LEADERSHIP AND OUR HIDDEN SENSES By Kwasi Ntim Agyei

Leadership does not sit on a throne. It kneels. It listens. It serves.

(Ghanaian Proverb)

Some moments speak louder than words ever could. On a quiet, sacred morning in Assin Manso, as we walked the ancestral path, something beautiful happened after the emotional moments at the river side.

There he was, Uncle T, the founder and director of the Witness Tree Institute of Ghana kneeling and yes, one by one, gently, humbly, dipping his hand into the basin of Apunnuro (concoction of nyanya, salt and water) set aside for visitors after walking in the steps of the enslaved Africans to the Donkor River. The ritual of washing is often done by servers and servants in palaces and shrines. The basin is filled with a concoction used in rituals of protection for one’s spirit and considered a formidable spiritual shield against bad luck and evil spirits. The biological name of the plant in the basin is called Momordica Chantarantia, and today members of the Boa Me Witness Tree Institute Cohort of 2025, after visiting the riverside of Donkor Nsuo where pain, tragedy, and death once lined its banks, are going through a cleansing and fortification ritual administered by our leader.

This is not as a gesture of ceremony, but a language of love and humility, a lesson in silent leadership. Feet washing is a common practice with diverse cultural and spiritual meaning. It often reflects hospitality, humility and service. In some situations, it also allows for reconciliation and peacemaking.

As I waited my turn and watched our leader wash each foot, it touched something deep in me. Because real leadership does not command or demand respect. It is giving. It is not entrenched in raising your voice, but in lowering yourself so others may rise. This I was watching in real time.

Later, in the hush of reflection, after watching a stirring video presentation by Prof. Asare Opoku, I sat with a question. How many senses do we truly have? How are we using them? Like many, I have always believed in the classic five: touch, taste, smell, sight, hearing maybe even kinesthetic sense for the body aware. But that day, I learned something new. Or maybe, I remembered something ancient.

We are more than bones and breath. We are made of spirit (Sunsum), guided by soul (Okra), carried by body (Honam) and more. And these five senses? They serve only the body. But what of the senses that serve the spirit?

In that moment, something inside me stirred. I began to see with more than my eyes. I began to hear beyond sound. The sense of intuition, when your spirit knows before your mind can explain. The sense of empathy, when your heart beats for another’s pain. These feelings were greatly experienced during the Witness Tree Institute program.

The Witness Tree Institute Ghana is not just a professional development program.

It is a journey across time, across oceans of memory, into the inner chambers of oneself. It is also a spiritual and personal development journey. To lead is to serve. To teach is to touch the soul. To grow is to awaken all your senses not just the five “revealed” to you in school.

So here I stand, feet washed, spirit awakened, carrying more than memories. Carrying meaning. Lessons in humility, love, leadership and commitment. I am Kwasi and the journey with Witness Tree Institute has been more than a blessing for me. Medaase.

Kwasi Ntim Agyei is a teacher at Kpohe Basic School, Greater Accra, Ghana.

To Ghana, with love - by Melissa Braxton

My two weeks are coming to an end and I am reflecting on my time here. There are a few words that are at the forefront of my mind. The word that is most present for me right now is gratitude.
I am grateful to the most high for allowing me the opportunity to be in this place at this time.
I am grateful for the Earth, the history held in the ground, the water that nurtures, the plants that heal and the trees who bear witness to it all.
I am grateful for the rich history of my ancestors, mixed with triumphs, tragedies and so much wisdom.
I am grateful for my family who supported me to this trip, those who openly shared their knowledge and wisdom with us because they understand that knowledge must be collectively held and my cohort supporting me through the journey.

My next word is community. Our cohort picked an adinkra symbol to represent us and before even really knowing one another we picked a symbol that represents us perfectly: BOA MI NA MIN BOA WO. It translates to “Help me and let me help you.” Our sense of community was immediate while boarding the plane together and we’ve been building it ever since. We have worked together to create a Gracious Space so that we are able to have our individual experiences while having an experience as a whole. We have been stepping up for each other when needed and we have been mindful of stepping back to give others space when necessary.

