In a remote part of West Africa, centuries-old superstitions continue to condemn women accused of witchcraft to exile. A landmark bill offers hope — but can justice overcome belief?
Report and photographs by Claire Thomas
From ghouls and goblins to fairies and ogres, mythical creatures have long stirred the imaginations of children. Tales of wizards and witches – one often symbolising wisdom and power, the other evil and danger – remain especially enduring, kept alive through books, films and folklore. But in northern Ghana, witches aren’t confined to fairy tales. Belief in witchcraft remains widespread and deeply entrenched there, with devastating consequences, particularly for women.
This belief can be deadly. In July 2020, 90-year-old Akua Denteh was brutally lynched in a public market after being accused of witchcraft. Her killing, filmed and widely circulated, shocked the nation and galvanised calls for legal reform. Her death became a symbol of the deadly intersection of superstition and gender-based violence.
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To be accused of witchcraft in Ghana is to face exile, persecution and even death. These accusations – often directed at older, vulnerable women – can be triggered by personal misfortunes: the death of a relative, failed crops, illness or jealousy over a woman’s independence. Even a child’s success at school can spark suspicions of a mother’s spell. For those deemed guilty, banishment to one of northern Ghana’s six so-called ‘witch camps’ is often the only means of survival.
I first visited the Gambaga ‘witch camp’, located in Ghana’s North East Region, in 2008, and returned in 2012. There, I witnessed first-hand the stark realities the women endure. While interviewing one elderly woman, I asked if she believed she was a witch. Before she could respond, my translator, who was related to the local chief, interjected: ‘Of course she’s a witch. Why else would she be here?’ The question was never translated. Her answer was lost – her voice dismissed before it could even be heard.
The settlement – a cluster of round mud huts with thatched roofs in Ghana’s semi-arid savannah – offers fragile protection: safety from attack, but no escape from the stigma of being branded a witch.
Accusations often lead to a traditional ‘trial’ – a ritual involving the slaughter of a chicken or guinea fowl, with the manner of its death interpreted as spiritual evidence. But in many cases, the accusation alone is enough to seal a woman’s fate. Regardless of the ritual’s outcome, she may be cast out by her community, her judgment delivered not by spirits, but by neighbours.
When I returned to northern Ghana in May 2025, I met Matis Awola, a widow who had been banished from her home just a month earlier. For her, a man’s dream became a living nightmare.
‘A man saw me in a dream and the next day I was accused of being a witch,’ she tells me. ‘I went to the bush and wanted to kill myself.’
In April 2025, her son brought her to Gambaga, where she now lives in a tiny, windowless hut among about 80 other accused women. She survives by working on a local farm in exchange for food, clinging to the hope that she might one day return to her family.
Life in the camps is marked by relentless hardship. The women live in poverty and bear the burden of societal rejection, often ostracised even by their own families. They sleep on dirt floors in makeshift huts, relying on sparse donations from NGOs, churches or well-wishers. Access to clean water, healthcare and food is unreliable. Children who accompany their mothers or grandmothers are often bullied in school or pulled into street work, stigmatised as ‘witches’ children’.
Bachalbanueya has spent more than 40 years in exile. Now in her 80s, she sits quietly outside her crumbling mud-brick hut. She was banished after her husband’s co-wife accused her of witchcraft following his death – grief weaponised into a lifetime of isolation.
‘She had no children of her own,’ explains Reverend Gladys Lariba Mahama, a Presbyterian minister who has supported the women of Gambaga camp since 1997. ‘Whenever a child of the co-wife fell sick, they [the family] attributed it to her. Later, she was accused of causing the death of one of them, and she was brought to Gambaga.’
Stories like hers are tragically common. ‘It is violence against women – a demonisation of women,’ says Professor John Azumah, executive director of the Sanneh Institute in Accra, which has long supported survivors and is part of a coalition pushing for legal reform.
Even in Western usage, the term ‘witch hunt’ reflects long-standing cultural beliefs that associate witches with evil, and overwhelmingly with women. While men can also be accused, accusations most often target women. Witchcraft itself isn’t always seen as evil, Azumah explains, but when it’s believed to reside in a woman, it becomes feared and condemned. Male witches, by contrast, are often thought to use their powers for good.
Most of the women banished to camps are among society’s most vulnerable. ‘These women are the poorest of the poor,’ says Azumah. ‘They have no child or relatives well-off enough to speak for them – that’s why they’re languishing there. Women with educated children – those children get their mothers out. But these women have no-one. They are truly the voiceless.’
Lamnatu Adam, executive director of Songtaba, a women’s rights organisation in northern Ghana, echoes this view. ‘When men are spiritually strong, it’s said they use their power to protect the community and family,’ she says. ‘But when women are thought to be spiritually strong, it’s said they use it to cause harm, illness and disaster.’
