My tour began at Aflao, Ghana’s lively gateway to Togo. The border post buzzed with activity: traders bargaining, taxi drivers competing for passengers, and travelers weaving through the crowds at one of West Africa’s busiest crossings. There was hardly a quiet corner, but that was part of the experience.
For all the passports, checkpoints, and official boundaries, Aflao had not always marked the end of one country and the beginning of another. Long before colonial powers arrived with maps and rulers, this stretch of land lay between the Ashanti and Dahomey kingdoms. The Ewe people moved freely across it, without having to explain themselves to an immigration officer.
That changed after the Berlin Conference, when the territory became part of German Togoland, squeezed between the British Gold Coast and French Dahomey. Following Germany’s defeat in World War I, the land was divided, separating families, neighbors, and communities that had once belonged together. Even today, the border at Aflao feels less like a natural divide and more like a colonial line drawn through one people.
Once I crossed into Lomé, the mood shifted from border bustle to coastal freedom. Sunshine danced across Boulevard du Mono, a palm-lined highway running beside the Atlantic. It was the kind of road that immediately made me feel that the real adventure had begun.
From there, I climbed into a weathered Renault taxi heading toward Aného, near the border with Benin. I was squeezed into the front seat, but the discomfort disappeared the moment I rolled down the window. Salty air rushed in, coconut trees flickered past, and the road stretched ahead. I settled into my seat as best I could and let Togo introduce itself.
The ocean traveled beside us, wild, restless, and completely uninterested in behaving politely. Its waves crashed against the shore with enough force to make me reconsider my swimming ambitions. Before returning to my landlocked home, I still intended to spend some time on the beach, preferably with a cold drink in hand, but I had already decided to leave the waves alone. Some forces of nature are better admired without trying to negotiate with them.
For roughly 50 kilometers, the Aflao–Aného highway followed Togo’s golden-brown shoreline. In Lomé, soccer matches unfolded right on the beach, proving once again that Africans can turn almost any open space into a soccer field. Dusty streets, empty plots, and sandy shores all became makeshift pitches, complete with improvised goalposts and plenty of enthusiasm.
As the journey continued, postcard beauty met everyday reality. Palm groves gave way to the crumbling remains of a German bridge built in 1904, now sheltering a few displaced families. Farther along, the gleaming Ecobank headquarters rose above Lomé, offering a striking contrast to the aging structure behind us.
Beyond it, the port was alive with cranes, containers, ships, and constant movement. It was a reminder that although Togo is small, its coastline connects it to a much larger world.
East of the capital, the scenery softened again. Private beach clubs and resorts gradually gave way to fishing shacks, modest settlements, and “land for sale” signs. The polished side of the coast faded into something quieter and more lived-in.
Beyond Agbodrafo, the road slipped between the Atlantic Ocean and Lake Togo. Water shimmered on both sides, creating one of those rare stretches of road that almost demanded silence. Across the lake lay Togoville, a place rich in history, while Aného waited ahead with its own mixture of heritage, trade, and coastal life.
By the time we reached the border with Benin, the calm of the lakeside road had disappeared. Traders, travelers, taxi drivers, and transporters moved in every direction. Goods changed hands, engines rumbled, voices rose above one another, and the crossing seemed to operate according to its own rhythm.
Standing there, I felt the pulse of West Africa: movement, exchange, resilience, and the never-ending flow of life along the Atlantic coast.