(Note: This is the first part in an essay series about my personal journey with a looted golden sword in Ghana and the politics of cultural repatriation. This was originally supposed to appear in the Washington Post, but I was illegally fired before we could publish this. I am excited to share this with my Substack readers. Enjoy!)
New York City, Spring 2025: My phone rang in my hotel room in midtown Manhattan. It was my dad, calling from Dallas. Almost like he knew that his 38-year-old daughter was up to some mischief.
“What are you doing in New York?” he asked. I smirked as if he could see me from Texas. “Hey, Daddy, I’m near the United Nations. I’m going to talk about looted African art, and the mponponsuo.”
Of course, he had long told me to leave these matters alone, that what happened to the mponponsuo ‚ the royal Asante sword that his father was chief guardian of, which was stolen from the Asante kingdom by the British in 1874, was in the past.
And sometimes I thought he was right. Because ever since I encountered the sword for myself, I couldn’t bring myself to write the essay for the Washington Post.
I had seen the returned mponponsuo at the Manhyia palace in Ghana the previous August, and then developed writer’s block for months. I wondered if I had been spiritually afflicted by the encounter.
After all, those objects contained a lot of power. In December, I even went so far as to go to New York to a priestess for a spiritual ceremonial cleanse to figure out what was wrong with me, why I couldn’t put words to paper.
But there were other institutional blocks I was dealing with. My class that I was teaching at Columbia on race and media had been cancelled after I was outspoken against Israel’s horrific slaughter in Gaza. At the time, I was the only Black woman columnist at the Washington Post, and more and more of my pieces were getting killed by editors. I wondered how much longer my voice would be allowed to remain in the Washington Post’s golden cage. Progressive voices like mine were being hunted— and across America, Black women were first on the chopping block.
At the very least, the United Nations panel was a chance to break the block on speaking up about what had been stolen from Ghana, from the Asantes, from my family, in many ways. And, in some ways, as a first-generation Ghanaian born and raised in the U.S., to address the painful block of being separated from my own culture and heritage.
“It’s been hard, Daddy, to write. But you know, we gotta keep going.”
I expected him to tell me to just leave matters alone and enjoy life. All my life, whenever I talked about wanting to move back to Ghana or asked about the mponponsuo, he told me to just focus on school and work.
But these days, my dad has been softened by the harsh realities of age and health scares. He has been sick for the last few years, in and out of hospitals. My dad is a doctor by trade, but as a high school student in Kumasi, Ghana, he was the editor of his student magazine, known for calling out injustices he saw on campus. My aunties told me he was a thorn in the side of the school’s administration.
So much so that he even got kicked out of his high school for criticizing the shoddy paint job on the school walls.
I knew a thing or two about getting kicked out of institutions for speaking my mind. Like father, like daughter.
His answer was short, simple . . . and caught me completely off-guard.
“Yes, keep going.”
Accra, Ghana, September 2024: In early 2024, the British Museum and Victoria and Albert Museum agreed to a three-year loan of 32 looted Asante (Ashanti in English) artifacts to the current Asante king to mark his 25-year reign.
The dynasty from which he descended began in the 17th Century when several Akan-speaking chiefs united under one state, with Kumasi as its capital. The new kingdom, led by King Osei Tutu and his priest Okonfo Anokye thrived, with an economy based first on gold and later on the slave trade. But in five wars with the tribe, the British burned Kumasi to the ground and looted most of its artwork and relics.
Ghanaians across social media had plenty to say about the British decision to “loan back” what was stolen. For most, anything less than a permanent return was an imperial slap in the face. Writing for Modern Ghana, author and scholar Kwame Opoku asked, “How long will it take, at a rate of 32 objects per 150 years, to return all our Asante objects?”
Sitting in a cafe in Accra, I scanned the list of returned objects, most of which were made out of pure gold.
One item on the list took my breath away.
It was the “mponponsuo,” or the royal golden sword. My paternal grandfather, Opanin Kofi Antwi-Attiah, a wealthy cocoa farmer, was the mponponsuohene, or guardian ‚Äî of this very sword.
My dad, as the firstborn of the youngest of my grandfather’s five wives, was offered the mponponsuohene stool, or throne. He turned it down. He wanted to study and live in America as a doctor rather than to be a chief and “have to deal with people’s problems.” When I was in elementary school, learning about my heritage, I used to brag to my classmates that I was a Ghanaian princess.
