A new protest has landed in Accra without visas or vuvuzelas—the Wi-Fi placard. From comfortable rooms in London and Commonwealth latitudes arrived a thunderous memo: “Reinstate Chief Justice Gertrude Torkornoo immediately and without delay.” Beautiful English. Gallops like a racehorse. Then it reaches Ghana’s junction and politely joins the queue behind verification, protocol, and that ever-helpful signboard: System Is Down.
To be fair to our distant cousins, their letter asks for more than a sprint. In plain daylight, here’s the substance beneath the drumroll:
- Reinstate the CJ now—don’t wait for tomorrow’s tomorrow.
- Guarantee due and fair process—including full and transparent access for her lawyers to the proceedings.
- Publish clear rules of procedure to guide the disciplinary process.
- Set and announce a real timeline so the committee concludes its work without further delay, and communicate the result to everyone who still believes in the rule of law.
Ghana’s reply, carried by the Attorney-General, Dr. Dominic Ayine, is the kind of smile that can slice red tape. Translation: Thank you; also, we are not a colony. The suspension, he says, follows Article 146 to the letter: petitions received; Council of State advice taken; prima facie established; an independent committee chaired by a Supreme Court Justice empanelled; attempts to halt the process dismissed by the Supreme Court and High Court as lacking merit; and a side-quest now before the ECOWAS Court because regional whistles exist. The punchline? The President is bound by the committee’s findings; this is not executive karaoke.
So whose clock should we use—the Commonwealth stopwatch or the Ghanaian wall clock that runs on “as and when”? Our elders would say: both the drum and the dancer must keep time. Sovereignty is the generator; accountability is the bulb. If the room is still dark, shouting “We have a generator!” is karaoke, not illumination. Switch it on. Show the wiring. Let the light fall where the doubts are hiding.
And yes, the optics matter. If you begin a case with “she’s assisting,” explain—clearly—when “assisting” became “suspended,” what the rules are, how counsel participates, and when this drama ends. Publish the procedures in human language; give the timeline teeth that can bite through Monday traffic and Friday rain. When due process is visible, even your loudest critics will wash their hands in it.
Meanwhile, the online square—God bless its data bundles—has been auditioning for stand-up night:
“Dear Commonwealth, ‘immediate and without delay’ is a lovely phrase. Kindly find Pokuase at 5 p.m. and demonstrate.”
“Advising Ghana on Article 146 without reading Article 146 is like stirring banku without a bowl. Energetic—but where are you putting it?”
“We accept flowers for our national mourning. Lectures are received on Tuesdays. Bring photocopies.”
“They should come and reinstate her themselves.”
“Reinstate today? Great. Also reinstate electricity in my area—immediate and without dumsor.”
Mockery aside, the jokers are onto something. Advice travels best when it kneels, not when it climbs onto the table. If the Commonwealth wants to help, bring bulbs, not bullhorns. If government wants to be believed, bring rules and a timetable, not slogans. It’s not either/or. A wise house lights both signboards at the gate—Sovereignty and Rule of Law—so even those seated at the back can see the stage and recognise the actors.
As for “immediate and without delay,” let the phrase keep its elegance and gain a calendar. Here, immediacy wears court shoes, not track spikes. The committee will speak; the law will point; the President will do what the Constitution says—no more, no less. If that sounds boring, good. Rule of law is supposed to be boring. It’s how nations sleep at night without needing a Commonwealth lullaby.
Until then, let’s cool tempers, sharpen procedures, and keep our humour. After all, a republic that can mourn with dignity, argue with civility, and laugh at itself still has its compass. And if the Wi-Fi placard insists on marching through our courtyard, it should kindly wipe its feet—and read the house rules posted by the door.
The writer, Jimmy Aglah, is a media executive, author, and sharp-eyed social commentator. His latest book, Once Upon a Time in Ghana: Satirical Chronicles from the Republic of Uncommon Sense, now available on Amazon Kindle, delivers a witty, piercing take on Ghanaian society and governance. When he’s not steering broadcast operations, he’s busy challenging conventions—often with satire, always with purpose.
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