By: Shirley Haizel-Ferguson
It was the scent that lingered in my memory, the warm nostalgic aroma of rice and beans infused with the earthy aroma of millet leaves, with steam curling upward like a quiet promise.
Waakye is not just food, it is tradition, dressed in a regal palette of reddish-brown and deep maroon, wearing its heritage with pride, especially when wrapped in those broad green katemfe leaves.
But on that dawn in Nairobi, I craved for that in vain. No katemfe leaf, no waakye, just exhaustion and a snack run, after touching down at Jomo Kenyatta Airport. I walked into a small mart, grabbed a few items, and approached the counter. The cashier returned my card after payment… and then, nothing. No bag. No movement.
Just an awkward silence thick enough to slice with a plastic knife, if she had given me one. It was not until the driver, who had accompanied me into the mall, said softly, “They banned single-use plastics here,” that I realized: I was in a country where even buying biscuits and a fruit juice came with principles.
That was my first night in Kenya, but also my first personal confrontation with a life without plastic convenience. And suddenly, waakye wrapped in katemfe leaf felt revolutionary.
Over the next few days, the absence of plastic was not just policy—it was lived culture. No bags flying like ghosts from the trees, no clogged gutters silently preparing for their next flood. Malls offered reusable bags for large purchases, but most people carried what they could. It wasn’t perfect, but it was powerful. A small inconvenience in exchange for cleaner streets, clearer minds.
Back in Ghana, the contrast is sharp. We produce over 840,000 tonnes of plastic waste annually, and only a 9.5% is recycled. Drains choke. Floods worsen. Our water bodies, rather than being a source of life, are now cradling synthetic death. Still, I wonder: why does it feel so hard to part with plastic, when we once fed entire cities on leaves and eco-friendly packages?
I remember Amalia’s waakye at Dagomba House in the heart of Sekondi Maxwell Road. Not in Styrofoam. Not in a ‘rubber’. But laid in vibrant green leaves, warm and fragrant, with the talia, gari, wele, egg and any of the available accompaniments who can think of. Our culture knew sustainability long before policy did. Then convenience arrived—and with it, forgetfulness.
But something is shifting again.
The other day, I told my kids we were ordering waakye for dinner. Without missing a beat, my five-year-old chimed in, “Mummy, I hope it won’t come in a pack—tell them to use the waakye leaves.” I could not help but smile. I was not surprised. That term at school, they had been learning about plastic waste and recycling, and the lessons had clearly stuck. These young minds were not only absorbing the knowledge, but they were also embracing the responsibility of caring for the environment. Just like that, I knew. The future isn’t somewhere far ahead—it’s already in our homes, sitting at the dinner table, asking for leaves over plastic.
Ghana’s journey toward environmental responsibility would not be solved with leaf-wrapped meals alone. But each small act, each waakye leaf unwrapped with pride, is a reminder that our solutions might already exist, buried in the very traditions we once held dear.
As the approach the second quarter of the year, and we remember the promises of World Environment Day, maybe the most radical thing we can do… is go back. Back to the leaves. Back to the wisdom of our forebears. Back to the morning waakye that smelled like hope and sustainability.