As I got older, with dreams of moving back to Ghana to learn more about the country and my heritage—and the mponponsuo —my dad told me to leave it all alone and focus on school, work, and making money.
But how could I? After all, my aunts told me that my great-grandmother, Abena Nana Bimaa, the queen mother, gave me my full Asante family name when my parents presented me to her after my 1st birthday: Abena Nana Bimaa Mponponsuo Antwi.
This was personal; I was named for her and this sword. Its permanent return to Ghana was now my business.
I was nervous. My last encounter with another legendary Asante sword in Kumasi, fifteen years prior, had made me lose my voice. Literally.
In 2009, I was fixated on going to see the Okonfo Anokye sword‚ the legendary blade that, according to Asante tradition, the priest who co-founded the empire had planted in the ground. If it were to be removed, the kingdom would collapse.
Within 15 minutes of laying my eyes on the sword, I started breaking out in a cold sweat and chills. My voice became scratchy. By 30 minutes, I had lost the ability to speak completely. I made the 5-hour trip back to Accra, feverish and drained. My mystery fever lasted for two days. I told myself that I would leave Ashanti spiritual items alone.
Now I was back in Ghana, preparing to go to Kumasi to see the mponponsuo.
Accra, September, 2024
The loan from the British museums coincided with the 150th anniversary of a brutal British raid on the Ashanti palace, as well as the anniversary of Britain’s forced exile of a number of Asante chiefs to Seychelles in the Indian Ocean, thousands of miles from their home.
In Accra, I met with Ivor Agyeman-Duah, a negotiator for the return of the Asante artifacts. For him, too, negotiating the deal was personal. He is a direct descendant of a chief who was sent to Seychelles.
I asked Agyeman-Duah if the “loan” of these artifacts meant that, 150 years after the British stole the items, the Asante kingdom had effectively, legally, affirmed that Britain now owned them. He said that it meant just that.
Have you met the current mponponsuohene yet?” he asked. I told him no, that I had never met any members of the current Asante royal court. “Most likely, he is your lineage. He will know who your father is. I’ll introduce him to you.”
Kumasi, September 2024
I flew from Accra with my Aunt Adowa, my father’s sister, to Kumasi, the capital of the Ashanti region. Over the years, she has been the one to keep me informed about the family’s history. Together we approached the Manhyia Palace Museum, the former home of the Asantehene, where the swords were on display.
The souls of the Asante people and their deities are said to reside in the swords. There is a hierarchy of these swords and the custodians tasked with caring for them. The bosomuru is the most important sword‚ is on this sword that an incoming king, the Asantehene, swears his official oath. Women are not allowed to see it or even come close to it; it is veiled in a white cloth.
Next in rank is the mponponsuo, which is considered the Asantehene’s personal sword, he swears the oath of allegiance to the Asante people on it. Women may see the sword, but no woman can be the mponponsuohene. Despite my childhood fantasies of being a warrior queen of the Asante sword, it was not to be.
I read the text posted on the wall:
Colonial Period Looting
Acknowledgement and Healing
“The display includes regalia associated with the Asantehenes Kofi Karikari (r.1867-1874) and Prempeh I (1888-1931) taken by British forces as military loot or as enforced indemnity payments during the Anglo-Asante Wars of 1873-1874 and 1895-1896.
The crown Jewellers, Garrard & Co sold some of the regalia in the UK in 1874. The British Museum and the Victoria and Albert Museum purchased items from these sales. Other pieces of regalia were donated to them by the Government or acquired through private individuals. This homecoming marks an important step in the process of acknowledgment, reconciliation, and healing between the UK and Ghana. It recognizes the lasting cultural, historical, and spiritual significance of these objects to the Asante people.”
Nothing about the near-century of efforts and demands by successive Asantehenes and Ghanaian scholars to have the objects repatriated. Nothing about the rejection of those demands.
The purpose of the sign was to condition the viewer to accept the legal legitimacy of the British ownership of the objects that they had stolen.
This was supposed to be “healing”? I felt sick.
I saw the glimmer of the gold objects against grass-green bedding, but I wasn’t ready to fully set my eyes on the mponponsuo quite yet. Maybe I was afraid of losing my voice, my temper--- or both.
I averted my gaze to a display of returned kente cloth instead. The textile had been collected by a British textile enthusiast, who later donated it to the British Museum. Upon her death, she instructed that the kente be returned to the Ashanti people, permanently. So a full return was indeed possible.
