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HONORABLE, WAWE

2026-04-11

7th December has come and gone, but succeeded in cracking our Motherland into two crooked halves: those who celebrated the Xmas well, proudly yelling, ‘I really ate this Bronya paa’ and those whose mood for Bronya had been spoiled by the ballot. I indeed attended a public ceremony mid-December where as soon as a minister of state had begun his speech, he was greeted by giggling students, ‘Honorable wawe, Honorable wawe’ ‘Honorable you were last, you lost... in the race,’ followed by chuckles. That was clearly not the best Xmas greeting for Honorable Honorable, whose political party had been humbled by the ballot. The revelry continued through Christmas, New Year and beyond with parties, street carnivals, music and dancing. ‘Eye Zu Eye Za’ was the going slogan as celebrants made merry, chanting and teasing in green colors. Vuvuzela was in attendance, so was alcohol, making it possible for celebrants to pause behind houses of losers, to noisily invite them to join the fun. The scene was different at Kejetia and Oseikrom neighborhoods, where there were more crawling lizards than celebrants at the city center: the swagger of male lizards across empty pavements, and parades of pot- bellied rodents nibbling piles of cassava deserted by dejected traders. Cassava had been abandoned only because the favorite sport of pounding had been suspended by Oseikrom dwellers, simply because ‘Honorable awe.’ Elsewhere, posters of the elephant party started peeling off; broad party banners sagged in humility; and giant billboards tilted not in style but in pain. For once the great campaign song ‘Paluta ee’ that mobilized mammoth crowds cross-country, sounded different. ‘Polluta,’is what I heard polluting the air waves. At the A & C Mall in Accra, where the hymnal ‘Noel Noel’ was blurring to lure shoppers into Christmas, something else filtered through the ceiling. ‘No Well No Well’ was the chorus I heard welcoming Christ. December 7 itself did not speak loud. Quiet polling stations, near empty streets, short queues here and there; pockets of youths chit-chatting within safe distance. Had they voted? No, I soon found out. They slapped their flat tummies and waved unmarked thumbs at you, waiting to be persuaded to vote. Thumbs for sale? Special party squads called Go-to- vote (GOTV), formed for special field operations, paced back and forth helpless. Almost depleted they made S.O.S calls for extra ration since the going was tough. Seated that day were the electoral officials plus party agents, who were often two and half in number but were representing 13 flagbearers. Even so, a few were doing charity work in the name of democracy. They had been implored to stretch their vigilance to cover flagbearers who could not afford hiring their own agents. Call them flagbearers with limited ribs. But party reps are to be pitied; they are often seated far off, indeed too far to easily monitor the nimble fingers of EC officials. Indeed party agents have been trained to believe in the mantra, ‘In Jean We Trust.’ A few yards away sat the security capo, often thin-legged and narrow- chested particularly if employed through ‘protocol.’ By protocol, is meant the employee’s father is a so-called big man at Jubilee House, and could show you a red card if his boy is not appointed, and hurriedly promoted before the next government comes! At the time we voted, very few knew the likely outcome at 5pm; not even the eventual winners; and neither the religious prophets nor their academic counterparts ensconced in their cloisters. A marginal difference between the two Big Parties was possible. Not a knockout that would yank the grand elephant off its feet. Even as I write, several weeks after December 7, a good number of the elephant following are still dazed in bed, not yet regained consciousness. A few tough guys have shed tears before me. Almost all parliamentary seats are gone, and the minority side of parliament is almost vacated, ready for a mushroom harvest. Indeed, Honorable awe. Nobody knew this was coming except one small box that stood quiet and alone, almost deserted at the polling station. That mystery box sees all, hears all, but talks not. They call it the Ballot Box. December 7; all eyes were rivetted on the mystery box that contained personal secrets of voters. Into it every voter had dropped their choice of candidate and walked away. But the little box knew those who voted against their own party; tenants who voted to shame their landlords; young boys who collected transport money from the Elephant and gave it to the Umbrella; wives who voted against husbands (for coming home late those campaign days); and middle aged men who entered the polling booth, only to say ‘tweaa’ and exit. One thing, however was known to all. Weeks before the D-Day, parties had prayed and fasted all night, imploring the good Lord to give them the No. 1 spot on the ballot paper. If you were No.1, chances were that the typical hungry voter, after surviving a long queue, would wisely choose the top image, and hurry home to eat. The song refrain ‘hwe osor ho,’ look up there, was indeed meant as a tonic for the weary. ‘Look up to Providence and all things shall be added.’ That first spot was meant to seal the victory already scored by the Elephant. Happily, the rival party, Umbrella, had been sentenced to No. 8; they were meant to suffer till eternity and out of frustration, go and sin here no more. Indeed any search for an obscure 8th spot in dry harmattan weather, was itself a self- inflicted penalty. The Ballot Box, however, knew the whole truth: that being No. 1 on the ballot could simply mean, you would be the first to run home in tears. That’s why the Elephant arrived first in the neighborhood, and was merrily greeted by the kids: Honorable W’awe, Honorable W’awe. @kwyankah

