May 1st, 2026 10:16 AM

WEEP NOT JULIUS: MOURN YOUR DYING NATION

In the past few days, weeping has made headlines beyond funerals: ‘Wife slaps cheating husband to tears,’ or ‘Kejetia Market in Flames, traders in tears.’ Of higher news value are celebrity tears, where the journalist is even compelled to add the expression,‘wept uncontrollably.’ Here the big man himself may have been caught weeping (maa maa maa) like a baby. Men’s tears at women’s funeral are often unknown except for widowers, whom custom permits to shed a few tears to appease relations of the dearly departed. A widower’s dry eyes could raise suspicion particularly where cause of death is unknown. ‘Barima Nsu, Barima Nsu’ (A True Man Weeps Not) is often the caution thrown by women who pretend to console men crying, but really seek to arouse more tears. Whatever you do however, please avoid crocodile tears or else you may be whisked away to Paga for verification, a kind of VAR. Remember the famous crocodile pond which I visited in 2017 while on a formal visit to Bolgatanga Polytechnic (now University). I did so partly with the eyes of a tourist, but also out of curiosity to witness crocodile tears. Were the tears of Debrah borrowed from Paga reptiles? The problem with Julius Debrah is indeed shedding somebody’s tears in her absence. Dr Debrah seemed to say, “I do hereby weep uncontrollably on behalf of the CEO of Free Zones Board who made that offensive utterance, but has been unwilling to cry. I hereby wear her eyeballs to weep,' Julius seemed to be saying at his 60th birthday key soap concert. Seeing a big man publicly cry in a celebratory garment is rare. In truth, though Julius refused to let bygones be bygones. His Government currently grappling with a reset agenda knows the political implications of offending a church leader who had millions of following. Votes in Election 2028 may indeed flee ‘Pentecostally’ if damage caused is not swiftly controlled. The public tears of Julius Debrah, a likely contestant for the presidency, thus had the trappings of Paga reptiles; it was meant to seal the deal and clear the path for a presidency he eyes. Very few however stop to ask the genesis of all this drama. On 22nd April, Apostle Dr Nyamekye, Chairman of Church of Pentecost in his State of the Church address lamented how polluted rivers had adversely affected Christian baptism in mining communities. Within a day or two of this, the CEO of the Free Zones Board issued a rather combative rebuttal: ‘If the church leader continues to behave like a politician, we will deal with him as a politician.’ The negative public uproar this triggered across the country compelled the Chief of staff to quickly transform his 60th Birthday into a tearful anniversary, where he apologized profusely. But tears of a chief of staff would have been more patriotic if they were in response to the nation’s wider tragedy. Consider this excerpt from a viral essay by Tony Asare: ‘From Bekwai through Brofoyedru, Ofoase Ayirebi, to Oda to Nsawam and back to Accra; every single water body was the color of clay. Thick. Dying, Poisoned. Dead. Shame. This is not water. This is running mercury, cyanide, and the fluid corpse of a nation flowing into the sea. Galamsey has won. Ghana has lost the fight.’ It is such a tragedy that qualifies to move a Chief of Staff to public tears, not a CEO’s imprudent rebuttal to wise words. Read also a recent letter by the Pediatric Society of Ghana addressed to His Excellency the President, lamenting a nation’s assault on her children. An excerpt: ‘Pre-natal exposure to mercury is associated with irreversible brain damage…It increases the burden of chronic diseases, infections and malnutrition of children. Galamsey isn’t just an environmental problem; it is a slow assault on the Ghanaian child…’ Julius, this is what should draw tears from you and the staff you lead. Your Boss indeed confesses that some of your staff are complicit in the assault on Ghana. Julius, weep not for rude CEOs; but cry for Mother Ghana: ‘The fluid corpse of a nation flowing into the sea.’ kyankah@ashesi.edu.gh Visit: kwesiyankahwrites.com

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April 22nd, 2026 06:03 AM

KWEKU ANANSE PROPHETS AND DECEMBER ELECTIONS

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.

