Claire Thomas
What You Need to Know
In Ghana, women accused of witchcraft are often exiled to witch camps, facing social stigma and isolation. These camps, such as Gambaga, provide refuge but also highlight deep-rooted beliefs in sorcery. Many women, like 85-year-old Anabiri, have lived in these camps for decades, struggling for acceptance and a chance to return home.
Africa. Sitting on a small plastic chair at the doorway of her mud hut, Bashalibanoia Anabiri digs her bare feet into the dusty floor as she shifts her posture. Her clothes, worn thin by dust and time, tell of a long, harsh life.
At 85, Anabiri is the oldest resident of the Gambaga Witch Camp in northeastern Ghana and among the very first women exiled to this isolated community. “I’ve lived in this camp for forty-five years,” she says.
After her husband’s death, the children of his other wife accused her of witchcraft, blaming her for the family’s misfortunes.
Reverend Gladys Lariba Mahama, a Presbyterian minister who has supported the Gambaga women since 1997, explains:
“She had no children. Whenever a child of the other wife fell ill, they blamed her. Later, they accused her of causing a death and brought her to Gambaga.”
Now, Anabiri lives among about eighty other women, all expelled from their families over similar accusations.
In Gambaga, clusters of mud huts with thatched roofs form a quiet settlement. Daily life unfolds softly — women cook together, share chores, care for one another’s children, and build small pockets of solidarity in a world apart.
The camp’s invisible walls offer only fragile safety — protection from attacks by nearby villagers — yet cannot erase the stigma: all its residents are labeled “witches.”
Exiled from Their Homes
Belief in witchcraft runs deep in Ghana, across both rural and urban life, says John Azumah, director of the Sanneh Institute in Accra, a research center long supporting survivors of witchcraft accusations and part of a coalition advocating for legal and social reform.
“It’s not just a Ghanaian issue,” says Azumah.
“Belief in the supernatural is very strong in Africa — in Nigeria, in East Africa — but what’s unique about Ghana are these established camps in the North.”
While accusations occur elsewhere, women in those regions are usually ostracized, not exiled.
In the North, however, accused women are often sent to ‘witch camps,’ seen as their final refuge.
These camps, often near or within villages, are run by traditional priests or camp chiefs, typically appointed by local chieftains. The Gambaga camp is the oldest and most famous, but others exist in Kukuo, Gnani, and Kpatinga.
The women — usually elderly, widowed, or lacking family protection — are the most vulnerable, Azumah notes. Many are also “the poorest of the poor.” Once accused, they face mob violence, abandonment, or lifelong banishment.
Sometimes, accusations turn deadly.
In July 2020, a 90-year-old woman, Akua Denteh, was lynched in a public market after being accused of witchcraft. Her brutal murder shocked the nation and sparked calls for reform.
“It’s violence against women — the demonization of women,” says Azumah, noting that witchcraft itself isn’t always seen as evil.
While men accused of witchcraft are sometimes viewed as protectors or healers, women are condemned.
“Almost any misfortune can be seen as evidence of witchcraft,” Azumah adds.
“People may accuse others out of malice or to remove them — disputes over land, property, or even plain jealousy, like when someone’s child succeeds at school.”
A Customary Trial of Chance
Once a woman is accused and sent to a camp, she undergoes a traditional “trial” involving the sacrifice of a chicken or guinea fowl.
Traditional spiritual leader Alhassan Shi, who oversees the Gnani camp, explains:
“When the bird dies, its position determines the verdict.
If it falls on its back with its head up, the woman is guilty.
If it falls on its face, she is innocent.”
Yet even when this ritual proves her innocence, she rarely returns home.
For most women, the accusation alone is enough to banish them for life.
“Communities where these women come from are often not ready to take them back,” Shi concludes.
Camps of Exile
The Kpatinga Camp is a small settlement of about 35 round huts, located roughly fifteen minutes by car from the main village.
Some huts have metal roofs, and a few are equipped with electric bulbs. Around forty women live there.
Like other “witch camps” in northern Ghana, Kpatinga emerged informally over time as a place of refuge for women accused of witchcraft, fleeing mob violence or lynching.