As a result, women – particularly older women – disproportionately bear the burden of accusation and exile. ‘About 90 per cent of the women who are accused are over 60 years old and without education,’ says Adam. ‘They are very poor. Most don’t have children, and about 80 per cent are widows.’
Azumah traces the pattern of accusations to a blend of spiritual belief and calculated social exclusion. ‘It’s the oldest conspiracy theory of humankind,’ he says. ‘And it is a form of misogyny.’ Even a woman’s success, such as a bountiful harvest, can provoke jealousy. ‘They accuse her just to get her out of the community, then they take over her land.’
Sometimes, the danger comes from within the family. ‘Young men may genuinely believe their mothers are sabotaging their lives,’ he adds. ‘They truly believe it.’ In the end, he says, it’s scapegoating, ‘a conspiracy theory that has been used – and still is’.
Refuge or prison?
There are now around six unofficial ‘witch camps’ remaining in northern Ghana, situated near remote villages such as Gambaga, Kpatinga, Gnani and Kukuo. While these settlements may offer refuge from immediate danger, they also stand as stark reminders of social exclusion and the unresolved injustice the women continue to face.
As Professor Azumah puts it: ‘The camps are neither a refuge nor a prison, they are something in between.’
There are no fences or gates, yet most women don’t feel free to leave. Many believe that returning home would bring illness, misfortune or even death. Some were violently attacked before fleeing; others were quietly cast out by relatives seeking to rid the family of perceived spiritual danger.
‘There are no physical barriers keeping the women inside,’ says Professor Azumah. ‘But cultural and psychological ones are deeply entrenched. The women are made to believe that if they leave the camp, the spirits will kill them.’
Fusheina, a widow and mother of five, has lived in the Gnani camp in Ghana’s Northern Region for the past six years. She was accused of witchcraft by the chief of her village after the sudden death of her nephew. Expelled immediately, she now lives alone. ‘I’m not happy because my children are not with me,’ she says sorrowfully. ‘I just want to go home.’ But returning is not an option – she fears the villagers would harm her.
Life in the camp is extremely difficult, Fusheina adds. ‘There is no work. We don’t have a farm here, so we have no way of earning money.’ She hasn’t seen her children in more than two years.
While witchcraft accusations are common across Ghana, and many other countries, the practice of banishing women to isolated camps is less prevalent. ‘[Belief in] witchcraft is not just a Ghanaian thing,’ explains Professor Azumah. ‘It’s very strong in Nigeria, in East Africa, Tanzania, South Africa. What is unique about Ghana is the camps in the north.’
Despite being established to provide a place of refuge for vulnerable women, there are reports of exploitation and abuse within the camps. ‘I don’t call it a refuge,’ stresses Professor Azumah. ‘These are places of exploitation – the women there are exploited. Some of them are sexually abused, physically molested.’
Some women are forced to work without pay, fetching water or farming for community leaders and priests. There are credible reports of sexual abuse, and in at least one documented case, a priest fathered children with multiple women in a camp, according to Professor Azumah.
‘People are making money out of it,’ he adds. ‘It has become an industry – it is a huge business for people there. The women are used for free labour by the community leaders in the rainy season – they make them go and cultivate their farms. They do all the work manually and all they get is whatever food they can give them there to eat that day to do the work, that’s all. They are not paid anything.’
Even humanitarian aid doesn’t always reach its intended recipients. Community leaders – who often control the camps – have been accused of diverting food and money for personal use.
‘These are not safe havens,’ says Azumah. ‘They are places where society has abandoned its most vulnerable.’
In Gambaga, the Presbyterian Church has worked for decades to help restore dignity and agency, says Reverend Gladys Lariba Mahama. ‘In the past, when women were banished, no-one asked about them,’ she says. ‘But because of the church’s intervention, people now know them, and the whole world knows their story.’
‘This place [Gambaga camp] was established out of love and sympathy,’ she continues. Referring to the camp as a ‘home’, Reverend Gladys explains that it was founded decades ago when a local religious leader intervened to protect women accused of witchcraft. ‘Whenever they were accused, they would send them to the execution field to kill them. So this man – he was the imam of Gambaga – pleaded that they come here instead.’
Since the early 1960s, the Presbyterian Church of Ghana has supported the women by providing food, second-hand clothing and helping to repair their modest homes. ‘Around 1994, the church saw that they could do more,’ explains Reverend Gladys. ‘So they came up with a proposal – the main purpose was to reintegrate the women into their original communities, ensure their health needs are met, send their children to school and make life more comfortable for them here.’