And now I’ll talk about joy.
Our days have been busy, as we are trying to see and absorb so much before returning to our ‘normal’ lives. Something that sticks out to me is the joy I have seen and experienced being here. From the warm welcome ceremony we received with drumming and dancing, to the continuous singing and the children playing on the beach without a care in the world. In addition to the songs, laughter will be the soundtrack to these two weeks. Despite our cultural differences and the moments of grief we have felt mourning those who were mistreated during the trans-Atlantic slave trafficking and the anger we felt confronting the truth of those who were able to treat their fellow human being so horribly, we were able to remind one another of joy. I’ve laughed to tears more days than not and I have been reminded that when joy is sprinkled in your everyday traditions, while the flame may dim it will never die. And that if you feed it, it will be bold, bright and beautiful.

My time here has exceeded my expectations. I am at home while being away from home. I have been comfortably uncomfortable. I’ve uncovered questions that were obscured by the answers I thought I wanted. I’ve questioned my privileges as someone born and raised in the United States. After learning more about the accomplishments of people like Dr. Kwame Nkrumah (first president of Ghana) and Kwame Akoto-Bamfo (creator of  the Nkyinkyim Installation and Legacy Museum in Nuhalenya-Ada, Greater Accra) I am thinking about my legacy and the type of ancestor I would like to be, hoping I’ve been a descendant that has made mine proud.

Ghana, I will not go back to Brooklyn the same. Thank you for challenging me, teaching me and reminding me that I am always welcomed home. ODO NYERA FIE KWAN. Love never loses it’s way home.

xo - Ama (Twi day name given to female children born on Saturday)

Melissa Braxton is a Special Education teacher at International High School at Prospect Heights in Brooklyn, New York.

The Places that Speak by Madeline Vukson

Ghana is a place of restoration, community, and humanity. The Ghanaian energy of befriending and connectivity has found a part of me I thought was gone. My time here in Ghana has been shaped by my journey to search for healing, both internally and externally, for perspective, and for the relighting of a candle that has dimmed so low my heart is barely visible.

I view myself as a quiet observer, absorbing the sounds, smells, sights, and sounds that surround me. All places have a spirit and an energy. All things are symbolic and contain multitudes. The spirits and energies we bring to a place will either dance us into the night, or will call us the sounds of battle. Unfortunately, many of us and many places, are more accustomed to battle than to dance.

But not Ghana.

Ghana is dancing, singing, loving; a way of bringing joy and community into every space. All energies and spirits, past and present, contribute to the layers of beauty that exist in Ghana. Ghana has shown me that there can be a new way forward, new way to make sure not only is my candle lit but my heart is open and always leading with love.

The following are three poems I have written while in Ghana. They reflect the way the places have spoken to me, guided me, and provided me with gracious energy.

Donkor Nsuo
The silence swallows us whole.
Energy of clutching, yet paralyzing anticipation
drapes over us as a coat.

Can I do this? echoes throughout our minds.
Our varied histories have brought us here together
But our experiences will each have their own page in our shared novel.

The dirt and grass murmur as we walk, we are here to guide you.
The grass whispers to the dirt, their feet are softer but just as resilient.
The wind blows, I am here to provide comfort.
The tree whispers, maybe they too can heal as we have done.
The waves say, I am here! I am here! I have been waiting you. Min Boa Wo.

Together, the mosaic of nature reassure us of our choices, our healing, and our humanity.

The Ocean Reconciles
The thundering waves echo without the landscape of
car horns, sirens, and busy cities.
But this….
is not the thunder to frighten you, nor to capture you, nor to drown you in sorrow.

This thunder is to
heal you, to soothe your wounds,
to show you that you too can bear witness to the most vile acts against humanity,
but continue everyday,
That you too can provide sustainability, play, and peaceful sounds of laughter.
That you too can let go of all that pains you

I, the Atlantic
I can give the children water but I cannot give them their ancestors back.
I can give the children shells and soft sand but cannot soothe the pains of yesterday.
I can give comfort to the heart of the elders but only for this moment.

I can ensure humanity that I can bear their darkest truths but I cannot give them the courage to change, they must love as I do.

Ghana
Here we are celebrating, grieving, exploring the past, and believing in what could be,
Oh what a difference between what could have been… and what could be…

The hopeful beliefs float around our heads, hearts, and bodies.
We look to see your foundation, your strength in the soil that has seen so much pain.

