Dela Agbey

Amor Fati | @itsgroovetime | Ex: @GrainHQ, @getpingpong , @safeboda (CTO)

[Dela Agbey @savekirk]

@thorstenball Does this mean users on Neo will not have to run 'PLUGINS=all amp' to load plugins? Currently working on a plugin, it’ll be great to be on that list. Username: dela

[Dela Agbey @savekirk]

@AbdiZeila Let’s try this again!!

[Dela Agbey @savekirk]

@rex_maina @AbdiZeila Bar reliability issues, no way Tenere rules off-road when KTM 790/890R exist!

[Dela Agbey @savekirk]

@AbdiZeila 🤣🤣

[Dela Agbey @savekirk]

@Odeon256 One of the reasons we end up with stupid regulations is because it doesn’t apply to the ones who come up with them.

[Africa on Two Wheels @AbdiZeila]

Riding West Africa: A Motorcycle Journey Through Ghana and Burkina Faso

Prologue: The road beckons
There is a distinct kind of madness that drives one to fly across a continent to a foreign city, buy a cheap, unfamiliar motorcycle off the street, and ride thousands of kilometres across borders with little more than a backpack, some documents, and blind courage. But in that madness lies a freedom few ever taste. For me, the call of the road came from West Africa.
The plan was as reckless as it was exhilarating: fly from Nairobi to Accra, purchase a locally popular motorcycle, and ride solo across Ghana into Burkina Faso. My final destination? Ouagadougou, the capital of a country burdened with insecurity and heat, but bursting with life, history, and mystery.

Chapter 1: Buying a bike in Accra
Accra hits you like a thunderclap—humid, noisy, pulsing with movement. Stepping off the Ethiopian Airlines flight, I was already sweating through my shirt. The taxi ride to town was a blur of tro-tros, honking horns, and flashing colour. Accra isn’t just a city—it’s a living, breathing organism.

My first mission was to find a motorbike. Not a high-performance adventure machine like my Honda Africa Twin back in East Africa, but a modest, reliable workhorse. The kind okada riders swear by. I was directed to a place known locally as “Carprice”—a cluster of car and motorbike shops in an open-air lot.
There, I found it: a Chinese-made “Royal” 200cc, towering with a high seat and spindly tyres, but sturdy. The seller, a wiry man in a Liverpool jersey, assured me this was the "King of the Road" in Ghana. He wasn’t wrong. In Accra, these bikes are everywhere. The price? 4,750 Ghana cedis—around KSh 86,000. I paid in cash, signed a crumpled logbook, and just like that, I was a motorcycle owner in Ghana.

As I loaded my bags onto the bike, I met Osman—a lean, sharp-eyed money changer. He told me he was Fulani, originally from Niger. We exchanged greetings, and he said, with a smile tinged with warning, “We Fulani are like your Somalis—people say we are trouble.” I laughed, recognizing a shared regional reputation. Osman gave me his number and offered to buy the bike when I finished my trip.

I rode through the swirling chaos of Accra’s traffic to my hotel. The security guard saw the bike and gestured discreetly: “Don’t park at the front. It will disappear.” I found a hidden corner at the back of the hotel compound, locked the bike, and felt a surge of joy. The adventure had begun.

Chapter 2: Baptism by Fufu
That evening, to celebrate my purchase, I rode to Osu, the heart of Accra’s nightlife. I pulled into the famed Buka Café, a Ghanaian culinary institution that had once won accolades as West Africa’s best restaurant. A waitress named Adelaide guided me to a shaded table.

I ordered fufu, tilapia, and light soup. When the plate arrived, I was stunned. It was a mountain of food—enough to feed a small village. I stared at it like an exam I hadn’t revised for. Adelaide laughed at my hesitation. “You’re not going to finish it, are you?”

“No,” I said honestly. “I’m built for endurance, not consumption.” Still, I did my best. The fufu was sticky and warm, the soup peppery and tangy, the fish expertly grilled. This was Ghana on a plate.

