Accused of Witchcraft, Women in Northern Ghana Live in Exile

In Ghana's remote north, centuries-old fears have sentenced women to exile. Now, a new law offers hope — but can justice overcome belief?

Memonatu Yaw sits with the grandchild of a fellow resident at the Kpatinga camp for women accused of witchcraft in northern Ghana, on May 12, 2025. Credit: Claire Thomas for More to Her Story.

This story was supported by the Pulitzer Center.

In April, a man in Matis Awola’s village dreamt he was being chased by a cow — a cow with Matis’s face. By the next day, her life was in ruins.

“A man saw me in a dream, and the next day I was accused of being a witch,” she said. “I went to the bush and wanted to kill myself.”

A widow in her sixties, Matis had no one to defend her. Within days, she was cast out of her community in Ghana’s northern region. Her son brought her to Gambaga, one of the country’s six so-called “witch camps,” where she now lives in a tiny, windowless hut among approximately 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 home.

While witchcraft accusations are common across Ghana and many other countries, the practice of banishing women to isolated settlements is rare. “Witchcraft is not just a Ghanaian thing. It’s very strong in Nigeria, in East Africa, Tanzania, South Africa,” said John Azumah, Executive Director of The Sanneh Institute in Accra. “What is unique about Ghana is the camps in the north.”

Matis Awola, a widow recently accused of witchcraft, sits at the entrance to her hut in the Gambaga camp in northern Ghana on May 9, 2025. She was banished from her home after a man claimed to see her in a dream and subsequently accused her of being a witch. Awola now lives among around 80 other accused women and survives by working on a local farm in exchange for food. Credit: Claire Thomas for More to Her story

For hundreds of women like Matis, exile begins with a whisper, a dream, or an unexplained misfortune — a death in the family, a poor harvest, an illness, even jealousy over a woman’s independence or success. In Ghana, belief in witchcraft remains widespread, particularly in the north. And for those deemed guilty, banishment to a “witch camp” is often the only means of survival.

Gambaga, where Matis lives, is a cluster of round, thatched huts — a place that is both sanctuary and prison. Accusations sometimes lead to a traditional “trial”: 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 seals a woman’s fate. Regardless of the ritual’s outcome, she may be cast out, her judgment delivered not by spirits but by neighbors.

Life in the camps is marked by relentless hardship. Women live in poverty, ostracized even by their own families. They sleep on dirt floors, rely on sporadic donations, and have uncertain access to clean water, healthcare, or food. Children who accompany them are often bullied or stigmatized as “witches’ children.”

Women sit outside their huts in the Gambaga camp for women accused of witchcraft in northern Ghana, on May 9, 2025. Credit: Claire Thomas for More to Her Story

Bachalbanueya, now in her eighties, has spent more than 45 years in Gambaga camp. She was banished after her husband’s co-wife accused her of witchcraft following his death — grief turned into a lifetime of isolation. Her story is far from unique.

“It is violence against women — a demonization of women,” said Azumah. Most of the accused, he explained, are among society’s most vulnerable: elderly, poor, widowed, and without children able or willing to defend them. “They are truly the voiceless.”

A child is pictured at the Gambaga camp for women accused of witchcraft in northern Ghana, on May 14, 2025. Children often accompany their mothers or grandmothers into exile and are vulnerable to exploitation, with some reports of sexual abuse. They also face stigma and bullying at school, leading many to drop out and seek informal work. Credit: Claire Thomas for More to Her Story

Sometimes, accusations end in death. In July 2020, 90-year-old Akua Denteh was lynched in a public market after being accused of witchcraft. Her killing, filmed and widely circulated, shocked the nation and sparked calls for legal reform. It became a grim symbol of the intersection between superstition and gender-based violence.

While men can also be accused, accusations overwhelmingly target women. Male witches are sometimes thought to use their powers for good. Women, by contrast, are believed to cause harm. “When men are spiritually strong, it’s said they protect the community,” said Lamnatu Adam, Executive Director of the women’s rights organization Songtaba. “When women are spiritually strong, it’s said they bring illness and disaster.”

The motivations are often as much about control and resources as belief. “It’s the oldest conspiracy theory of humankind,” Azumah said. “Sometimes they accuse her just to get her out of the community, then take over her land.” In other cases, even sons may believe their mothers are sabotaging their lives.

There are now an estimated six unofficial “witch camps” remaining in northern Ghana, situated near remote villages like 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.

 “The camps are neither a refuge nor a prison, they are something in between,” explained Azumah.

There are no fences around the camps, but cultural and psychological barriers keep most women from trying 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. Beneath each case lies a deeply patriarchal worldview—one in which women, especially widows or those without male protectors, are easily targeted.

“There are no physical barriers keeping the women inside,” said Azumah, “but the women are made to believe that if they leave the camp, the spirits will kill them.”

Fusheina walks outside her hut in the Gnani camp in northern Ghana, on May 11, 2025. Credit: Claire Thomas for More to Her Story

In Gnani camp, Fusheina — a widow and mother of five — has spent the past six years in exile. The chief of her village accused her of witchcraft after the sudden death of her nephew, and she was expelled immediately. Now she lives alone. “I’m not happy because my children are not with me,” she said quietly. “I just want to go home.” But returning is unthinkable; she fears the villagers would harm her.

