Accra

Accra walks with the confidence of the first: Ghana led sub-Saharan Africa out of colonial rule in 1957, and the capital keeps the receipts in the open — the Black Star arch on its independence square, Nkrumah's mausoleum in bronze and water, and Jamestown, the old quarter under the lighthouse, where fishing canoes land through the surf and the boxing gyms have produced world champions out of two square kilometers of grit and drums.

The sensible traveller walks Jamestown with a local guide from the lighthouse to the harbor; braves Makola market, which sells everything and organizes the city around itself; visits the fantasy-coffin carpenters of Teshie, who send people off in wooden fish, lions and airplanes — a tradition of joy at the hardest hour —; buys kente from the weavers, not the drive-by stalls; and gives the night to Osu's grills and highlife, where the city rehearses its happiness daily.

The Guide's honesty: akwaaba — welcome — is meant literally here, and the friendliness is not a setup —; taxis negotiate before wheels move, or use the apps; the ocean at Labadi has real currents: swim where the flags and the locals agree; August's Chale Wote festival is glorious and packed — book early; and on the jollof question the Guide notes that Ghana's is exquisite, and that it said the opposite in Lagos, and that this is called diplomacy.