Recently, I went home. On my way, reality hit me in the face with the sudden force of a Catholic priest flinging holy water over a congregation. Nothing in the environment had significantly changed. If anything changed, it changed for the worse.Right from the roads leading through Korle Bu, the gutters were filled with dark water and rubbish. It looked like desilting was no longer something anybody did. The smell was heavy and thick, and it clung to the air as if it had lived there too long to leave. The closer I got to Korle Lagoon, the more overwhelming everything became. The lagoon was full to the throat. It held sand, plastic bottles, clothes, rags, dead animals and God knows what else. Even the egret barely wades over it because her habitat has been destroyed.Driving toward Accra Central, the story did not change. The gutters were overflowing with rubbish and water that had turned black. The market streets were covered with filth. Sacks of rubbish were piled in corners waiting for nobody in particular. People walked past it as though nothing was wrong. And maybe this is the saddest part of it all; we have learned to stop seeing.When I reached Aflao Station, the picture remained the same. Rubbish sat casually in open view, and nobody seemed bothered. Life continues.I boarded the loading vehicle, and as usual, I was surrounded by traders. Some sold medicines that could “cure everything”, others sold sweets, sachet water, chargers etc. One thing most of them had in common was their voices, which carried both hunger and desperation. It was the same scene I have known since childhood.“Buy history books for your children”. I heard from a familiar voice. It was him, the old man who sold old history books and African novels. I wonder if Ghanaians even learn from history. I’ve known this man for as long as I can remember. He held the books gently, as though holding the last of something sacred. His brown hair was greyer now, and his face carried wrinkles and lines of years and years of waiting. Yet nothing around him suggested growth.The vehicle was finally full. As always, the goods were packed above our heads and beneath our feet, weighing the vehicle down. Same old story. I used to think that one day there would be separate trucks to transport goods. Or maybe someone would design vehicles specifically for cargo and keep the passenger rides safe and comfortable. But I remembered these vehicles were originally meant for goods; we turned them into vehicles for human beings. We have adjusted ourselves to discomfort because there has been no system to insist on the better.We took off. Getting out of the market was a struggle; traders had taken half of the road, and vehicles had to negotiate space with them. Everyone was trying to survive, trying to claim their share of a world that had given them little.Some parts of the road near the traffic lights looked as if they had been eaten away by fire. The heat from the rubbish heaps had melted the tar. The rubbish itself was piled without order, and the smell followed us even after we moved far from it.Our journey continued to the motorway. For a moment, something felt different. There was construction happening. I saw machines at work, and lanes were being widened. A sign of progress, even if slow. The motorway was first built over sixty years ago, and it has taken all this time for someone to decide it should be expanded. I found myself wondering quietly if I would have to wait another sixty years to see something similar again.Because here, progress moves like a tired old man. It takes steps only when pushed. And even then, it stops to rest far too often.Another disheartening part of my journey was the traffic between Kpone, Dawhenya and Prampram junction. Cars were locked in lines that stretched endlessly, all for reasons that could easily be solved.At Prampram junction, both incoming and outgoing vehicles use the same single lane. It creates a daily standstill that can last for hours. The excuse is an ongoing construction, but this has been the story for a very long time. How long must we wait for the other lane to open? Why is there never a temporary solution to ease the traffic? Or maybe those who make decisions do not feel the weight of these delays because they move in black V8s with police escorts clearing the road before them. It is obvious that they cannot understand the frustration they have never tasted.Again, development here reminds me of a man with urinary tract obstruction. It comes in drops, painful and incomplete, and never flows as it should.The Accra to Aflao highway has also worsened. Some parts are worn out and cry for maintenance. There is a particular slope near Atlantic that needs urgent attention. New drivers, unaware of it, often bump into it with shock. There are no warning signs, no caution posts, nothing to prevent discomfort or damage. I have seen passengers shout “Jesus” in fear, and I have seen drivers curse the road in silence.The main road leading to my community from the highway is no better. It has become something we speak about with resignation. There have been many calls to reconstruct it, but what we receive instead are half-hearted patches and grading that barely last through a single rainy season. (Works have finally started and I hope it doesn’t take forever)A journey that once took 15 minutes now takes 45. The road, uneven and broken, punishes every wheel and every bone. Heavy-duty trucks carrying sand have made it worse. The constant movement of these trucks leaves deep tracks and erodes what little was left of the road surface.In our region, sand winning has become what illegal gold mining is to others. Our water bodies are getting destroyed, our environment is getting wounded, and the community is left with scars that no one takes responsibility for.I got to the police barrier, and the tar there had almost disappeared. The road was full of potholes, some so deep they looked like manholes. I wondered silently if the police, who stood there every day, could not call on the authorities to fix the road beneath their feet. Or maybe they, too, had learned to live with it.When I finally reached town, I was welcomed by the sight of the only hospital we have. It has barely changed since the days when the Nuns left. I remember stories of how it once stood tall with pride, clean and orderly, run by people who served with heart. I imagined that by now it would have world-class structures and modern equipment. But again, same old story. The paint faded, the walls cracked, the spirit tired.The center of town seemed lifeless. The road leading to the riverside had worn off completely, as if it had never been tarred. I stared through the window, and I kept asking myself over and over, when will things become better. When will I return home and see something different, something that gives me hope?My friends who travel to the Ashanti Region and beyond say it is no different there. Their roads, too, are terrible and lives have been lost in accidents that could have been prevented. There is talk of ongoing construction to revamp the route, but again, I ask, how long will it take? How long before promises become reality.And then there are those who live in the mining communities. Their pain is heavier. The rivers that once fed them now carry poison, and the water looks like mud. The soil is dying, and the crops that grow from it are tainted with chemicals that quietly harm us all. Mothers are giving birth to babies with deformities.Now look closely into your own life as a Ghanaian. Apart from your personal achievements, what has significantly changed around you? What public system can you truly say works better than it did before. What collective progress can we point to and be proud of?I can name a thousand and one places that carry the same story of decay. Towns where light poles lean like tired men. Schools where children sit on broken chairs, stones, and even the floor. Hospitals that survive on donations. Communities that wait for help that never comes.Dear Mr President, dear leaders, they say geography is destiny. If that is true, then we must ask ourselves what kind of destiny we are creating through neglect. The roads home are more than asphalt and tar. They are symbols of who we are. And if they remain broken, it is not only the land that suffers. It is the spirit of a people slowly losing faith in the promise of their own country.This article was written in August 2025.Well, I wonder if anything has significantly changed since then, apart from the commencement of construction of some roads.