The camp chiefs or overseers are responsible for protecting the women but also hold significant influence — sometimes even inspiring fear.
Although local communities generally tolerate these camps, they are not necessarily sanctuaries.
“The camps are neither shelters nor prisons — they’re something in between,” says John Azumah.
Kpatinga is quieter and more secluded than the others.
Under the shade of a neem tree, camp leader Adam Moussa, 77, watches the women beside him working — shelling peanuts, expressionless, their moods heavy and their conversations sparse.
Away from his gaze, the women become less guarded. Their voices remain soft, but they begin to speak cautiously, sharing their stories.
Among them is Abdulia Mile, 68, who has lived in exile for nearly five years.
She has eight children. Her own son accused her after his uncle was diagnosed with a stomach ulcer.
At first, she took refuge in her father’s house, but her son kept coming, accusing her of witchcraft.
“I cried,” Mile says. Eventually, her father told her she must leave — her son brought her to Kpatinga.
“My son regrets accusing me,” she says quietly. “I’m not happy living here.” She adds that her son now wants her to come home, “but my family won’t accept me anymore.”
Like Mile and Anabiri, many women in the camps were accused by their own relatives. Others were accused by strangers.
Fushina Dukorgu, a widow and mother of five, has lived in exile for six years in a remote camp on the outskirts of Gnani village.
Her husband died when their youngest child was five. After the sudden death of her nephew, the village chief accused her of witchcraft.
She was immediately expelled and now lives alone.
Dukorgu sits quietly with other women outside their huts. Around 130 people live in the camp.
There are no farms, and the only ways to earn food or money come from occasional work for local farmers.
The women spend their days talking, resting, and sharing long hours together.
Inside her small, windowless hut surrounded by tall grass, Dukorgu answers a phone call from her son — she hasn’t seen him in more than two years.
He studies at a university in Tamale, about three hours away by car.
Distance and limited family resources make visits nearly impossible.
Although she speaks with her children by phone, the conversations do little to ease the pain of separation.
“I’m not happy because my children aren’t with me… I just want to go home,” she says.
But returning home isn’t an option — she fears the villagers might harm her.
And while the camps lack walls or gates, most women do not feel free to leave.
Many fear violence or believe that returning home would bring sickness, bad luck, or even death.
“There are no physical barriers keeping the women from leaving, but the cultural and psychological ones run deep,” says Azumah.
“They are made to believe that if they leave the camp, the spirits will kill them.”
Loss of Livelihoods
Life in the camps largely depends on farming and small trade, supported occasionally by NGOs and religious groups that provide food, healthcare, and reintegration aid whenever possible.
Limanatu Adam, executive director of Songtaba Women’s Rights Organization in northern Ghana, says one of the biggest challenges for women is getting enough food.
“Most women flee here or are forced to come,” she explains.
“Once they arrive, they lose all sources of income.”
Most women accused of witchcraft are over sixty and childless, but in some cases, they live with children or grandchildren who also face social stigma — as many believe that witchcraft is transferable, she notes.
John Azumah adds that these children become trapped in the same cycle of poverty and shame.
Over the years, reports have surfaced of exploitation and abuse.
Because the camps are informal and women rely on local farmers or villagers for food, they are vulnerable to mistreatment, says Azumah.
“Abuse in the camps is rampant,” he says, citing unpaid labor, sexual exploitation, and forced child marriage.
Hope of Return
At Gambaga, Reverend Gladys Mahama moves easily through the camp, greeting women by name and exchanging warm smiles.
“We are here every morning,” she says, as an elderly woman approaches her with a gentle smile and outstretched hand.
Nearby, women stop pumping water to greet her.
Unlike other camps marked by tension between residents and managers, Gambaga stands as a more positive example.
Its central location near the village means greater community acceptance and easier family visits.
“Life here isn’t easy,” says Mahama.
“It’s not the best shelter, but it’s somewhat better. When a new woman arrives, others cry all week because of the torture and pain she’s endured.”
