Ashes of dreams: The burning markets of Ghana

Auntie Efua’s hands trembled as she stood before the smouldering remains of her fabric shop in Kumasi’s Central Market.

For thirty years, her colourful wax prints and kente cloths had been the pride of her family, a testament to generations of market women who came before her. Now, all that remained were ashes and the acrid smell of burnt dreams.

As most market fires begin in the pre-dawn hours, this one started with a whisper of smoke. By the time the fire service arrived, flames had already consumed several shops, dancing from one wooden structure to another with devastating efficiency. The scene was a tragic ballet of loss and despair, performed to the agonised cries of traders who watched their livelihoods turn to ash. The fire service frantically searched for non-existent hydrants and choked, narrow or non-existent access lanes.

Auntie Efua hardly knew that Ghana had recorded 4,650 fire incidents between January and September 2024. JoyNews reported that the Kantamanto and Techiman markets were razed in 2025 alone.Ghanaian-themed art

Fire destroys several properties at Techiman Central Market, 13 January 2025–CNR.

But she knew the fire had started in the early morning, as most market fires do. First, a whisper of smoke, then a desperate cry piercing the pre-dawn silence. By the time the fire service arrived, flames had already consumed several shops, dancing from one wooden structure to another with devastating efficiency.

“It’s the third fire this year,” whispered Kwame, a young electronic goods seller whose shop had narrowly escaped the inferno. “First Kantamanto in Accra, then Kejetia and Makola, and now here.” His words carried the weight of a familiar tragedy that had become all too common in Ghana’s major markets.Ghanaian-themed art

Each fire is more than just a catastrophic event; it’s a recurring nightmare that strips away the very essence of the nation’s informal economy. Every blaze steals away not only goods and structures but also the dreams, savings, and futures of countless traders. In the face of these relentless disasters, the baffling apathy of stakeholders–local and municipal authorities, regional administrations, banking communities, law enforcement officials and the fire service, among others, is infuriating.

As market women gathered in small groups, their conversations shifted between grief and speculation. Some blamed outdated electrical systems, while others pointed to the congested nature of the markets, where narrow alleys served as walkways and storage spaces. The more suspicious whispered about deliberate sabotage and political intrigues, though such claims remained unproven.

Adwoa, a second-generation tomato seller, remembered how her mother had survived the great Makola Market fire of 1993. “Back then, they said things would change,” she said, adjusting her headwrap. “New safety measures, better infrastructure, proper spacing between shops. But here we are, still facing the same demons.”

The fire’s aftermath demonstrated a community’s resilience. Traders from unaffected sections of the market shared their spaces with those who had lost everything. Local churches and mosques became temporary storage facilities. Youth volunteers helped clear debris, searching for salvageable items among the ruins. In their boiling rage, they angrily chased away a group of Asians who mysteriously arrived on the scene amidst rumours they were about to construct a modern Mall.

Government officials, old and new, arrived by midday with donations, promising the usual investigation and support. But the market women had heard such words before. They knew rebuilding would largely fall on their own shoulders, as it always had. Many would take loans at high interest rates, restart with whatever they could salvage, and somehow find a way to rise again. The Banks knew this and also arrived to offer emotional assurances of support.

As the sun set over the charred market, Auntie Efua stood with other traders in a circle, their voices rising in prayer and song. Tomorrow, they would begin again because that’s what market women did. They would rebuild their shops, restock their goods, and continue the ancient dance of commerce that had sustained Ghana’s markets for generations.

But beneath their determination lay a question that burned as fiercely as the fires themselves: How many more markets would burn before real change came? How many more dreams would turn to ash before Ghana’s historic marketplaces received the protection and modernisation they desperately needed?

The story of Ghana’s market fires is not just about the destruction of property; it’s about the resilience of a people who refuse to let their commercial heritage be reduced to ashes or driven away by powerful interest groups. It’s about women like Auntie Efua who, despite losing everything, will return to trade another day because the markets are more than just places of commerce – they are the beating heart of Ghana’s economic and social life.

As night fell over the market, the embers still glowed, a reminder of both destruction and determination. In the distance, truckloads of timber and other

construction materials were arriving, and the sound of hammers could already be heard as the first temporary structures began to rise again from the ashes. The market, like its people, would survive. It always did.