“Prawns on the beaches of Maputo”, the mantra that would change everything.
It started innocently enough. On January 27, 2022, I landed in Cape Town, South Africa, alongside my friend Patrick and his son Solomon. The invitation came from a casual conversation where Patrick made a bold claim: the prawns of Maputo, Mozambique, were unlike anything available in the United States. Why this provoked me to verify such a statement, I still don’t know. But there we were, ready to drive across the southern tip of a vast continent to prove one way or another whether these prawns lived up to the legend.
We traversed South Africa, spent nights in Johannesburg and Pretoria, then crossed into Mozambique at Ressano Garcia. But fate had other plans. Solomon’s documents weren’t in order, forcing Patrick and him to return to Johannesburg and fly to Malawi, where our reunion was scheduled three weeks later.
I had always dreamed of solo international travel. With Patrick’s encouragement, I set out alone to meet them in Nkhata Bay, Malawi, more than 1,500 miles north of where we’d parted ways. Nearly two weeks later, we reunited as planned.
And yes, the prawns in Mozambique were unlike anything available in the US: larger, tastier, better.
But something else had shifted during that journey.
The day before leaving Lilongwe, we walked past a hospital. Through a doctor friend of Patrick’s, I gained access to the psychiatric department. What I saw behind those bars made an indelible mark. I spoke with patients, witnessed conditions that would boggle the mind of anyone with experience in U.S. psychiatric care. I left with more questions than answers, but one feeling burned brighter: I wanted to return. I wanted to visit more psychiatric hospitals. I didn’t know why, or what I’d do when I got there, but the pull was undeniable.
November 2023 brought me to Cape Verde, then Guinea-Bissau, then The Gambia. Each trip carried the same hope, each ended in disappointment. In Cape Verde, logistics blocked the hospital visit. In Guinea-Bissau, I couldn’t locate any psychiatric facility. In The Gambia, Google Maps led me to a closed building in Banjul.
Discouraged, I almost gave up.
Then a taxi driver named Ousman changed everything.
During a chance conversation, he told me where the psychiatric hospital had actually moved: Tanka Tanka. With only hours before my flight home, Ousman offered to drive me there. The director was reluctant to grant access on such short notice, but Ousman’s intervention, explaining I was already heading to the airport, worked. He reluctantly acquiesced.
What I saw inside would haunt me. Conditions that no one with seven years of U.S. psychiatric hospital experience could have imagined. I sat among a group of male patients with severe schizophrenia, having no idea what to say or do. But I asked the question that mattered: What could be improved?
Their answers came clear: better food, better clothing, consistent medications, and something to do, recreation.
That moment crystallized something in me.
Days after returning home, I contacted Ousman via WhatsApp and asked him to price out soccer and basketball equipment. His response was immediate: a video from a local store showing prices and availability. I sent the funds and requested a video delivery at Tanka Tanka Hospital.
Watching that video, I knew what I had to do. I would create a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization dedicated to providing recreation supplies and equipment for psychiatric hospitals across sub-Saharan Africa.
The severely mentally ill are often the last to be cared for in any society. In Africa, they have little to nothing.
A year later, life brought me closer to this mission. I began living with a man from Côte d’Ivoire, and we became close friends. Sometime after, I learned his brother-in-law was a doctor at the largest psychiatric hospital in Côte d’Ivoire, Hopital Psychiatrique in Bingerville, Abidjan.
This connection enabled my first official donation in November 2024. It was a success. The staff gave me an Ivorian name: Kwame. Two days of purchasing, transporting, and delivering recreation goods. On the second day, a staff member accompanied me to a downtown Abidjan store for specialized beads used to make jewelry and handbags. At the end of it all, they fed me a fantastic lunch. Gratitude flowed both ways.
From Abidjan, I took a bus to Monrovia, Liberia, a country on my destination list for years after learning of its unique connection to the U.S. as a 19th-century slave repatriation colony. The 24-hour bus ride was unforgettable, the music playing at volume 11, never stopping, never.
Once again, the psychiatric hospital wasn’t where the maps indicated. But this time, I was prepared. I found the director’s email, established contact, and Director Sirleaf brought her team together to discuss what could be purchased. Two social workers drove me around Monrovia to locate recreation equipment. The process became smoother, faster, and more human.
Two successful donations in 2024.
For 2025, I chose Angola and the Democratic Republic of Congo. Angola represents my goal to visit all Lusophone countries. The DRC remains one of the most challenging yet necessary destinations.
What began as a quest for better prawns became a journey of purpose.
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