Look up to the sky and you will see me.
Read a story and you will hear me.
We are never alone when our energies are so entwined.

The tree sings our sorrows but they also bring shade and comfort.
They see our struggle but continue to stand strong, unmovable from the brutality the world has unveiled.

Small sweat beads roll down our cheeks
as we listen to the bitter story with such
a forgiving narrator.

Through the crackling voice of others, we find our vulnerability,
the most unloved, vulnerable parts of us shattered like a pot.

What will bring the gold and silver to make us heal, reconcile,
and above all, love?

My heart is still beating, I am still breathing.
My heart has broken over and over but each break makes room for love
Do your breaks make room for love?
What will keep your heart open?

Madeline Vukson, teaches English Language Arts at Humboldt High School in St. Paul, Minnesota

Transcendental By Kristen Jackson

From the moment I landed in Ghana, I’ve been struggling to find the words to describe how I feel. When I’ve been asked, it’s easy to say I feel awestruck. That the people, culture, and customs are beautiful. That I’m humbled to be here. But those words and phrases don’t encapsulate what I’m actually feeling here. I’ve tried using the word “surreal”, but that doesn’t work either.

So, transcendental is my word. But before I move on, the teacher in me needs to define it. Quite simply, it means “relating to a spiritual realm, and that, indeed, is where I currently am. I’m in the spiritual realm.

I believe that phenomenal teachers have a spiritual calling to serve their students. This is not an easy job, so there has to be some sort of ethereal voice that leads us to serve. A spectacle and meaningful teacher is called by something in their heart and soul. It draws them into advocating and supporting their students, despite unimaginable challenges and obstacles. For example, my new Ghanaian friend, Seth, went months without receiving a paycheck. Even then, he continued to give his all (plus some) for the betterment of his students. This is transcendental.

I am in Ghana fulfilling my own spiritual calling within my teaching practice. As a teacher of African American Studies, I am compelled to ensure that ALL of my students are loved, honored, and seen. That ALL of my students are represented. That ALL of my students have the opportunity to grow and learn from the whole unadulterated story of humanity with love, empathy, and respect. I’ve learned here in Ghana that “knowledge is a baobob tree”. Not one person can wrap their hands around it. It takes a community to learn. My classroom wraps their hands around the baobob tree in the notion that everything is to be approached with humility, grace, and respect. On this trip, I’ve come to learn that this is called gracious space. In a time where these concepts feel so shaky and unstable in my own country, the calling to advocate for these basic components of humanity is undeniable, and yes, transcendental.

But for me, on a personal level, there’s even more transcendentalism here. Something I’ve been trying to reconcile and process rather privately. Please excuse my vulnerability, but it’s messy, and hard, and complicated, and emotional. So I think the best way to verbalize it is through a portion of my “I Am” poem.

Though I don’t look like it

I am a daughter of Africa

I am born of a Nigerian Grandmother or Grandfather

From 300 years ago

Undeniably forced across an ocean

Against all will

I am likely an only descendant

To step back on this continent

And thought history has forgotten them

And I will never know their name

I. Will not forget them.

I don’t share this to make a claim. Or to seek to identity with the strife that comes with diasporic heritage. Rather, I share this to illuminate the diasporic complexities that have embedded themselves in literally every corner of the world. And while I’ve been processing this internally, the spiritual and transcendent world has spoken to me here in Ghana. I am stunned by the beauty and awe of the natural world here. I feel at home in the forests. I know I’m being spoken to.

At the Donkor Nuso, I placed a leaf into the river, just as my new friends and family did. Meant to ease a burden, the leaf was to make a spiritual journey down the river. After I set my leaf free, I closed my eyes in silent prayer and meditation. But when I opened my eyes, I realized that river had returned the leaf to me. Rather than drifting downstream with the current, it caught an undercurrent and appeared back at my feet. I was clearly being beckoned, so I picked up the leaf again and waded farther into the river. With emotions high, I released the leaf into deeper waters, and this time, it was swiftly carried away. I’m certain this wasn’t a second chance or a “do over”. Instead, I believe the river gave me TWO chances to relieve my burdens. One “chance” for my teaching “soul”, and another chance for the soul of my distant relative.