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April 11th, 2026 11:41 AM

HONORABLE, W’AWE

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

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April 22nd, 2026 02:42 PM

YEMUADIE & FRIENDS LTD

I have been visiting a few places this festive season, sampling Xmas meals at homes and receptions; and I am ready now to present my preliminary report to friends and followers. Menus I have seen served all over include the following: Pale and tasteless jollof rice decorated with spicy homegrown drum sticks; Ghana fried rice dipped in oil, awaiting a Chinese to come and fry. Next was bow-legged apem ampesie and kontomire stew pampered with Winneba Youth herrings; soft and sweaty fried plantains relaxed in happy beans stew, with slippery boiled eggs. Then came okro soup with dzomi, hosting three wide-awake tilapia resting on giant balls of banku. If those did not pass my taste test, I did not give up. I finally met my ‘meeter’ last Wednesday: Green Green soup with tender ‘Yemuadie’ tossed center-stage, and guarded by two Cape Coast crabs. Waiting at the touchline were organic grasscutter spare parts conveyed by express from Mankesim, and a drizzle of Agona mushrooms. In attendance were five bashful snails from Mensakrom almost shivering, without their winter coat. Within a sea of abunuabunu soup, the award winning bowl before me could as well be labelled as ‘Yemuadie and Friends Ltd.’ ‘Yemuadie,’ is a bowl of assorted livestock entrails: liver, bladder, kidney, gizzard, lungs, etc. But these are often standalones and less appealing until collectively wrapped in a perforated stomach wall, known in Ghana as ‘Towel.’ A little strip of small intestines is carefully wound around the loose pack, terminating in a diminutive knot. Firm and secure, the Yemuadie wrap is now sealed and stamped, ready for the market. During shipment, the entire sealed package could as well be labelled, ‘Fragile, Please Handle with Care.’ Being tender, ‘Yemuadie’ was largely a monopoly of children and senior citizens, and been Nature’s prescription from time immemorial. These days the senior citizen monopoly has been disturbed by the young at heart, who are fighting inflation. It is simple, nutritious, and good for the budget. And how do you consume the delicacy? Two ways. You open the ‘Yemuadie’ wrapper and pick the spare parts for itemized consumption; alternatively you may simply consider the entire package as ‘Yemuadie Sandwich’ (superior to Burger King) sinking your teeth into the towel together with cheese, spare parts and all, while whipping misaligned parts in line. If you decide to eat the contents one at a time, you may consider the towel as your ‘suffer-to-gain’ treat; not hurriedly consumed but reserved for the grand finale, and tossed down the throat just before closing prayers. That way you can thank your Maker for a good meal, while the standing ovation lasts. Whenever you see a long queue at the soup portal of your local chop bar, it is most likely a ‘Yemuadie’ traffic jam. Here prospective clients at their turn, stretch their necks over the simmering soup. Seated behind the colossal soup pot is the dedicated vendor who responds to client preferences to the last detail. ‘Yeeees.’ The next client then scans the pot eyes rolling, and finger-points his choices as the vendor stirs the boiling soup bottom up, revealing the entire inventory of Yemuadie and Friends. This way the assorted meat chunks spin, flip and somersault in a competitive crave for attention. ‘Yes, not this one, not that one, No, no, ehee, exactly that, pepeepe,’ as the client grins from ear to ear. That’s often a signal that the ‘point and pick’ method has worked. The vendor politely scoops the desired chunk, carefully dropping unwanted intrusions and fills your bowl to the brim, soup and all. If the next client in line is pleased with the choices made by the client before him, he may whisper to the vendor to repeat the winning formula, skipping the ‘point and pick’ segment. Yemuadie attracted formal attention recently after the Minister for Trade and Industry scared the nation with a long list of items whose importation the Government plans to restrict. Until then, very few knew our favorite Yemuadie is largely imported, with the country spending $164 million every year! As a sovereign nation, we may have decided to import everything under the sun: rice, diapers, tooth pick, matches, candle, poultry, livestock, and Yemuadie. And who are our merciful suppliers: largely Europe and USA using our cold stores as outlets! That is where Ghana’s primary soup delicacy, Towel and accessories largely originate. So then, how about the following Breaking News to be released towards the New Year. “There has been a major shortage of Yemuadie in Ghana this festive season, leading to long queues at Ghanaian chop bars.” What may have caused this unusual shortage? It is the Russian-Ukraine War, according to CNN. kwyankah@yahoo.com