I finally steeled myself to look at the glass box that contained the mponponsuo. The sword was short, perhaps broken. The pommel was gold, and the partial sheath that remained was of leopard skin.
The tag read: Asante Regalia: “On Loan from the British Museum and the Victoria and Albert Museum”, a humiliating reminder that the British still considered themselves to own the stolen loot. There was only one paragraph narrating the story of the sword:
“1. Ceremonial sword. (mponponsuo) and sheath. The sword has a gold leaf and a leopard skin pommel. The sheath is also made of leopard skin and has eight amulets (safis) covered with gold and silver leaf. The lost wax cast gold sword ornament (abosodee) is in the form of a coiled snake, probably a python, gripping an antelope, possibly, a duiker (otwe) in its jaws. The inside of the ornament is filled with scraps of red woollen cloth of European manufacture. Height: 77 cm (A&B); Width: 9.50 (a&b max); Depth 13 (a&B).”
After 150 years away, that was it? The “probably” and the “possibly” read like an outsider passing guesses, instead of knowing for sure. For the legendary mponponsuo, the highest of the soul swords, it was quite the soulless description.
We finished the tour, and my half-uncle walked out, with my aunt and Ivor Agyeman-Duah. “Come, let’s go outside and talk, he said.”
We sat on benches under a 100-year-old Indian rubber tree, older than the independent country of Ghana itself. Britain may have fancied itself as the universal keeper of the mponponsuo, but I was about to talk to its rightful custodian and get properly educated about what the sword meant to the Asantes, to Ghana, and to my family.
“So tell me everything about yourself… and the sword.”
Nana Osei Kwadwo Boadu, aka my half-uncle, walked out with a button-up orange printed shirt. He looked a lot like my grandfather. Like so many, he left Ghana to find better opportunities abroad. He went to Germany. For three years, Boadu drove a bus in Saudi Arabia for pilgrims at the Hajj. He then went to the United States for three years.
“But then something came to me, like, ‘ why don’t you go home”. Boadu returned to Ghana in 1999. Back in the country, he bought a Mercedes-Benz container truck and started a trucking company.
The then-mponponsuohene was in failing health. Given his wealth, power, and importance to Asante and the Ghanaian people, Boadu would accompany the Asantehene on global tours. When the mponponsohene died, Otumfuo asked Boadu if he would take up the position of chief of the sword. “He told me it is a family affair,” And now I have been serving him all these years.” He was formally enstooled as the mpoponsuohene in 2017. Part of his role is to care for the Asantehene’s jewelry, escort it to the workshop with a police escort, and supervise the goldsmiths at work.
He paused. “The mponponsuo itself—do you want me to talk about it?” I smiled and said yes, sensing the pride coming from my uncle. He pulled out his phone and showed me a few pictures in his full regalia, with the replica mponponsuo.
“The original sword was created by Otumfuo Opoku Ware the 1st, in 1726,” my uncle told me. “And the original sword was stolen by these British people. So we made another one. That’s how it is.”
Indeed, another was made, and it is stored at Manhiya Palace along with other regalia and treasures.
He scrolled through his phone to a picture of himself in full regalia, a crown of eagle feathers atop his head, the replica mponponsuo over his shoulder.
“There are several things within the sword that make it great. The skin is made of leopard. And this is the snake,” pointing to the golden curled python near the hilt. “If you look here,” he said, pointing to the rear of the sword, “This is called the akuma bringpong, a smaller sword. It means, ‘it kills the paramount chiefs.’ In the olden days, if there was misbehavior among the chiefs, it was the immediate weapon for the king to use. Then, there are the eagle feathers. So, gold, silver, leopard, python, eagle and the akuma bimpong, these make the mponponsuo great.”
All the symbols represented the identity of the Asante people and their connection to the animal and earthly worlds. The leopard stood for the Asantes’ hunting prowess. The python represented intelligence and patience. The gold, of course, wealth and riches.”
As he spoke, I could feel the mponponsuo coming alive, a spiritual actor with its own agency.
But the thousands of ordinary visitors and Ghanaians who come to view the sword will not hear what I heard. The loan agreement stipulates that the objects must be displayed with the soulless British text. It felt like the equivalent of pouring textual concrete over a vibrant garden— and calling it “healing”.
The fight to repatriate African artifacts dates back to the African independence movements of the 1950s. Ghana gained its independence in 1957, followed by 17 other former colonies in 1960, the “Year of Africa.”
