By 2019, Ghana’s hospitality industry was awakening. A sense of renewal and opportunity hung in the air. The government’s Year of Return campaign was underway, inviting the diaspora home.
Across Osu, Labone, Achimota, and Tesano, five-bedroom homes were quietly transforming into guesthouses and hotels. In Ridge, one such property waited to be repurposed. It would be called Palm Grove Hotel—named for the coconut fronds lining the driveway—Mr. Adei’s legacy in the making.
A retired financial controller, Mr. Adei was precise and bold. The year prior, he had moved with his wife into a newly renovated ‘boys’ quarters’, leaving the main house as a canvas for his dream: Palm Grove, a 15-bedroom boutique hotel. He needed expertise—so he called Hospitality Associates, represented in this story by Yawa-Attah.
She had started her career at the front desk of the Continental Hotel in Accra and later trained and worked in the U.S. hotel systems. Yawa-Attah views the reception as a kind of stage—a space where service flowed with precision, if the design allowed it.
Weeks earlier, she had reviewed the architectural plans. Charming ideas were buried beneath impractical drafts: narrow corridors leading nowhere in particular, and a reception desk tucked into what was once a dining room.
She arrived early on a Thursday morning—not greeted by front desk staff, but by uneven paving stones and old drawings of the property. Her clipboard bore notes from preliminary discussions with Mr. Aanani, a co-director. The conversion was ambitious: from five rooms to fifteen, with colonial character preserved and hotel functionality assured.
After a walkaround with Mr. and Mrs. Adei, and a quiet chat about the legacy they envisioned, Yawa-Attah settled near the east wing window to review the latest revision. Mr. Adei stood beside her, arms folded, watching workers measure the former dining room where the reception was supposed to be. He looked unconvinced.
“You see this here,” she said, tapping a line marked Reception Desk. “It’s too close to the entrance. I once worked with a guesthouse in Kumasi that kept its physical ledger at the door. But guests and visitors all congregated at the same spot. It wasn’t safe, and staff couldn’t track who was passing through.”
“It was my wife’s idea to put the reception right by the entrance. You think it won’t work?” he asked. She smiled politely. “It’s welcoming—but also congested.”
“In the U.S., reception desks were never placed at the door,” she explained. “They sat a few strides inward, giving guests a moment to pause and orient. Layout must support movement.”
Yawa-Attah recalled a study she’d participated in while a student—one hotel in Atlanta had set its desk two strides inward, allowing guests to arrive without immediately colliding with staff or one another. That small buffer created pause before service.
“Front office operations benefit from breathing space,” she added. He nodded thoughtfully. “We don’t want people bumping into each other with bags and elbows.”
“Exactly. We’ll guide guests using lighting and floor patterns—but pull the desk back just enough to open space.” Yawa-Attah responded.
They moved toward the reception sketch.
“Phones, bookings, walk-ins—it all happens here,” she said. “But each task needs its own station.” She referenced a hotel where she’d observed reception function like a choreographed performance: one space for check-ins, another for phone inquiries, a third for issue resolution. “There was rhythm.”
“But we’ll run manual operations,” he reminded her. “For now,” she replied. “And that’s exactly why layout matters more. In Kumasi, a front desk relied entirely on a handwritten logbook—but had nowhere to store forms or visitor notes. Staff would crouch to retrieve documents from the floor.”
She then sketched a three-zone layout:
– Reception counter (guest interface)
– Back desk (staff coordination and records)
– Reservations log station (landline and calls)
They moved on to another section marked Communications. “Where do you take calls and check bookings?” she asked. He hesitated. “Reception, I suppose. I still get bookings by phone.”
“In Elmina, a hotel we supported had everything crammed into one desk—calls, complaints, arrivals. Service was slow, and guests were confused. We’ll split this into zones to allow staff to move without bumping into each other.”
She pointed to the proposed corner beside the reception desk.
“Your key rack’s there?” He nodded proudly. “I kept the old cabinet. Solid mahogany. That’ll hold the room keys.” She reviewed the placement of the cabinet near the back wall.
“Good wood. Beautiful woodwork,” she said. “But it shouldn’t be in full view of guests. In Takoradi, I saw a similar setup—guests could glance behind the desk and see who was checked in. We’ll move it behind the staff line—visible to them, not guests.”
“Security?” Mr. Adei asked. “Yes,” she said, leaning in. “Your front desk must guard the hotel—not with suspicion, but with awareness. Positioning, lighting, standing height—it signals that someone’s watching.”
He chuckled. “You’re making architecture speak.”
“It should,” she replied. “Every mark here carries insight; from Kumasi, Takoradi, Elmina—even New York. In one hotel there, a single armchair near the window made guests sit a little longer. It wasn’t decoration. It was invitation.”
“How do we manage arrivals and watch movement?” he asked.
“At a small hotel in Elmina, the receptionist logged every guest return after 9 p.m. No CCTV—just trained observation and a clear desk setup. We could reposition the desk to give staff visibility over the entrance, staircase, and corridors—a watchful welcome without intrusion.”
He leaned in. “Makes sense. We need to know who enters and leaves.”
“Exactly. Front desk is your first line of security. Awareness starts with layout: good sightlines, a standing-height desk, no clutter.”
They turned to the lounge corner. “Any waiting area?” he asked. “You mean the lobby lounge? Yes. A hotel in New York had an armchair near the window. It encouraged calm without crowding the reception area. At Palm Grove, we’ll add soft seating nearby. Guests arrive early, linger after checkout—we want them to feel comfortable.”
Throughout, she referenced what she’d witnessed—not as errors but as confirmations of what worked. “We’re not copying foreign hotels,” she clarified. “We’re blending international efficiency with Ghanaian warmth. Every element here carries lived experience—and just a touch of a story.”
He surveyed the drawing. “You’re building rhythm here.”
“Exactly. The front desk runs like a newsroom—everyone has a job, but the layout must support it.” She smiled. “We’ve repositioned your reception to avoid bottlenecks, created operational zones, secured the key cabinet, enhanced visibility, and added seating for guests. Everything shaped to allow your staff to manage movement, security, and service—without losing warmth.”
He nodded slowly. “It still feels like my home.” “It should,” she replied. “But now it’s shaped to welcome others—with purpose, rhythm, and story.”
A breeze stirred the wilted palms above them.
“This place carries your history,” she said gently. “We’re just helping it greet the future.”
Mr. Adei looked over the sketch one last time. “Thank you, Yawa-Attah. You’ve seen things I didn’t know I needed to see.”
She shook his hand. “That’s the work. We shape spaces so strangers feel at home.”
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
