What growing up around football, family sacrifice, and dual identity means for second-generation Ghanaians in the UK — especially at World Cup time.
A large number of second-generation Ghanaian boys in the UK have, at some point, seriously considered a football career.
Local leagues.
Academies.
Coaches saying, “You’ve got potential.”
Imagining what it would feel like to one day wear an England shirt because that was the pathway we saw most clearly.
And many of us, especially the girls, grew up on the sidelines of that dream.
Sunday mornings at muddy pitches.
Parents wrapped up against the cold.
Mothers carrying snacks.
Fathers shouting instructions louder than the coaches.
Standing there, watching our brothers play, quietly hoping this would be the one. The one we’d point to and say, “He plays in the Premier League.”
For a long time, that dream looked very English.
English clubs.
English scouts.
English systems.
And that made sense.
This was the country we lived in.
The infrastructure was here.
The opportunity felt closer.
But there was always a flipside, quieter, less spoken, but deeply felt.
Ghana.
Even for those who have never set foot there.
Even for those who don’t speak the language fluently.
Even for those whose connection comes from family stories and Sunday dinners.
Somewhere along the line, Ghana lives in the heart.
So while the dream may have started with England, the idea of Ghana never disappeared. It stayed quietly present in conversations, in what-ifs, in moments of pride when Ghanaian players succeeded abroad.
And now, here we are.
Watching Ghanaian footballers thrive in the Premier League.
Seeing that the pathway doesn’t have to end at English clubs, it can loop back and take on a different meaning.
Playing for Ghana no longer feels distant or symbolic.
It feels real.
It feels possible.
And for many of us, it feels emotional in a way England never quite could.
Because England was where the dream was built.
But in Ghana, the dream means something else.
Not better.
Not worse.
Just deeper.
Maybe that’s why this World Cup feels different.
For the first time, it’s clear that the two worlds we grew up navigating don’t have to compete.
They can coexist.
And in that space between them, many of us are finally understanding who we are.
There’s also something quietly powerful about being second-generation Ghanaian.
We have an advantage.
When one door closes, another, rooted in who we are, can open.
We’re allowed to support both.
We’re allowed to carry both stories.
When I ask my brother and others like him who they would support if Ghana played England, the answer is usually the same.
They want both teams to qualify.
But in a head-to-head?
They would support Ghana.
And if Ghana were out of the picture, they would go all out for England without hesitation.
That isn’t confusion. That’s honesty.
It’s the reality of being shaped by one country and rooted in another.
Not divided identity, but expanded identity.
— Ama Dromo
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