In the stillness of midnight, I lay upon my bed, eyes tracing the slow, hypnotic whirl of the ceiling fan above with each creak, slicing through the silence like thunder in a cathedral. Around me, the world slept, but within, a storm of reflection raged. My mind wandered through corridors of memory and longing: the weight of a career barely afloat, the strain of family demands, finances stretched thin, and the avalanche of responsibilities chasing too few resources. In that sacred hush, a truth unfolded like a faded photograph, and the realization hit me harder that I had mistaken a dream for destiny.
The life I once imagined, painted with the bright strokes of childhood wonder, now flickered like a mirage. I remembered when love was pure and palpable – in a mother’s embrace, a friend’s unspoken loyalty, a colleague’s earned trust, an elder’s gentle counsel, and the laughter shared between teammates. What happened to that world? Where did it go? There was a time when walking into a mosque or church felt like stepping into the arms of family, and it didn’t matter your name, your dress, or your tithe. In those days, faith wasn’t just religion, it was a relationship. It was laughter echoing through Sunday school halls, the shared silence of prayer in the mosque, the collective heartbeat of people joined by a single truth that God is love. That was enough.
But today, in the shadow of marble altars and golden pulpits, many faithful now sit alone, unseen, unheard, unvalued. If you do not give bountifully, you are not blessed. If your envelope is not fat, your voice is not loud. If you are not extremely ritualistic in the propagation of religiosity even at the peril of common sense, you are not considered a believer. Churches and mosques have become stages for economic exhibition. The pure essence of community worship is now a silent auction – your worth is weighed not by your worship, but by your wallet. Whatever happened to the faith that bound us?
Growing up in a compound house called Khaki House (because it was unpainted) in Ewim-Kotokuraba in Cape Coast, love did not need a mansion. It lived in cramped rooms filled with laughter and shared secrets. We ate from the same bowls, fought over the last piece of meat, and made peace before dusk. Vacations meant traveling to our hometowns – Gomoa Mangoase or Asebu Ekroful, or traveling to cousins’ homes in Saltpond, Swedru, or Accra, not for photos, but for presence. Aunties were second mothers, and uncles were trusted guides. Blood wasn’t just a tie, it was a tribe – Jibreal Adam, a very prolific Ahmadi man whose identity we shared with pride and respect.
Now, siblings scroll past each other’s statuses without a call. Family loyalty and compassion is now to spouses and children. Cousins compare achievements instead of sharing dreams. They prefer to hang out with other people perceived to be of the same social status. Family gatherings are now rehearsals for funerals, not celebrations of life. We mourn better than we love because it is only during funerals that we get to see our real family members.
Leadership, which was once a path of mentorship and legacy, has become a race of sabotage. Yesterday’s bosses were builders. They noticed potential, nurtured diligence, and celebrated growth. Today’s managers often view excellence as a threat. The worker who stays late, who dreams big, who asks questions is marked for silent exclusion. And although compliments are rare currency, punishments flow freely. A fractured workplace mirrors a fractured society where unity is suspicion and division is strategy. Some bosses and managers have failed to prioritize the welfare of workers, thereby setting in motion a confluence of peril that eats away at the pea…
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DISCLAIMER: The Views, Comments, Opinions, Contributions and Statements made by Readers and Contributors on this platform do not necessarily represent the views or policy of Multimedia Group Limited.
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