We learned from Professor Pashington Obeng that community stretches to the past, present, and future. Here in Ghana, this transcendental realm, I am connected to a past community; my Nigerian ancestor. I am connected to a present community; my new Witness Tree friends and family. I am connected to a future community; my students.

Kristen Hall Jackson, AP African American Studies and AP US History teacher, Holly Springs, North Carolina

Be Like Water by Idris Abdul-Aziz

During my eight days I’ve been looking to see what will move me to write, and I have more than enough material, but there have been three events that have stood out to me.

Since childhood I’ve experienced motion sickness whenever I sit in the back of any moving vehicle: car, plane, bus or train.  Due to my height, 6’2”, I was able to negotiate for the navigator’s seat upfront.  During our trips I’ve noticed the drivers of cars, vans, okada, and motorbikes;  as well as walking people and animals (goats and chickens) moving fluidly without drawn lines in perfect harmony.  Of course you heard the honks and saw the flashing lights that either meant pass or hold up, which is a whole other way to communicate.

While on our visit to Assin Manso I was honored to walk the path of my ancestors barefoot as they did.  I was honored to have stepped into the waters that they once used as their last bath and during that time I stood and listened to the water.  The water, which was peaceful, has been known to be violent at times and I thank the Most High for the this opportunity.  Water has always taken the shape of whatever object that tries to contain or hold it.  My use of the Ancestral River was to send prayers and ask for blessings on behalf of my ancestros who can no longer ask for themselves.  As I laid my leaf into the river I saw how it was carried, I heard how the water sped up and then slowed down like an excited person’s heartbeat calming down.

Finally, I would Ike to highlight my beautiful Ghanaian colleagues who have shown us Americans how to be fluid when it comes to our “Planned Itinerary”.  They are some of the most laid back, easy going people I have been blessed to be around.  In America we get so consumed about schedules and being at certain places at specific times you can lose the beauty that’s right in front of our eyes.  We lose the humanity that’s within us because many of us are rude and callous.  I want to thank mi w)fa TeTe, mi baas - Phoebe and Olivia (Liv), mi b33mas - Dela, Eric, Kwasi, and Seth for being the teachers we needed.  I thank them for their patience and understanding; they are such kind souls and they deserve all the recognition thrown their way even though they will be gracious and deflect.  Me Dor Wo

My prayer in the dungeon at Cape Coast Castle

Eternal Spirit,

God of Justice and Mercy,

We come before You today with hearts heavy and humbled,

Standing on the sacred soil of Cape Coast,

At the foot of Cape Coast Castle—

A place where pain once echoed through stone and sea.

We remember the souls taken from this land,

Mothers and fathers, daughters and sons—

Names lost to time but never forgotten in spirit.

We honor those who walked through the Door of No Return,

Stripped of their homes, their languages, and their freedoms,

Yet never stripped of their dignity or divine worth.

May their cries never be in vain.

May their suffering stir in us compassion that moves beyond words,

Love that heals across generations,

And empathy that sees all people as kin.

To the ancestors, we say:

We see you.

We feel you.

We carry you.

For every child who never saw their homeland again,

For every elder whose wisdom was silenced by chains,

For every dream buried beneath waves—

We offer our tears, our prayers, and our commitment to remember.

Yet even in this sorrow,

We lift our eyes to the horizon with hope.

For out of this legacy of loss,

We rise with renewed purpose.

May we, the descendants and inheritors of this story,

Build a future rooted in justice, truth, and liberation.

May we walk boldly in the light of our ancestors,

Turning memory into movement, pain into purpose,

And brokenness into a more beautiful world.

Guide us, O God,

To be restorers of what was stolen,

Healers of what was wounded,

And dreamers of what can yet be.

In Your grace, may we never forget.

In Your love, may we always rise.

Amen.

Asé.

So it is.

Idris Abdul-Aziz, Humanities Department Chair, teaches AP African American Studies, Honors and World History Blended at Millbrook International Baccalaureate High School in Raleigh, North Carolina

Kwasi and the Power of Gracious Space by Seth Akomeah

In the halls of Accra College of Education, two students from different villages in Ghana's Eastern region formed a strong  bond.

Kwasi, from the mountains of Akwapim, and me, from Akim Asuboa North, met in school and became close friends despite living and studying in different residences and in different classes.