The women of Gambaga camp clearly trust Reverend Gladys. As she moves through the settlement she greets the women by name, exchanging warm smiles and translating their stories with care.
‘We are here every morning,’ she tells me as an elderly woman approaches her with a gentle smile and a handshake. ‘We’re working hard now on the reintegration programme. Many women travel home to visit and return. Some of their family members even come here to see them.’
Still, stigma remains. For most of the women, their families refuse to visit.
Gambaga’s central location – at the heart of the village rather than tucked away – offers a greater degree of community integration. ‘They’re well integrated into Gambaga and the surrounding communities,’ says Reverend Gladys. ‘Sometimes, because of the humiliation and trauma they’ve endured, when you ask the women if they want to go home, some will say no.’
The cost of going home
Reintegration comes at a cost – both symbolic and financial. For the few women who eventually return, sometimes years or even decades after being accused, the process depends on a traditional ‘cleansing’ ritual intended to absolve them of alleged witchcraft. Performed by spiritual leaders, it typically involves the slaughter of a ram and a chicken, and can cost more than 1,000 Ghanaian cedis (around US$100).
But even with support, reintegration is far from straightforward. In many cases, no amount of spiritual absolution or mediation is enough to convince families or communities to accept a woman back. ‘Most of the communities say even the exorcism – we don’t believe in it, because once a witch, forever a witch,’ says Professor Azumah. ‘They [the communities] believe in the diagnosis, but not the cure. When the same priest declares a woman a witch, they believe him. But when he says, “I can perform a ritual to free her of the spirit,” they don’t believe that part.’
In Gambaga, the church often steps in. ‘When a woman wants to try to return home, we work on it,’ says Reverend Gladys. ‘But first she has to go through purification.’
For Ama Somani, a mother of eight, the church’s support changed everything. ‘I wanted death because it was too painful,’ she says, recalling her exile. She had been accused by her niece, who blamed her for a mysterious illness. A traditional ritual involving the slaughter of a guinea fowl found her guilty. With no one to defend her – her husband, a landlord in their community, remained absent – Ama spent four years in Gambaga, isolated and uncertain.
In April 2025, with help from the Presbyterian Church, she was finally reintegrated into her extended family in a nearby village. The church provided food rations and negotiated her return. Life remains difficult, she says, but she is overjoyed to be reunited with her children and loved ones.
Alongside the church, Professor Azumah and the Sanneh Institute, together with NGOs and human rights advocates, have worked tirelessly to reintegrate accused women across northern Ghana.
‘Sometimes the accuser has died, or the situation in the village has changed, and the woman can safely return,’ explains Azumah. ‘Sometimes the community or family regrets the accusation. They admit it came from jealousy or envy. They want the woman to come back. But first, she has to pay what I call the “discharge fee” – the cost of rituals to release her.’
These rituals, he adds, are what keep many women trapped. ‘Most can’t afford them. So even when they could return safely, they’re stuck because they can’t pay for the ceremony that would set them free.’ In some cases, as NGOs have stepped in to help, community leaders have raised prices, hoping donors will cover the costs. ‘They’ve inflated the fees astronomically,’ says Azumah. ‘And so, the cycle continues.’
Despite these obstacles, organisations such as ActionAid Ghana and Songtaba have helped reintegrate hundreds of women. ‘Overall, we’ve reintegrated not less than 600 people into their communities over the past 15 years,’ says Esther Boateng, ActionAid Ghana’s regional manager for the Northern, Northeast and Savannah regions. ‘We identify their home communities, engage families and involve the entire community – the same community that accused them.’
In 2014, ActionAid worked with the Ministry of Gender to shut down the Bonyasi camp in the Central Gonja District after successfully reintegrating all of its residents. ‘We had to ensure their safety, so we combined community sensitisation, radio education and events like Mother’s Day celebrations to build acceptance,’ says Boateng. ‘We even built houses for some women returning home. It was a fully integrated programme, and today, Bonyasi camp no longer exists.’
Spirits, sickness and superstition
The persistence of witchcraft accusations in Ghana can’t be understood without acknowledging the deep-rooted belief in spirits, possession and supernatural causality – beliefs that shape how many Ghanaians interpret illness, misfortune and conflict.
During a visit to the stilt village of Nzulezu in Ghana’s Western Region in 2012, I witnessed just how deeply these convictions are held. One night, the wooden platform beneath me shuddered, waking me from sleep. Under a moonlit sky, I stepped outside the homestay hut and onto the creaking boardwalk. Across the water, silhouetted figures had gathered. Women wailed and chanted, a plume of smoke rising among them. A small child, wrapped in a blanket, was being passed gently from one person to another.