Her church offers counseling sessions to help women process trauma.
Their classes and gatherings, often involving singing and dancing, provide moments of relief.
In some cases, the Presbyterian Church and NGOs actively support reintegration programs.
“We work hard on reintegration,” says Mahama.
“Now, some women visit their families and come back, and relatives also come here to see them.”
For others, returning home isn’t an option; families refuse to visit or accept them.
“Sometimes, because of humiliation and trauma, when we ask if they want to go back, they simply say: no,” Mahama explains.
Still, a few stories of return bring hope.
Ama Samani, a mother of eight in her fifties, found a new chance at life through reintegration. “I wanted to die because the separation was unbearable,” she recalls.
Once known for her hard work, she was accused by her niece of causing a mysterious illness. A traditional ritual found her “guilty” of witchcraft.
With no one to defend her and rejected by her husband, she spent four years isolated in Gambaga, occasionally visited by her children.
In April this year, thanks to her children’s persistence, church mediation, local human rights advocates, and financial aid, she finally moved to a nearby village where her extended family lives.
“Life is still hard, but I’m happy to be with my children,” she says.
She dreams of starting a soap-making business, a skill she learned in Gambaga.
Another former resident, Akoloboka, was also reintegrated before her death last year.
When her photo is shown to the women at Gambaga, they smile fondly, recalling her as a hardworking woman who carried water, collected firewood, and performed the daily chores that defined her life in exile.
Such rare but powerful stories remind the women that returning home is possible.
Once a Witch, Always a Witch
Reintegration is often costly and complicated.
First, both the family and the community must agree to accept the woman back — a step that rarely happens.
If they do, the woman must undergo a traditional ritual performed by a local priest to “forgive” her supposed powers.
The ritual includes an animal sacrifice and fees to the priest, often exceeding 1,000 Ghanaian cedis (around $90 USD).
Some women could safely return home but cannot afford the cost, explains John Azumah.
Sometimes, NGOs help cover these expenses, but even after the ritual, families and communities still refuse to accept the women back.
“Most communities don’t believe in exorcism,” says Azumah. “They believe that once you’re a witch, you’ll always be a witch. They believe in diagnosis, not in healing.” Nevertheless, efforts to break this cycle are increasing.
Reverend Gladys Mahama’s church has helped five women reintegrate into their communities this year, while NGOs and women’s rights organizations have supported hundreds more over the past fifteen years.
The Struggle for Change
In March 2025, the Ghanaian Parliament reopened debate on the Anti-Witchcraft Bill.
If passed, it would criminalize witchcraft accusations and allow police and social workers to intervene.
It would also establish reintegration programs to support survivors returning to society.
The law had previously been approved in 2023, but the former president refused to sign it.
Activists describe the bill as a critical opportunity for change, yet challenges remain.
Belief in witchcraft is deeply rooted, and stigma cannot be erased by legislation alone.
Police resources are limited in rural areas, and exiled women face an uncertain future.
Even if the law takes effect, many still ask: “Where will we go?” In the camps, women are slowly advocating for change and fighting stigma.
During Mother’s Day celebrations in May 2025, organized by Songtaba at the Gnani camp, one woman held up a sign reading: “Being old is not a crime… Stop targeting elderly women!”
Meanwhile, in Gambaga, the camp’s oldest resident, Anabiri, has struggled with mental health issues since 2010, says Mahama.
She has received medical care and medication that improved her condition, yet she rarely speaks, wandering silently through the settlement.
As Ghana moves toward enacting a law banning witchcraft accusations, most exiled women continue their lives in quiet resilience.
But even if change comes, it will likely arrive too late for Anabiri.
after more than four decades of exile, the octogenarian is expected to spend her remaining days in her hut on the outskirts of Gambaga.
The belief in witchcraft is deeply ingrained in Ghanaian culture, affecting both rural and urban communities. Women, particularly the elderly or vulnerable, are often the targets of accusations, leading to their exile in witch camps. These camps serve as a refuge from violence but also perpetuate social stigma, making reintegration into society challenging for many women.
Source: Al Jazeera