Chapter 3: The road to Kumasi
I left Accra early—6:00 a.m.—hoping to beat traffic. I failed. Accra wakes up early, and the highway north was already buzzing. The road toward Kumasi is a split carriageway for the first 40 km, smooth and deceptively inviting. Then it disintegrates—rutted tarmac, aggressive overtaking, and a sea of honking vehicles.

At 85 km/h, the Royal was doing its best. But every time I had to veer onto the shoulder to let a car pass, rejoining the main lane triggered a terrifying wobble—an unstable dance of tyres and cheap suspension. I tightened my grip and whispered prayers.

At two police stops in Ashanti region, the officers were curious rather than hostile. Once they saw I was Kenyan, they broke into smiles. “You people run fast!” they joked. “Are you training for a marathon?” I told them I’d consider it after my ride.

But one barrier nearly derailed my mood. I had absentmindedly passed a police checkpoint without stopping. When I realized the mistake, I circled back. The officer was furious, trembling with rage. I removed my helmet slowly, keeping my voice calm. He flipped through a faded booklet titled “Offences” and jabbed at the relevant rule. I nodded, admitted fault, and thanked him for educating me. He stared, unsure whether to be offended or amused. Eventually, they let me go.

Chapter 4: Kumasi and the Ashanti Crown
Kumasi is a cauldron of humanity. I was shocked by the amount of traffic getting into the city! The congestion is mind-bending—hundreds of tro-tros clogging every lane, pedestrians weaving through traffic like dancers in a choreographed performance. But beyond the chaos lies deep history.

I spent Sunday at the Manhyia Palace, spiritual seat of the Ashanti Kingdom. The museum is a treasure trove—muskets from the 1600s, royal regalia, bronze drums, embroidered kente cloths, and thrones passed down over centuries. This was not a forgotten culture. It was alive, proud, dignified.

I visited the Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology, strolled through markets, and sampled more local dishes—yam with kontomire stew, banku with grilled fish. Everything was spiced - the food is so different from our bland Njeri-(un)spiced East African dishes! Even the air seemed seasoned. I estimated that perhaps even the drinking water had pepper! Okay, you get the point ...

Chapter 5: Northward to Tamale
The road from Kumasi to Tamale was 380 km of contrasts. The first half was a pothole graveyard—craters large enough to swallow a motorbike whole. But after Techiman, the land changed. Lush fields rolled out on either side. I stopped at a roadside diner, where I devoured fried yam and grilled catfish with a cold Coke.

Tamale greeted me like a long-lost brother. A biker’s city, filled with scooters, motorcycles, and mopeds. Women in colourful wraps rode confidently, children in tow. Elders rode scooters with stately grace. It was the most motorcycle-friendly city I’d seen in Africa.
I stayed at a Catholic guesthouse and met a young Ghanaian rider who helped me understand my machine better—how to check the oil, tighten bolts, and adjust idle speeds. His insights saved me more than once.

Chapter 6: Entering Burkina Faso
On Wednesday, I rolled north toward the Paga border. The heat was oppressive, and I nearly ran out of fuel. Miraculously, my bike died just ten metres from a roadside station. I laughed aloud and pushed it in.

The road to Paga was heavily policed. Checkpoints every 10–15 km, some with steel barriers stretching across the road. I was waved through without incident, perhaps seen as a harmless anomaly—a Kenyan on a Chinese bike.

Exiting Ghana took time. The immigration officers studied my passport with exaggerated seriousness. But once stamped out, I entered Burkina Faso—and the drama began.
At the Dakola post, I was sent in search of a “laissez-passer” document. I circled in the heat for nearly an hour before finding the right office. Gendarmes surrounded me, guns raised. “Who are you?” their eyes asked. I removed my helmet, showed my documents, tried to smile.

They searched my bags thoroughly. The lead officer stared at me with suspicion—I looked, to them, like a terrorist. I understood. Burkina Faso has been plagued by attacks from Fulani and Tuareg insurgents. And here I was—Somali-looking, foreign, on a bike. Wrong place, wrong time.

After a long silence, they relented. I rode away, heart pounding, clothes drenched in sweat.