What created this tight friendship? Our friendship developed through a shared interest; We both love to laugh. We respect the power of humor, and above all the virtues of generosity.

Whenever I visited Kwasi and a mutual friend, Adjibolosoo, Kwasi would start the fun with the phrase "Wo le kotoku na'ejo." When we ask for a translation he would say, "You don't know why it's going on," thereby prompting laughter. Kwasi would affectionately shout my nickname "Sitho” anytime he saw me. This would also result in uncontrollable laughter. We found it easy to laugh.

In 2020, Kwasi and I were stationed at Valley View University basic school to fulfill our teaching practice obligations. Then there was the National COVID-19 lockdown, and we were all supposed to leave for our respective homes.

While other students traveled back to the comfort of their homes, Kwasi and I stayed behind and struggled to find a place to live.

The lockdown made it hard for us to go out shopping for food and also socialize with others.

Madam Vera Lowas, who lived on the Valley View University campus with her husband welcomed us into their home. In the evenings and weekends, we played games like Ahurihuri, Ludu, and Oware. We discussed life issues and the state of the world.  Together Kwasi and I learned the power of Gracious Space through the kindness of strangers, our shared struggles, joys, and friendship.

On the 23rd of July, 2020, which was the day before my birthday, Kwasi said, "Setho, Tomorrow is your birthday, how is it going to be?" I responded ,"The birthday is locked down, until further notice. Corona Virus Firi yen so ko, ( Corona Virus get away from us!). This was a popular song we both enjoyed singing during the the lockdown .

This is an example of how we comforted each other and survived the lockdown.

After COVID-19, we were both coincidentally re-posted to the same town and the same school for our Ghana National Service. I taught  in the Junior High and he taught in the 6th grade.

Ghana Education Service posted us both to the same district as permanent teachers but i later asked for a transfer to a school where music is an elective and valued subject. I would also be allowed to establish a choir.

Though I am now physically distanced from Kwasi due to this transfer, we stayed in touch.

Kwasi joined Witness Tree Institute Ghana (WTIG), connecting American and Ghanaian educators and encouraged me to apply to the 2025 program.

Considering the power of Gracious space, I feel the idea of humanity has shown me more. Kwasi could have kept this great opportunity of learning to himself but he shared that with me to also benefit, and guess what ? The benefit and self development this program has brought to me is just unbelievable. I never thought I could break the barrier of speaking out loud in public but now I do . This friendship of ours reminds me of two local Ghanaian proverbs:

- "Yonko bi sen nua"_ (Some friends are more than siblings).

- _"Hu Mani so mame nti na atewen mienu nante"_ (Two deer walk together for mutual support).

Come to think of this also

What spirit do you carry or bring on board when you see strangers?

How do you treat strangers?

How do you behave in every settings you find yourself?

How do you relate interpersonally with others?

These are questions to reflect on from our story to consider how one can hold gracious space for others.

Seth is a music teacher at Battor Senior High School, Volta region, Ghana.

Becoming a Witness Tree by Katherine Sorel

No one brings wisdom to the house of Anansi.

I love this proverb. Presumably, Anansi has all the wisdom so you would not bring him any - rather you would go to his house to receive wisdom. Since I have been here, I have been thinking that all of Ghana is Anansi’s home, and therefore, one does not bring wisdom to Ghana; one comes to Ghana to receive it.

Our very first night here I received my first nugget of wisdom. Tete Cobblah, founder of WTIG, introduced us to “Agoo!”/“Amee!” This call and response is used a lot in New York both in schools and in places that teach or perform African dance and music. I was confident that I understood it: “Agoo” means “Are you listening?” and “Amee” means “We are listening.” While I wasn’t wrong, I discovered that I was only half right. Tete explained that it is also used if you are knocking on someone’s door to ask “Are you home?” and to respond, “We’re home.” In other words, he continued, that it means, “Are you present?” and “We’re present.”

This was striking to me. When I was a child, to be “present” simply meant to be physically in the room. But now people use the term “to be present” to mean to be giving your full attention to what you are doing, to be in the present moment and not lost in your thoughts somewhere else. So if this phrase was using the same words for “listening” and for “being present” then that implied that they are the same. To listen is to be present; To be present is to be listening. This seemed to me a very powerful idea and it connects back to Tete’s father’s trees. The trees are witnesses because they are always present and always listening. For us to become witness trees, we must do the same.

