The sun rose again on Agyakrom Arena. The crowd was restless. They had tasted the sweetness of Cedi’s brief sprint, and now they wanted more.
“Inject him again!” shouted a trader, waving her invoice.
“Yes, give him another booster!” chorused the trotro mates.
“Let him run like Usain Bolt forever!” laughed a politician in the stands, secretly eyeing the next election.
In the corner, the NDC medics were already preparing another vial. The syringe gleamed, filled with liquid labelled Confidence II. They whispered:
“Another jab will revive him. The crowd will calm. The headlines will clap. Who cares if it’s temporary? Politics is fought week by week, not decade by decade.”
They beckoned Cedi over. “Come, fighter. Let us top you up. You will feel like a lion again.”
The Old Wise Man Arrives
But before Cedi could step forward, the Old Wise Man rose from beneath his baobab. He carried no syringe. Instead, in his wrinkled hands, he held a basin of water and a rough brush. Soap floated on the surface, sharp-smelling and honest.
“Fighter,” he said, “you have two choices:
- Take the syringe, and the crowd will cheer again, but the wound beneath the bandage will fester deeper.
- Take the soap, and the pain will be great, the screams loud, and the crowd impatient – but the wound will heal.”
The arena went quiet.
The Crowd Splits
Half the crowd shouted, “Take the syringe! We cannot endure pain. Let him fight now!”
The other half murmured, “Maybe the Old Man is right. Pain today could mean peace tomorrow.”
The kelewele seller shook her head. “Sweet plantain is fried in hot oil, not lukewarm water. Real healing needs fire.”
A farmer in the corner added, “We cannot keep selling raw cocoa and buying foreign chocolate. Give him the soap.”
Cedi’s Dilemma
Cedi looked at the syringe. It promised relief, applause, and another sprint. But he remembered the whispers of tomatoes, the arrogance of Dollar, the truth of Pound, the clipboard of Euro. He remembered that even after his miracle run, kenkey prices refused to bow.
He turned to the Old Wise Man.
“But Grandfather, the soap will sting. The crowd will boo. They may even stone me.”
The Old Man nodded. “Yes. Pain is the tuition of healing. But remember: Se wo were fi na wosankofa, yenkyi. (It is not wrong to go back for what you forgot.) Return to the hard work you abandoned: discipline, savings, local production. Do it, and one day you will not need injections to stand.”
The Choice
The medics extended the syringe.
The Old Man held out the basin and brush.
Cedi’s hand trembled. He reached toward the syringe… then paused. He stared at the crowd. Some were chanting; some were frowning; some were already calculating how to hedge against his next stumble.
Then, slowly, he pushed the syringe aside and reached for the soap.
The medics gasped. The crowd groaned. The politicians scowled.
Cedi dipped the brush into the basin and peeled off the bandage. The open wound met soap, and he screamed louder than the drums of Borborbor. The pain echoed across the arena. The crowd scattered, covering their ears. But beneath the screams, something real began: healing.
Policy Reflection — Syringe vs. Soap
- Syringe (short-term fixes): More interventions, reserve burn, borrowing, administrative forex controls. They bring quick relief but deepen long-term fragility.
- Soap & Brush (structural reforms): Fiscal discipline, buffers from exports, industrialisation, value addition, and import substitution. Painful, slow, unpopular—but the only path to resilience.
- Lesson: Healing requires discipline, sacrifice, and reforms that outlive election cycles. The crowd may not clap today, but tomorrow their pockets will thank you.
Dr. Asiamah's Gazette 