Curious and concerned, I asked what was happening. I was told the child had been possessed by an evil spirit.
Later, a man approached and asked if I could help. Unsure what to say, I suggested we take the child to the hospital to be tested for malaria. ‘No, no,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘We need to take out the evil spirit.’ The ritual continued through the night.
The next morning, I saw a relative of the boy and asked how he was doing. With a broad smile of relief, the man said, ‘He’s much better.’ I asked what had been wrong with him. ‘Malaria!’ he answered.
This brief encounter has stayed with me for years. It revealed how central spiritual explanations are to daily life, and how illness and affliction are often viewed through a supernatural lens. In that context, it becomes easier to understand how, in moments of unexplained tragedy or fear, suspicion turns towards someone believed to possess malevolent power. Often, that someone is an older woman without protection.
Belief in witchcraft is very strong, Professor Azumah tells me. ‘Medical doctors believe it; police officers believe it. Even judges believe it.’
Hope, and a way forward
What has struck me most on each visit to the camps of northern Ghana is the remarkable resilience of the women who live there. Despite the extreme hardship and the isolation of exile – not just from society, but often from their own families – the women maintain a quiet strength. Even in the face of rejection and poverty, the joyful spirit so beautifully woven into Ghanaian culture endures. ‘Happiness is free,’ one woman told me with a smile.
Now, for the first time in years, there is a glimmer of hope. In March 2025, Ghana’s parliament reintroduced a landmark piece of legislation: the Anti-Witchcraft Bill. If passed, it would outlaw the naming or accusing of someone as a witch, criminalise the spiritual consultations that often lead to accusations, hold ritual practitioners legally accountable and empower police and social workers to intervene. Crucially, it also lays the groundwork for reintegration programmes to support survivors returning to society.
The bill had previously passed parliament in July 2023 as an amendment to the Criminal Offences Act, 1960, but Ghana’s former president refused to sign it into law. Reintroduced under a new administration, the bill is now scheduled for debate – what campaigners describe as a final, pivotal opportunity for change.
According to the bill, its primary objective is ‘to address the unfortunate beliefs and thinking in some communities that make Madam Akua Denteh’s case possible’. Her brutal murder in 2020 sparked national outrage and galvanised public support for reform.
The bill acknowledges that belief in witchcraft is not unique to Ghana. It cites England’s 1735 Witchcraft Act, which criminalised accusing someone of magical powers, and underscores the importance of public education and cultural transformation. ‘Now witchcraft isn’t illegal in the UK, but the level of enlightenment is such that witchcraft is generally viewed with amusement, if not ridicule.’
Civil society organisations, including ActionAid Ghana, Songtaba and the Sanneh Institute, have long advocated for these reforms, leading public awareness campaigns and pushing for legal protection of accused women. Amnesty International has also urged parliament to pass the bill without delay, warning that continued inaction leaves hundreds of women at risk of violence and abuse.
While many are hopeful that the current president will sign the bill if passed again, doubts persist. ‘It’s not a vote winner,’ says Professor Azumah.
Even after the widespread condemnation that followed Akua Denteh’s murder, resistance to reform remains entrenched. ‘We have our own conspiracy theories,’ Azumah says in response to the previous president’s refusal to sign the bill. ‘We believe there are powerful religious figures and some chiefs working behind the scenes to block it.’
Those fears haven’t disappeared. ‘That’s our concern with the current president, too,’ he continues. ‘If the bill is passed again and those chiefs and religious leaders start to pressure him behind closed doors, we might never even know. Politicians want votes. And they fear that pushing this through could hurt them in the next election.’
Among advocates, there is cautious optimism. Passing the bill is only the beginning. Real change will require coordinated implementation, sustained funding and a long-term commitment from both the government and civil society.
Even the bill itself acknowledges these challenges: ‘Legislation on such a subject may not immediately eliminate the problem, but it provides an awareness and a deterrent, which, if handled with the requisite public education and sensitisation, can eradicate the practice.’
‘I think the passage of the legislation will significantly reduce the accusations,’ says Professor Azumah. ‘And over time, it will die out.’
‘The accusation is the beginning of everything,’ he adds. ‘If we stop it at the source, we can begin to address the issue. We’re not going to relent. We will keep pushing until this bill becomes law.’
A nation at a crossroads
Ghana now stands at a crossroads. The debate over the Anti-Witchcraft Bill is not only about superstition, but also about women’s rights, state responsibility and the power of law to reshape cultural norms.
For survivors like Bachalbanueya, the bill may come too late to restore what was lost. But whether Ghana chooses to act now, or allows fear and silence to prevail, will determine not only the fate of women like her, but the moral direction of the nation itself.
