EWUDU AND NGMADUMƆ: How Millet Once Saved the Guans and Ga-Adangme.

 EWUDU AND NGMADUMƆ:  How Millet Once Saved the Guans and Ga-Adangme.

By Abeiku Okai

(+233) 0249287855

Before maize and cassava arrived with the Europeans and took over Ghanaian kitchens, it was millet that saved lives. To the coastal Guan of Senya and Awutu Breku (Obutu), it is called Ewu. To the Ga-Adangme, it is Ngma. More than a grain, millet was the people’s shield against famine, a teacher of discipline, and a vessel of identity. It fed not only the body but revived the spirit of the people, being woven into festivals, rituals, and the very rhythm of survival.

Oral traditions recall a time of devastating famine along the southern coast of Ghana. From the Guan communities of Awutu Breku (Obutu), Senya Beraku, Simpa (Winneba), and Fetu (Cape Coast), to the Ga-Adangme settlements of Accra, hunger stalked the people. In their desperation, elders from the affected communities sought the help of a renowned high priest, Atta Atiɛ Kwesi Kwei, who served at the Akrama Anu (temple) in Senya Beraku.

The high priest requested time to consult the deity responsible for rain, fertility, and harvest. This deity was known as Sekum Apa (Ga-Adangme: Sakumo), from which the town of Sakumono in Accra derives its name. 

When the priest returned, his message was striking. The famine, he declared, was not simply bad luck. It was the result of social decay: laziness, indiscipline, and an unhealthy obsession with entertainment, i.e. drumming and dancing. The solution was not only prayer but hard work. The gods demanded systematic agriculture, and at its center, the planting of millet.

To make the lesson unforgettable, the priest composed a poetic song. That song, carried through the centuries, still resounds today as Ewow-Ewow! (Awo-Awo!) during the Akomase Festival of Senya Beraku and Simpa (Winneba), Awubia of Awutu Breku (Obutu) and the Homowo of the Ga-Adangme. Although many today assume it to be a mystical language reserved for the priests and ritual performances, it is in fact a song of instruction, warning, and survival to every citizen. Its message is simple: cease drumming and idleness, devote yourselves to hard work, and you will overcome famine. Prosperity, the song teaches, comes from the ocean (inu a inu, abundance of fish), from the heavens (nsu a nsu, abundance of rain), and from the land (ominja a ominja, abundance of produce).

The elders obeyed. A systematic communal farming cycle was established, spanning February to August. In May, at the heart of this cycle, millet was planted across the land. This planting was called Ewu-du among the Guans and Ngmadumo among the Ga-Adangme. In the Guan coastal language, Ewu means millet, while among the Ga-Adangme it is known as Ngma. In both traditions, du means “to plant.

Immediately after Ewudu and Ngmadumo, a strict ban on drumming and noise-making was enforced. It remained in place until the harvest in August, when it was lifted during Odada — the “great drumming” festival (da meaning “to drum”). This was more than a religious regulation; it was an agricultural safeguard. Silence created the discipline, order, and focus needed for successful farming.

When the harvest finally came, the famine was broken. The people took this as undeniable proof of the priest’s message. From that moment, Ewudu and Ngmadumɔ were no longer mere farming practices. They became sacred traditions, rituals of planting that carried both ancestral authority and practical wisdom.

These traditions laid the foundation for some of Ghana’s most renowned festivals. Akomase among the people of Senya Beraku and Simpa, Awubia among the Awutu Breku, and Homowo among the Ga-Adangme all retain elements of their ritual structure from that first millet planting. Central to the celebration is a distinctive meal prepared with the harvested millet (from the land) and fresh fish (from the ocean). It is eaten exclusively with palmnut soup, the palm symbolizing prosperity and stability. Among the Coastal Guans this meal is called Npunpun, while the Ga-Adangme know it as Kpokpoi or Kpekple. More than food, it is an offering of gratitude, a testimony of abundance, and a reminder that the famine has been overcome. The ritual sprinkling of the meal during the festival dramatizes this truth: there is enough to eat, and enough to spare. In that spirit, celebrants greet one another with efi-mpa na mpa among the Guans, or afi o afi/Ŋɔɔ Wala among the Ga-Adangme. Both expressions mean “receive abundant life” or “the spirit of the anniversary revives life.” The greeting carries deep weight, for the festival itself was born from a struggle against death through famine and the communal embrace of life.