Life in the camp is a daily struggle. “There is no work,” she explains. “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.

Gambaga offers a slightly more hopeful example. For decades, the Presbyterian Church of Ghana has supported the women, providing food, clothing, and basic healthcare, while working to reintegrate them with their families. Reverend Gladys Lariba Mahama, who has served the camp since 1997, greets the women by name as she walks through the compound. “We’re working hard on reintegration,” she said. “Some visit their families; some families even come here to see them.”

Yet for most, stigma remains. Returning home requires undergoing a “cleansing” ritual — often the slaughter of a ram and a chicken — to absolve the accused of witchcraft. It can cost over 1,000 Ghanaian cedis (around $100), a prohibitive sum for women with no income. And even after the ritual, many families still refuse to take them back. “Once a witch, forever a witch,” said Azumah.

Ama Somani, a mother of eight, spent four years in Gambaga after being accused by her niece. In April 2025, with help from the church, she was reintegrated into her extended family. The church paid for the ritual and provided food rations. She is now reunited with her children, though life remains difficult.

Fusheina sits inside her hut in the Gnani camp on May 11, 2025. Credit: Claire Thomas for More to Her Story

Over the past 15 years, NGOs like ActionAid Ghana and Songtaba have helped reintegrate hundreds of women. In 2014, the Bonyasi camp was closed after all its residents were reintegrated through a coordinated program of community sensitization, public events, and support for returnees.

Despite these successes, exploitation remains a serious problem. In some camps, women are forced to work without pay for community leaders, fetching water or farming. There are credible reports of sexual abuse, and in at least one documented case, a priest fathered children with multiple women in a camp.

Humanitarian aid is not always distributed fairly, with leaders accused of diverting food or funds for personal use. “People are making money out of it,” said Azumah. “It has become an industry.”

“These are not safe havens,” said Azumah. “They are places where society has abandoned its most vulnerable.”

A woman holds a protest sign during a Mother’s Day event at the Kpatinga camp for women accused of witchcraft in northern Ghana, on May 11, 2025. The event was organized by women’s rights group Songtaba to mark its 20th anniversary and to call for justice for women accused of witchcraft. Credit: Claire Thomas for More to Her Story.

For the first time in years, there is a glimmer of hope for systemic change. In March, Ghana’s Parliament reintroduced the Anti-Witchcraft Bill — a landmark piece of legislation that would make it a criminal offence to accuse someone of being a witch, ban the spiritual consultations that often trigger accusations, hold practitioners legally accountable, and create reintegration programs for survivors.

This is not the bill’s first appearance. In July 2023, it passed Parliament as an amendment to the 1960 Criminal Offences Act, but Ghana’s then-president refused to sign it into law. Now, under a new administration, it is scheduled for debate once again, in what advocates see as a pivotal second chance.

The bill’s stated aim is “to address the unfortunate beliefs and thinking in some communities that make Madam Akua Denteh’s case possible.” Akua Denteh’s brutal public lynching in 2020 — after being accused of witchcraft at age 90 — sparked national outrage and galvanized support for reform.

Lawmakers also place Ghana’s challenge in a broader context. The bill points to England’s 1735 Witchcraft Act, which criminalized accusing someone of magical powers, and notes the importance of public education and cultural transformation. “Now witchcraft is not illegal in the UK,” the bill observes, “but the level of enlightenment is such that witchcraft is generally viewed with amusement, if not ridicule.”

Civil society organizations, including ActionAid Ghana, Songtaba, and The Sanneh Institute, have long fought for such reforms, running public awareness campaigns, offering safe housing, and advocating for legal protections. Amnesty International has also urged Parliament to act swiftly, warning that delay leaves hundreds of women in continuing danger.

Yet resistance remains strong. Chiefs and religious leaders in certain regions oppose the bill, and some politicians fear alienating their constituencies. “It’s not a vote winner,” said Azumah.

Children carry water from the communal pump at the Kpatinga camp for women accused of witchcraft in northern Ghana, on May 11, 2025. About 40 women live in exile at the camp after being banished from their communities. The stigma often extends to their children and grandchildren, as many believe spiritual powers can be inherited through birth. Credit: Claire Thomas for More to Her Story

Even the shock of Akua Denteh’s murder failed to dissolve entrenched opposition. “We have our own conspiracy theories,” Azumah said. “We believe there are powerful religious figures and some chiefs working behind the scenes to block it.” Those concerns extend to the current administration. “If the bill is passed again and those chiefs and religious leaders start to pressure him behind closed doors, we might never even know,” he warns. “Politicians want votes. And they fear that pushing this through could hurt them in the next election.”

Despite a presidential signature, campaigners caution that the law alone will not erase the problem. Deep-seated beliefs, inherited over generations, will require years of public education and cultural change to dismantle. The bill itself concedes this point, stating that while legislation “may not immediately eliminate the problem, it provides an awareness and a deterrent” that, with sustained effort, could end the practice.

“I think the passage of the legislation will significantly reduce the accusations,” said Azumah. “And over time, it will die out. The accusation is the beginning of everything. 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.”

Back in Gambaga, Matis Awola knows little about the bill or the politics surrounding it. Her days revolve around survival — working in the fields and sleeping on a mat in her bare hut. Asked what she wants most, her answer is immediate: “To go home. To be with my family again.”