As this was happening, European museums made legal moves to protect their objects from restitution claims. In 1960, France transferred its African artifacts from the Ministry of the Colonies to the Ministry of Culture, effectively confirming them as part of France’s inalienable heritage. And in 1963, the British parliament amended the British Museum Act of 1902, effectively banning the museum from parting with any of its holdings.
The early 1970s saw African countries step up challenges to these laws. In October 1973, Mobutu Sese Seko, president of the newly independent nation of what was then-Zaire, gave an impassioned speech to the United Nations General Assembly. He devoted a portion of his speech to the restitution of Africa’s looted artifacts:
“During the colonial period, we suffered not only from colonialism; slavery, economic exploitation, but also and above all, the barbarous, systematic pillaging of all of our works of art‚ we are therefore poor not only economically but also culturally‚ Those works, which were acquired for nothing, have increased in value so much that none of our countries has the material means to recover them. . .”
He pointed out that after Hitler’s forces pillaged the Louvre during the Second World War, France fought fiercely to regain its art, “even before thinking of signing the armistice. . . That is why I would also ask this General Assembly to adopt a resolution requesting the Rich powers that possess works of art from poor countries to restore some of them so that we can teach our children and our grandchildren the history of their countries.”
The next year, during the hundred-year anniversary of the third Anglo-Asante war that resulted in most of the looting, the Ghanaian government and the Asantehene formally asked the British government for restitution of the looted artifacts.
When the matter was raised in the British parliament in December of 1974, a Lord Montague of Beaulieu asked, “In view of the fact that these relics are, and were originally, war booty captured by the British Army, are Her Majesty’s Government aware of the very deep feelings of the Ashanti people about the return of these sacrosanct objects, which are supposed to contain the soul of the Ashanti people?”
His plea did not fall on receptive ears. “Would it not be possible,” Lord Gisborough replied, “to keep the booty and return the soul?”
In December 1974, after nearly a year of debate, the British government rejected the request.
Today, estimates suggest that up to 90% of sub-Saharan African heritage is outside Africa.
I had tried to request the actual loan agreement between Ghana and the Victoria and Albert Museum, but was denied and told it was confidential.
Kumasi, Ghana, Fall 2024
Back under the indian rubber tree, Boadu kept scrolling through his phone. A number of black cars pulled up in front of the palace—a group of lawyers from the Ghana Bar Association had come to pay the Asantehene a visit.
I asked him how it felt when he learned that the original mponponsuo was coming back to the Asante kingdom. He kept scrolling.
“At first, when I heard of the mponponsuo coming back to the Ashanti kingdom here, I was excited, [but] at times I felt so sad. Why is it that something that doesn’t belong to you (the British), and for no reason you just came for it? I led the coming of the mponponso to the public for people to see.”
(Video of my half-uncle explaining how he felt when the mponponsuo was returned to Ghana)
At that point, he got up and motioned for me to follow back to the museum. “Let’s go in there so I can show you what I am talking about.”
We went back to the room with the mponponsuo, It was as if Boadu was examining the sword for injuries, pointing out pieces that were missing. “Imagine how much money the British made off of this,” he said, referring to the fact that museums is one of the most visited tourist attractions in the UK.
But the Ashantis made a new mponponsuo. “The new sword we made it.. so big” Boadu said.
“But now, this is not going to stay in Ghana,” I said, referring to the loan agreement. He paused and said nothing. “Or…. We will see?” He propped his glasses on top of his head.
After a half beat of silence, he smirked. “Do you think we are going to return this thing to Britain?” Boadu said. “If it comes to the point that we have to take this thing back, it will be a very big problem for them, because they are not admitting that it is a stolen item. For us, where did they get all these stolen things from? Because of the war? They said they are giving this as a loan, that we have to return it.
But, heh, are you sure this thing is going back?”
And with that, a dose of comedic timing mixed with defiance in the question, Boadu turned and walked away. I had to chuckle. I was moved by his defense of the sword and what it meant for the soul of the Asante people. Wherever he was taking me next, I wanted to follow him.
That sword belonged to us.
As my half-uncle and I headed to the car after viewing the mponponsuo, my mind was on a different Ashanti sword, the akrafena, which was used for battle. I had heard that the martial art of the sword was still taught in the Ashanti region, but I didn’t know where, or even whether women like me were allowed to learn it. I asked my uncle if he knew where it was taught or how one could learn. Like my father, he laughed it off. “We put the war drums away a long time ago,” he said.