Chapter 7: Arrival in Ouagadougou
The final stretch was magical. The road from Dakola to Ouaga was smooth, flanked by trees and grazing animals. I feared elephants might appear suddenly, but none did. I followed an old Mercedes W124, probably a shared taxi, using it as my vanguard through goat-strewn roads.
At 8:30 p.m., I entered Ouagadougou. The city sparkled. Streetlights bathed the roads in gold. Motos buzzed everywhere. Adama Ouedraogo, a local rider and my contact, met me on the outskirts and led me to my hotel.

Rain poured as I parked, soaking my gear and bags. But I didn’t care. I had made it.

Epilogue: What I learned on the road
This journey was never about speed or distance. It was about the ride. About the kindness of strangers, the absurdity of border crossings, the joy of unfamiliar meals, and the poetry of asphalt stretching into the unknown.

I left with these lessons:

West African drivers—despite the chaos—respect traffic signals more than in Nairobi.

Cities like Ouaga and Tamale have built infrastructure for bikers. Nairobi has not.

Motorcycle culture here is egalitarian. Women, children, elders—they all ride.
Being foreign is both a blessing and a burden: it invites curiosity, but sometimes suspicion.

And so, I close this chapter. But not the journey. Togo, Benin, Mali—they still call. And I will answer.

[Odeon N. Tumwebaze @Odeon256]

@Davisthedoc @AbdiZeila @savekirk mad love, respect and appreciation to you my brothers for riding thousands of Kms to come watch and celebrate my passion with me. #POARally2025 I hope you enjoyed it all.

[Africa on Two Wheels @AbdiZeila]

Throttling through 710 kilometers of switchbacks and serpentine roads. Murakoze neza 🇷🇼

[Stephen Asiimwe Dr @dr_sasiimwe]

Glad to meet the two wheel adventure giant @AbdiZeila along with comrades Dela & Davis. Thx for the encouragement to @FreeBikersUg We hope to meet again very soon in the Turkana region.

[Dela Agbey @savekirk]

@AbdiZeila @KeNHAKenya With proper signage to let you know if one is coming up!!

[Historic Vids @historyinmemes]

Gustav Häkansson, nicknamed "Stilfarfar" ("Steel Grandpa"), was a Swedish cyclist who became a legend for his grit and stamina in his 70s. In 1951, at 66, he was denied entry to the Sverige-loppet, a tough 1,000-mile bike race from Haparanda to Ystad, because he was over the 40-year age limit. Unfazed, he rode the race anyway on his old bike, sporting a homemade bib with a red zero. Starting a minute after the last official rider, he biked without support, sometimes going three days without sleep. He finished first in 6 days, 14 hours, and 20 minutes—24 hours ahead of the official racers. Häkansson lived to 101, passing away in 1987.

[Dela Agbey @savekirk]

@AbdiZeila Ooh wow 😮

[Dela Agbey @savekirk]

@AbdiZeila The most Abdi thing to do by the mighty one! 🤣

[Dela Agbey @savekirk]

@jammiekironji Thanks bro!

[Africa on Two Wheels @AbdiZeila]

Just 2,400-km … and Nairobi! @savekirk

[Dela Agbey @savekirk]

Curse of knowledge. Jumping on a big cc bike as beginner is like learning to tame a Toruk and not many people have the ability to become Toruk Makto! Crawl before you walk.

[Kigonyi Wa Nduthi 🏍 @rex_maina]

Before you buy that small cc bike,jiulize,"what's the opportunity cost?" ... You buy a new bike 350k, a bike that can't keep up with highway speeds, yet with the same figure you can get a slightly used bike that ticks all the boxes.

Make your decisions wisely!!!

[Dela Agbey @savekirk]

@AbdiZeila Congrats mighty! I need to show up for a road trip.

[KhoPhi @nkansahrexford]

Same place, 4 years ago

[Dela Agbey @savekirk]

@KiddBubu I have an assignment I give out with a deadline. The serious ones will come back with a result. I don’t even bother with life lessons because if you don’t take whatever you do currently serious I doubt you’ll take tech serious.