Once upon a time in this tropical theatre of dreams, men paid with their lives for the faint smell of wrongdoing. Not proof—just the scent. Today? One can walk away with enough public funds to sponsor a moon landing, and all the Republic offers is a standing ovation… and sometimes even a Plea Bargain & Chill combo.
We are a curious people. When the coup came once upon a decade, it came with cleaning brooms, revolutionary slogans, and a sudden hatred for wristwatches above one’s pay grade. People were shot for less than the price of a KFC bucket. But today, the only thing getting executed is public trust.
What used to be a house-cleaning exercise has become a housewarming party—hosted by those who should’ve been the main course. Nobody resigns, nobody retreats, and certainly nobody refunds. They simply rebrand. Today’s thief is tomorrow’s motivational speaker. Yesterday’s embezzler is today’s resource person on accountability seminars.
Let me bring it closer to home.
The once noble program designed to instill patriotism in fresh graduates has mutated into an internship for future kleptocrats. Picture this: officials of a youth service scheme — yes, that one — now moonlight as unlicensed investment bankers, relocating public funds like it’s musical chairs in pre-school.
The irony is as pungent as 3-day-old kenkey. A program designed to train citizens to serve their country now produces citizens who serve themselves—family size.
And oh, we have laws. Plenty of them. Big ones. With long Latin names and fancy subsections. But these laws are not for everybody. They are for the small fish—the ones who steal tilapia and get grilled. The big sharks? They swim majestically through loopholes, escorted by lawyers and escorted back with applause.
The street thief who nicks a phone is likely to spend more time in jail than the auditor who disappears with a budget the size of a mid-sized country. And you’ll hear the usual chorus: “The evidence is circumstantial.” “The tape was doctored.” “He is a respected elder.” Yes, respected—by the same system he robbed blind.
But wait. It gets juicier.
We now live in a republic where the judiciary doubles as a fortress, protecting the well-fed and well-connected. Let a poor man steal a bunch of plantains—he’ll be sentenced by 3 p.m. and be halfway through his prison meal by evening. Let a public official steal a forest and a few waterfalls, and we’ll be in court for the next decade, arguing over the definition of “steal.”
Our democracy, dear reader, is now a vending machine. Insert political loyalty, select immunity, and press “Enter.” Out pops contracts, clearance, and silence. Those who scream for accountability are dismissed as bitter, broke, or both.
And the citizens? Oh, bless our confused hearts. We curse our leaders at dawn, but dance for their cash by noon. Some will trade their conscience for 1,000 cedis and defend known looters with the kind of energy missing from national grid.
We now psych the nation for plea bargains, teaching the youth that the worst that can happen after looting the state is… giving some of it back. Meanwhile, people were executed in broad daylight once—simply for being suspected of pocketing an envelope that looked heavier than expected.
Now, even justice queues at MPs’ gates on Sundays. Citizens line up from 4 a.m. not to debate policy, but to beg for school fees, rent, funerals, and survival. If this system were working, you wouldn’t need your MP’s number unless you were inviting them to church harvest.
Ladies and gentlemen, we no longer run a democracy. We run a Concert Republic, where actors are called leaders, stagecraft is called governance, and every scandal is followed by a press release, a committee, and finally… silence.
The guillotine is gone. In its place stands a microphone—for thieves to explain why they deserve a second chance. And the people? We stand like extra cast in our own story, nodding while the nation bleeds.
But here’s the gospel according to History:
When good men sleep too long, bad men build castles.
Greedy desires never end in peace—they end in pounding feet, burning tyres, and sudden awakenings.
And when the awakening comes, it shall not knock. It will kick doors.
Shalom. But hold your head close… it may not be safe for long.
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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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