It’s been ten years already. A decade since that dark day in Accra etched itself into our national memory, June 3, 2015. A day when fire and flood swallowed hope and lives, leaving charred ruins and weeping hearts behind.
I remember it vividly because I was there, but I escaped it.
That fateful afternoon, I had gone to Tudu to do some window shopping. I was new in Accra then, fresh from high school in the Volta Region, working as a house help to fend for myself. Exploring the city was my way of escaping the loneliness of relocation.
It was around 4 pm when the skies darkened. The clouds gathered, heavier than they had been on June 2nd, which had already brought a generous share of rainfall. I decided not to wait for the heavens to open. I boarded a “troski” from Tudu to Kwame Nkrumah Circle, intending to walk home to Kokomlemle from there.
When the bus reached the Champion bus stop, I alighted, knowing that I was closer to Car Price, near my home. As a newcomer, I was still mastering the geography of Accra. I had also hoped to buy a pair of slippers at Circle.
The rain had begun to drizzle as I walked towards the GCB Bank branch near the Total fuel station. Soon, the drizzle grew into a biting downpour, forcing me to seek shelter under a structure directly opposite the fuel station.
I wasn’t the only one. Others stood there too, some waiting for public transport, others for the rain to subside. Fuel attendants bustled about, serving the cars that occasionally braved the storm.
Minutes passed. I checked my phone, it was already 5 pm. Anxiety surged within me. My madam, a firm, no-nonsense woman, would be home by 5:30.
If I weren’t there to open the gate, I risked more than a scolding. My job, my roof, my daily bread, all could vanish with one wrong move.
So, with fear of her anger outweighing the discomfort of the rain, I stepped out. I walked briskly through the torrent, soaked like bread dipped in water, towards the road that leads to Joy FM. By God’s grace, I made it home within 30 minutes, drenched but safe.
Not long after, Madam arrived, and I had barely changed into dry clothes when I heard what I thought was thunder. But this was no lightning strike. The sounds were deeper, more sinister.
Later that night, around 8 pm, I stepped outside. Smoke billowed into the sky from where I stood. My neighbourhood, being close to Joy FM, gave me a clear view of the unfolding horror. Still, I had no idea of the magnitude of what had happened until the next day.
When the morning news broke, I saw it. The structure where I had taken shelter, gone. The GCB Bank, charred. The Total filling station, engulfed in flames. The images on television took my breath away.
That could have been me. I stood there minutes ago before it exploded into an inferno. My heart thudded. God had spared me.
I told my madam, and even she was shocked. She warned me never to go out again without her permission. I didn’t argue.
Later that day, calls poured in. My mother, distraught, after she had seen the terrifying footage on television. She knew I lived around Circle.
Her calls had gone unanswered the night before due to my heavy chores after the rain. She was frantic, fearing the worst. When I finally told her the truth, she could only thank God. I know her prayers that week were soaked in gratitude.
But what would the news have been at home, had I not returned?
“Albert is gone…”
“Oh, I spoke to him just this morning…”
“He said he was working in Accra to save for his WAEC certificate…”
Those are the words they would have said at my funeral, that’s if my remains will be identified.
But I lived. I lived to tell the story.
A hustler’s reality
I didn’t come to Accra to enjoy life. I came to hustle. To work. To survive. Like so many young Ghanaians, I had no other option. After secondary school, without support to pursue further education, I had to make it my way.
It hurts me to admit it, but if someone had stepped in, if a sponsor or mentor had offered a helping hand, maybe I wouldn’t have risked my life in that storm, in that city, in that near tragedy.
Still, I am grateful. I didn’t die in the June 3 disaster. And I pray no one dies prematurely while hustling just to stay afloat. Let our dreams not end in the ditches of floodwater or flames of neglect.
Lessons learnt
Some bosses can be unbearable, and mine certainly was. A woman of steel, she did not tolerate delay or excuses. At the time, I thought she was wicked.
But in hindsight, it was the fear of her reaction that saved me. Had she been lenient or friendly, I might have stayed longer under that shelter, waiting for the rain to stop, waiting to die.
Her strictness forced me to act. Her harshness saved my life. Sometimes, we must draw strength even from what seems to break us.
A call to action
I am no architect or urban planner, but I must lend my voice.
Flooding in Accra is not a new phenomenon. An old newspaper from 18th April 1960 bore the headline, “When the Rains Came to Accra,” by the Daily Graphic. That tells you this is not a modern issue. It is a persistent one.
We must stop treating floods as unfortunate accidents. They are consequences of poor planning, failed enforcement, and unchecked congestion.
It is time to decongest the capital. Move industries, offices, and residential settlements to the outskirts. Let ministries decentralise. Let universities build regional campuses.
Tackle rural-urban migration not with speeches but with opportunity. Build factories in every region. Distribute jobs across the country. Create reasons for young people to stay in their hometowns. Let the dream not begin and end in Accra.
Let us stop building on waterways and Ramsar sites. Let Accra breathe.
Let the rains come, but let them pass gently, without drowning lives, without igniting tragedy.
May the memory of the June 3 victims be a solemn reminder that this nation must do better. And may our collective hustle be blessed, not buried.
The writer, Albert Kuzor, is a Multimedia Journalist.
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DISCLAIMER: The Views, Comments, Opinions, Contributions and Statements made by Readers and Contributors on this platform do not necessarily represent the views or policy of Multimedia Group Limited.
