night drive back from a local bar with a snooker table, when we were stopped by the police on the lookout for a criminal. It was a routine encounter, a common occurrence in West Africa at that time.