The prevailing narrative in Ghana, and indeed across much of Africa, is that individual success is inextricably tied to the acquisition of a singular, monumental asset: a residential house.
This mindset traps families in a repetitive cycle of building the same thing, generation after generation, instead of fostering diversified, intergenerational wealth.
I am often characterised as the “poor man” who lives in his mother’s house. The alternative presented by this narrow mindset is that, despite my mother and sister possessing multiple properties, I should nonetheless deplete my capital—say, $350,000—to construct my own standalone house in Accra.
This is done not out of necessity, but out of a rigid social script that demands every individual, irrespective of family assets, must personally own a house as a badge of honour. What is the logic in this? It represents a fundamental Ghanaian, and wider African, dilemma: we fail to build cohesive family wealth or true generational wealth. Instead, we atomistically replicate the same asset, draining collective resources that could be strategically deployed for exponential growth.
My grandfather built a house, which now stands largely abandoned and is leased to tenants at a minimal rate. My grandmother also constructed a home, and today it languishes in a state of neglect. My mother has since built residential houses of her own, and I, in turn, am expected to do the same—just as my sisters and brothers are doing, and just as our children will be expected to do in the future.
What we perpetuate, generation after generation, is not a growing, adaptable legacy, but a repetition of the same stagnant asset: house after house. Rather than inheriting, restoring, and enhancing the properties left by our forebears, each generation abandons the last and starts anew—leaving perfectly usable structures to decay, while we duplicate the same model elsewhere.
This cycle represents a profound failure of generational strategy. We are not building upon what came before; we are walking away from it. Instead of consolidating, improving, and maximising the value of existing family assets, we scatter our resources, duplicating effort and diluting our collective wealth. What we pass down is not a refined and strengthened heritage, but a collection of isolated, underutilised properties—each one a monument to our reluctance to think beyond the immediate act of construction.
Our model of generational progress is fundamentally flawed. Rather than adopting a collaborative strategy—where one member builds the houses, another builds the businesses, a third cultivates vital connections and reputation, and a fourth develops another critical asset—we engage in a paralysing repetition. We do not diversify; we duplicate. The result is not a robust, interwoven tapestry of family wealth, but a scattered collection of the same solitary asset: house after house after house.
We mistake repetition for legacy, and in doing so, we forfeit the opportunity to build anything truly enduring.
Consider a more rational model. In my position, rather than sinking $350,000 into a redundant Accra property, I could invest $30,000 in constructing a valuable family home in our village, and another $30,000 in establishing a large-scale commercial farm. These become additive assets to the family portfolio—productive, income-generating, and collectively owned.
Gradually, instead of five family members building five underutilised houses in the same city, we could collectively own a diversified portfolio: residential properties, agricultural ventures, rental apartments, and business interests, all of which we share and from which we all benefit.
This points to a missing conception in our economic thinking: strategic asset-sharing. My wife owns a car; my sister owns an Airbnb property. What systemic barrier prevents my sister from using the car when she visits, or my wife from utilising the house? None, except our own ingrained insistence on individual, siloed ownership.
In more advanced economies, this practice is commonplace. Consider Sir Elton John’s private jet, utilised by friends like Prince Harry and Meghan Markle. Must the couple spend tens of millions on their own jet? No. They participate in an ecosystem of shared access, where luxury and utility are enjoyed through trusted networks, not sole ownership.
I am increasingly convinced by the model of collaborative asset pools. Imagine a family or a close-knit group where one member contributes a vehicle, another a prime property, a third provides capital for a joint business, and a fourth offers professional management. Each asset is legally protected, but access is granted to members. This transforms luxury from a prohibitively expensive individual burden into an affordable, shared experience.
If African families and social circles can embrace this paradigm shift—from isolated ownership to communal stewardship—we would unlock unprecedented prosperity.
We could enjoy higher standards of living at a fraction of the cost, redirect saved capital into further investments, and finally break the cycle of building “just a house” to begin building legacies.
The path out of poverty is not in everyone owning the same thing, but in everyone having a valued share in many things.