The wisdom of millet

But why millet? Beyond being an ancient staple, millet was a smart choice. It thrives in poor soils and endures drought, conditions familiar to the coastal savanna. Nutritionally, millet is remarkably rich. It provides iron, protein, and dietary fiber, making it more nourishing than many modern staples. It has a low glycemic index, meaning it releases sugar slowly into the bloodstream. This makes it ideal for managing diabetes and protecting against sudden spikes in blood sugar. Its high magnesium and potassium content supports healthy blood pressure, while its fiber promotes satiety, reducing the risk of overeating and obesity. In short, a simple bowl of millet is medicine, prescribed not in hospitals but in kitchens, fields, and festivals. Long before anyone spoke of “climate-smart agriculture” or “functional foods,” millet has always been both.

Our ancestors may not have spoken in scientific jargon, yet their preference for millet reflected profound ecological and medical insight. They wove this wisdom into the fabric of communal life, ensuring that farming was guided not only by survival but also by long-term health, discipline, and resilience.

The fall of millet

Sadly, millet was gradually dethroned. The arrival of European colonisers introduced new crops, most notably maize and cassava. Maize produced higher yields in less time, while cassava, though less nutritious, thrived in poor soils and could be stored underground for long periods. Over time, these advantages and colonial influence shifted farming and dietary patterns. Millet slowly disappeared from both farms and kitchens, and maize assumed its sacred role, becoming the grain now used to prepare Npunpun or Kpokpoi for the festivals and annual thanksgiving.

On the surface, the change did not appear troubling. Maize made farming easier and aligned neatly with colonial economic interests. Yet something vital was lost. The nutritional depth of millet slipped from daily diets. The cultural memory of disciplined, communal planting began to erode. Food sovereignty weakened as communities grew reliant on crops introduced from outside.

Even so, while the crops in the fields changed, the names of the rituals did not. They remained Ewudu (and Ewubiɛ, the millet harvest) among the Guans, and Ngmadumɔ (and Ngmayemi, the millet harvest and feasting) among the Ga-Adangme. This persistence was more than habit, it was cultural defiance. By refusing to rename the rites after maize—eburo among the Guans and abele among the Ga-Adangme—the people quietly resisted the erasure of their history. The words themselves became vessels of memory, carrying forward the story of millet as the original grain of survival, the food that had once delivered them from famine.

Lessons for today

Why does this story matter now? Because we live in a time of rising food insecurity and climate uncertainty. Our diets rely heavily on maize and cassava, crops that are less resilient to drought and provide less nutrition than millet. Across Africa, nutritionists and agricultural experts are now calling for a “return to indigenous grains” as a strategy for survival.

The wisdom of our ancestors speaks directly to this moment. Ewudu and Ngmadumɔ were never just rituals. They were strategies. They linked morality to agriculture, discipline to survival, and community to food security. What priests like Atta Atiɛ Kwesi Kwei encoded in ritual, modern science is only now rediscovering.

Remembering millet

Festivals today are often seen as entertainment. Drumming, dancing, and colorful processions take center stage. Yet behind the spectacle lies a memory of famine, survival, and renewal. Every chant of Awo-Awo! and the sprinkling of Npunpun/Kpokpoe is a faint echo of that moment when millet saved a people.

To remember Ewudu and Ngmadumɔ is to remember that survival rests not only on crops but on discipline, unity, and reverence for the land. These traditions are not relics of the past, they are the pride of the present and enduring guides for the future.

Conclusion

Millet may no longer dominate our fields, but it still lives in our rituals and our memories. It once saved the Guans and Ga-Adangme in a time of famine. Today, as food systems falter under climate change, it may yet save us again — if we choose to listen.

Ewudu and Ngmadumɔ are more than festivals. They are testimonies. They remind us that our ancestors were not merely spiritual but scientific, not only ritualistic but systematic. In remembering millet, we are not just celebrating heritage. We are reclaiming a strategy for survival.

Abeiku Okai 

(+233) 0249287855

A revised edition

17/08/2025

Sources

This article is based on oral history from priests and community elders, as well as unpublished notes of natives such as Isaac Topi Odoom and Samuel Parry. Parry’s published work, Senyans of Gua (1979), was also particularly helpful. I have lived among the people both as a native and as a researcher for close to two decades, keenly studying their culture and traditions with the aim of uncovering the wisdom of our ancestors beyond the practices. Everything written here can be easily verified by the customs, language, music and traditions of the people themselves.

Visit my Youtube channel for the video discourse and breakdown of the Homowo and Akomase Festival history, music and proceses.: Brother In Christ Media: click link:

https://youtu.be/pps7ce5AG8Q?si=pGVSNtm8ZwoewLID