“Be still. Listen to the river; it has a lot to say, ” Tete told us as we prepared to walk down to the river at Donkor Nsuo. When we arrived at the river bank I was struck by how beautiful the spot was, and how incongruous it was that such unimaginable horrors occurred in such a beautiful place. What had these trees witnessed? The water was swirling as it made its way towards the coast and my mind was swirling. What is my role here? What is my role as a descendant, on my mother’s father’s father’s side, of people who gave their children middle names like “Lee” and “Forrest” generals in the Confederacy? What role did they play in this history? What is my role as a mother of a son whose ancestors are not my ancestors, whose ancestors may have passed through that very spot or else another one like it?

While we stood there, an older woman in a long light green dress came from the woods behind and stood on the opposite bank of the river. It did not occur to me to question her purpose. We were standing and contemplating the river; I thought she was standing and contemplating the river. After a while, a man and a woman came walking down the path on the other side each carrying tin pans on their heads with at least 50 pounds worth of cassava in them. When the man reached the old woman, he took her hand and helped her to cross the river. The scene was so striking - realizing the woman had been waiting for help; watching the man who had such a heavy load himself effortlessly guide her across. It was a scene of patience (hers) and care (his) that perhaps is ordinary here, but was extraordinary to me.

What words have any meaning in a place like Donkor Nsuo? Nancy, Kiyah, and Melissa somehow found the perfect ones. As I listened to the poem, the song, and the speech I was so moved, both by the words they found and by the effort that it must have taken them to find them. Thank you Nancy, Kiyah, and Melissa for the risk-taking and care that you showed.

As the guide talked about the trauma experienced by the families left behind and how that has been passed down over generations, I heard echoes of Tete’s story. Of course that would have been traumatic - and yet somehow I had only ever considered the trauma of those taken and how that has been passed down, not what happened on the other side.

As we drove off, the school day was ending, the last day of the school year. An older brother was walking his little sister home. Dressed in blue uniforms, he walked behind her, his left hand on her left shoulder, his right hand holding hers lifted up to his. Further on, a mother and her son in a yellow uniform were crossing the road, holding hands and swinging their arms in such a carefree, joyous way as they disappeared down a path in the woods. Then from another direction came a father holding his daughter's hand and carrying her red backpack over his shoulder. Behind them were two brothers in redchecked shirts that matched the girl's dress, carrying their backpacks, also holding hands. Finally, running to catch up, came the mother with a baby on her back and a big smile on her face. Everywhere there was so much love and joy, care and connection. Again, what is ordinary here is extraordinary. It is not for me to say “I am home, ”but I can say: “I am present; I am listening.

The Bamaya Dancer By Eric J Awuni

I have come to recognize that the Witness Tree Institute cultivates questions and curiosity through its well-curated and layered activities, thereby requiring self motivation and realizations.

As a member of cohort Boa Me Na Mboa Wo , I was fascinated by each active in our program, and yet I was immediately drawn to a dance out of many, that was  performed to welcome the cohort last week.

There was a pause in the drumming and dancing at one point, and then I saw this young boy dressed like a woman emerge from the corner of my eye. He was dressed as a woman and introduced himself as "Amina."

I just liked the way he walked confidently to begin his performance- he was filled with positive energy, enthusiasm and determination- as if he knew what personal impact his dance would have on me.

Gracefully he did the most complicated and emotional dance I have ever seen.

The dance he performed is called "Rain dance" or Bamaya which is common among the Northern people of Ghana. I am a Northerner and therefore the dance accompanied with the rhythm of the drums took my mind back home.

The dance he performed is called the Bamaya dance also known as  "Rain dance"  which is traditionally performed by the Dagbamba people of the Northern Region of Ghana. I am a Northerner. I come from Tongo in the Upper East Region of Ghana. Tongo is the capital of Talensi Nabdam District in the  Northern part of Ghana.

As this young boy danced, accompanied by the rhythm of northern Ghanaian drumbeats, faded memories stirred. My mind traveled back to my childhood, and HOME.

This experience made me reflect on what I have been missing all these years, and how useful culture can be to us.

Eric Awuni teaches High School math at Ideal College, Accra