KWEKU ANANSE PROPHETS AND DECEMBER ELECTIONS

2026-04-11

The recent Founders Day was rather uneventful since nobody found a founder in the neighborhood. The most I heard were vain discussions on ‘finder,’ ‘founder,’ ‘founders.’ I even overheard a young nationalist playing with the word ‘find’ and closing the debate by drawing attention to lost and found items in our 4th Republic. These include the word ‘founder’ which was founded by ex-President Atta Mills, to distinguish Osagyefo from others who lost their way in the search for Ghana’s independence. The Day indeed was rather drowned in the affairs of Kweku Ananse prophets who were busy predicting the winner among two-and-half contestants currently eyeing Ghana’s presidency. But we have come a long way since independence. While election years in other places come to life with an avalanche of scientific polls a few months to elections, we here in Ghana could be moving towards a new slogan: ‘One Party, One Prophet’. Hardly a day passes without a newly bleached face emerging in the social media, white towel on shoulder, pacing back and forth the dais and yelling a prophecy that could well be an inaugural lecture. The Good Lord has spoken to him, as he did four years ago, and has said that ‘Come December 7... come December 7, uh uh..’ the audience wait with bated breath. ‘I say come December 7...,’ he wipes sweat off his forehead. ‘The new president will be JDM... oh sorry for the tongue slip; God tells me ‘It is Possibooor, It is possibooor.’ In other words, God is even familiar with the party slogan ‘It is Possibooor.’ The congregation yells in appreciation of a good prophecy. ‘I tell you this. If DMB does not win, please burn my church.’ The meeting is drowned in shouts of hallelujah and praise the Lord. ‘I say burn my church if DMB does not win.’ Prophet says this, knowing very well that he has no church building of his own, and takes refuge on Sundays in Class Five of AEDA primary school. Comes another Prophet WG, in whose year God has whispered ‘it will be JDM.’ God may have forgotten to add the 24-hour slogan: ‘If JDM does not become President after 2024 elections,’ says the Prophet, ‘Kill me.... ‘ he yells on the dais, looking over his shoulders for safety exits. Not long after comes international Prophet Conteh of Sierra Leone saying: ‘A party in Ghana that goes by the name NDC will win an election, and the declaration date is December 10, 2024,’ he says. But JDM should act with speed if he cherishes favorable prophecies, in the words of a British-Zimbabwean prophet whose surname is incidentally ‘Angel.’ He warns JDM ahead of the December Polls: ‘Stop joking with me, and call me in ten days otherwise you will lose...’ Eii, are prophecies now enabled by phone calls and collection bowls? All this while Ghana our dear country awaits the Father of all state prophets. He has played hide-and-seek with the presidency for a while, but now steps forward as the world awaits his spiritual verdict. According to him, he has already determined the winner but keeping it to himself to confuse copycats. He has finally released his golden verdict which is now Breaking News: ‘JDM will challenge the results at the Supreme Court.’ Yet the prophetic profession has now become a hazardous job. One Prophet Kusi, Boateng reports of threats after he dropped his spiritual bombshell recently: ‘An unknown number has called to threaten me... some people don’t fear...but I repeat: His Excellency DMB shall become the President of Ghana, and I dare anyone who wants to point the gun at me.’ Ghana’s political prophecies have gone international, and we could finally become the spiritual capital of the world. Our national prophet has been extra busy of late, and has claimed that a delegation from President Joe Biden recently travelled to Ghana over a distance of 5000 miles, and reached out to him for spiritual assistance. They were asked to return later. Now that Joe Biden has dropped out and been replaced, it is uncertain if Kamala Harris will follow Biden’s footsteps and report to Reverend Owusu Bempah this Sunday.