The men in the group walking with us laughed at me as we walked to the car. “Nooo, we don’t beat war drums and pick up swords anymore,’ Boadu said. ‘It awakens things that we don’t want to surface again.”
‘You mean to fight?’ I asked, smiling. He chuckled.
‘Well, if you want to keep the objects from going back to Britain, it’s going to be a fight,” I said. “So maybe it’s time to truly bring back our swords.’
In my mind, I imagined what would happen if the British came back for the mponponsuo in 2027, after the loan agreement for the gold objects expires.
The souls of a people were worth fighting for, and in that moment, I wanted to be a part of that battle. Even if I had to learn the sword art for myself. Or to pick up my pens and voice. As far as I was concerned, the mponponsuo should never return to Britain again.
But what could I actually do about it?
January, 2026: Ayutthaya, Thailand
“Are you coming to Ghana with your dad?” my aunt asked. It was the 10th anniversary of my paternal grandmother’s death. My father had once again been admitted to the emergency room in Dallas for yet another scare. I wanted desperately to take him home, even if it was for one last time with him and me together, but all of his doctors, nurses, and my mother were against any travel.
“I— uh— can’t make it this time. I’ll try to come back this year.” I felt like a colossal failure as an eldest daughter for not being able to overcome science and biology and take my father to Kumasi. I had also been illegally and controversially fired from the Washington Post for speaking out about the realities of race and violence in America.
After all the political fighting I had done in newspaper pages over the years, I needed a break—- to so some actual combat training.
Instead of going to Ghana, I was in the ancient capital of Thailand, Ayutthaya, hunting for traditional krabi krabong swords. Krabi Krabong was a martial arts system in Thailand. I took a few Krabi Krabong classes and was hooked. But the art was fading.
The shopkeeper in the souvenir market next to Wihan Phra Mongkon Bophit showed me a rattan wrapped dhab with a gold hilt. I drew the blade out of the scabbard, admiring the curvature of the blade and the Thai inscription on it. “This one, king’s sword, ceremonial, 5,000 baht", he said.
Those words hit me. The mpoponsuo was in Ghana. My family was together in Ghana. Why the fuck am I in Thailand looking at ceremonial swords? The next day, I went to Aranyik, a village known for making swords and knives. I picked up a long dagger with a golden blade.
As I was looking at the various Thai blades couldn’t stop thinking about the mponponsuo, held in Kumasi, 150 or so years after it was taken.
But as a lifelong devotee of Muay Thai, I had always wanted to go to Thailand, the birthplace of the deadly “art of 8 Limbs.”
But why did I really need to go to Thailand now, instead of Ghana? Quite the detour, yes, but perhaps there was something I needed to learn about fighting in Thailand— a country that had never been subjugated by colonization. Maybe I needed to learn the how of sword hunting and the art of finding lost martial arts before they were lost to time, commercialization, and indifference. Or maybe I needed to experience what it felt like to be among a people that had not experienced Western humiliation on the scale that the Asantes had.
And every warrior huntress needs a few special, blessed weapons. And to learn how to use them.
“Thanks, I’ll take two,” I said.
My golden Thai blades were beautiful, but I couldn’t shake the stabbing guilt I felt. I decided enough was enough with the blocking and with my detours. Time was running out. 2027 was the year that Ghana was slated to return the objects to Britain. My father’s health was worsening.
When I returned to the U.S., I signed up for Twi language classes and booked a one-way ticket to Ghana.
It was time to return and get into the fight, not only for Ghana’s cultural heritage and the mponponsuo, but to find out whether the Ashanti fighting art was still alive.
The mponponsuo had come home, even if only on loan. Now it was my turn.
Like so many children who grew up in the western diaspora, away from their parents’ home countries, I felt the pain of estrangement. I was tired of my voice, my time, my culture, my identity being taken from me. Time was taking my father away from me. It was time to train hard in the sword arts, defend against the mponponso as it returned to Britain, and find out whether the Ashanti fighting arts were still alive.
Overall, though, after years of avoidance and gallivanting around the world, Ghana was calling. I spent my adult life told I needed to fit into hostile Western institutions that only rejected me. It was time to go home, to find out where I truly belonged.
i love this story and the way you are writing it. i assume you've seen Ashes of Time. I suggest trying to turn this story into a script, with Wong Karwai or Ang Lee in mind as director (even if that doesn't happen; think of their style). Full of Hong Kong film magical surrealism. good luck on this journey.
Amazing work (and mission!). Your voice is a profound treasure!