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April 11th, 2026 11:26 AM

KURO MU AY3 HYE

I simply do not know why hot things of this earth should decide to by- pass all other months, and collectively land in the month when I was born--- October. Why the conspiracy? This is the month when a Ghanaian keeper of the British purse, Kwasi Kwarteng was kicked out just as a delegation from Ghana was on its way for a visa, to extend congratulations. Yet, at least, Kwasi’s story has entitled all Kwesi’s of this earth to collectively enrich our CVs with the credentials, ‘I am approximately Kwasi Kwarteng;’ and this could be good for visa purposes going to UK. Also the month a young lady, Prime Minister Liz Truss, could not sustain the trust of Britain beyond October. Her tenure was the shortest in British history. In both cases, it may be said the people of Britain greeted them with a welcome, and a goodbye at the same time. And here comes an Indian, Prime Minister Rishi Sunak, in the same month publicly performing Hindu rituals in a temple to announce his First day at No 10 Downing Street. He forgot that No 10 was Anglican. And for all Britons who were probably puzzled or upset by the ritual, may they be informed that Rishi’s rituals only meant, ‘God Save my new King Charles.’ The kitchen has indeed been too hot, and we could send a delegation probably led by Almighty Prophet Agradaa, to cross the Atlantic and pray for Britain. As soon as she returns, Agradaa’s next task should be to pronounce a ceasefire in Parliament, and shame us all by simply filling Ghana’s empty treasury to overflowing, the way she enriched her huge congregation by prayer. That simple act should trigger the immediate return of our delegation sweating at IMF. It could change the fortunes of the cedi, and make Ofori Atta smile the first time in three months. Kuro mu ay3 hye! Also the month where cold sweat has led to a surfeit of tongue slips, and misspeaking by men in high places. But for the October heat, why would our Father at Jubilee himself commit a major tongue slip in Ashanti that would rile his large following, to say under their breath, ‘Opanin, watch your tongue ooo; this is not good for 2024, Yoo.’ In the olden days, the journalist reporting those executive tongue slips, would take to his heels and apologize from across the river. These days, big men who misspeak in public will see the video in the social media, and wisely revise their denial speeches. Occasionally though they deepen the lie by saying ‘it was a photoshop.’ The privilege of saying under oath, I was misquoted, is now gone. But the biggest royal tongue slip in October, was from the banks of the Birim River, Kyebi. Did I hear the big chief himself, refer to the President’s critics as ‘villagers and witches?’ Ebei Nana! Oh No, You did not say that. Neither was that heard. Perish the thought! Nana’s linguist made matters worse by overstretching his role of refining the royal word. He flatly denied the public interpretation, and said the Chief’s word was directed at uncouth young boys. Unfortunately, nobody believed the linguist. Video no lie. Nana should just imagine his own outrage, if an outsider had referred to his great Abuakwa people in those words. That single statement debased all critics of the President as lacking civility in their rural ways, and cedes free speech exclusively to minority city dwellers. Nana, don’t forget, the President won his ticket by a huge vote from the uncouth ‘villagers and witches.’ Nana, anko yie! I plead that a way be found to restore Nana’s otherwise exemplary public idiom. The lowest award for misspeaking in October goes to a spokesman of Concerned Teachers, who referred to the President’s appointee for Director-General of GES, as a mere ‘Goro Boy,’ who will be rejected by Teachers because he is a misfit in the new position. No please, Awudu; as a teacher, spare our little ones a lesson on how to welcome your new boss with insults. By that pronouncement, the Concerned Teachers may have on their hands, a Goro Boy Director General, whose ‘goro’ decisions will impact their collective welfare. That pronouncement coming from a union leader who has not swallowed his spittle so far, I dread the future welfare of his membership. Oh what an advocate! Will someone please intervene and save our teachers, who need courteous speech and not insults, to fight their noble causes. October, dignitaries are misspeaking; parliament is heated; keepers of public purse sweat; passengers fight drivers; chop moneys dwindle; petrol is bought in tots. Oh what a Month which so depresses me, my Birthday Sunday 30th October, is in danger of melting in the heat. Kurom aye hye. It is indeed tempting to postpone my birthday from October to November, just in case the 11th month will coincide with a happier cedi note. November borns, October ay3 hye; here I come!

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