Category: Political Satire & Fiction

Africa Political Economy, Blog Series, Ghana's Political Economy, Ghanaian Politics, Political Satire & Fiction

The Cedi and His West African Cousins

Dr. George Asiamah

Currencies, like people, have personalities. They live, stumble, rise, and sometimes collapse. They boast, envy, cry, and pretend to be stronger than they really are. In West Africa, four characters dominate the monetary stage: the Ghanaian Cedi, the Nigerian Naira, the CFA Franc, and the elusive Eco — forever promised, forever unborn. Together, they tell the story of a region still searching for stability, dignity, and unity.

The Rise and Fall of Brothers

The Cedi was born in 1965, young and proud, replacing the colonial Ghanaian pound. At independence, his father Kwame Nkrumah dressed him in fine linen and sent him to walk shoulder-to-shoulder with the dollar and the pound. He was called the “prince of West Africa,” backed by cocoa, gold, and a vision of industrialization. But the fall of Nkrumah, followed by years of coups, devaluations, and IMF experiments, clipped his wings. By the 1980s, Cedi was begging in the corridors of Washington, disciplined into liberalization, his dignity bartered away at the black market.

Naira, on the other hand, was once a king. In the 1970s and early 1980s, he strode across the continent with oil wealth swelling his pockets. Nigerians traveled freely with strong Naira, shopping in London as if Oxford Street were Lagos Island. Ghana, battered by droughts and debt, looked at Naira with envy. But oil dependence is a dangerous addiction. As oil prices crashed, corruption spread, and mismanagement deepened, Naira’s muscles shrank. Inflation weakened him, parallel markets mocked him, and he now hides behind multiple exchange rates – a giant reduced to confusion.

Then there is the CFA Franc, that peculiar cousin. Created in 1945 by France, the CFA has always been suspiciously neat and orderly. Pegged to the French franc, and later to the Euro, the CFA prides himself on stability. While Cedi and Naira stumble in inflation, CFA strolls in calm, admired by international investors for his predictability. But this neatness is an illusion of independence. CFA cannot decide his own fate; his policies are dictated in Paris. He is the disciplined child, yes, but only because he is still tethered to his colonial parent. The proverb says: “The sheep tied to a post does not get lost, but neither does it graze freely.” That is CFA’s curse – stability at the cost of sovereignty.

The Family Gathering

Imagine them sitting together under a baobab tree.

  • Cedi sits with patched clothes, tired but still proud. He has survived IMF clinics, market beatings, and political abuse, yet he keeps limping forward.
  • Naira arrives late, sweating, carrying oil barrels on his back. He is loud but defensive, muttering that he is still “the giant of Africa,” even as his shoes are torn.
  • CFA enters next, dressed in a French suit, polished and perfumed, looking at the others with condescension. He boasts: “At least I don’t fall. At least I don’t beg.”
  • And then there is Eco — the forever unborn child. Everyone talks about him, but nobody has seen him. Some say he is beautiful, others say he is a mirage. For decades, he has been “coming soon,” but the midwives of ECOWAS have never managed to deliver him.

The conversation begins.

Naira (to Cedi): “Ah, my brother, you are weak these days. The dollar knocks you flat every week.”

Cedi (sighing): “Yes, but even in my weakness, you still envy me. At least I am not broken into ten exchange rates, hiding from myself.”

CFA (smirking): “Both of you are children playing with fire. Look at me — stable, respected, reliable. Investors trust me, my people travel easily. I am the model of discipline.”

Cedi (laughing): “Discipline? Or dependence? You wear Paris’s shoes, eat Paris’s bread, and even when you sneeze, you must ask France for tissue. Stability without sovereignty is slavery in a suit.”

Naira (clapping): “Tell him, Cedi! He brags about his tie, but he cannot loosen it without permission.”

At this point, a faint cry is heard in the distance. It is Eco, unborn but restless, speaking from the womb of ECOWAS communiqués:

Eco (muffled): “Peace, brothers! Stop fighting. I am coming to unite you. With me, there will be no CFA, no Cedi, no Naira — just one strong West African voice.”

The brothers burst into laughter.

Cedi: “Coming? You have been ‘coming’ since the 1980s. Our fathers grew old waiting for you. Our children may die waiting too.”

Naira: “Yes, every ECOWAS summit, they say, ‘Eco is near!’ But when the meeting ends, they forget you. You are like the rainbow — beautiful but always vanishing.”

CFA (with disdain): “Even if you are born, you will still need my French doctor to cut your umbilical cord. Without Paris, you will be stillborn.”

The laughter dies down. The truth hangs in the air: Eco is a mirage, a promise without delivery, a unity that remains forever postponed.

The Mirage of Eco

The Eco dream is not new. Since 1983, ECOWAS has announced plans for a single currency. Deadlines were set: 2000, 2005, 2010, 2020… each postponed. Leaders meet, sign communiqués, and issue photos, but the implementation remains elusive. Why? Because the fundamentals are weak. Inflation, fiscal deficits, and exchange rate policies differ widely across the region. Nigeria, with its size, demands dominance; smaller economies fear being swallowed. Francophone states remain tied to France through the CFA. Unity is preached, but sovereignty is hoarded.

The Eco, therefore, has become a political slogan, not an economic reality. It is the mirage on the horizon — shimmering, enticing, but never reached.

The Political Economy of Envy

Yet beneath the failures lies an important lesson. Even in his weakness, the Cedi remains envied by Naira, because Ghana’s smaller economy still manages occasional stability that Nigeria, with all its oil, cannot achieve. CFA, though stable, secretly envies Cedi and Naira, for at least they are free to stumble on their own terms. And Eco, unborn, envies them all, because at least they exist.

This circle of envy reflects West Africa’s deeper problem: we measure ourselves against one another, instead of reimagining ourselves together. Naira dreams of being dollar, Cedi dreams of being euro, CFA dreams of being Swiss franc, Eco dreams of being born. Meanwhile, ordinary Africans just dream of money that holds value long enough to buy bread tomorrow at the same price as today.

Conclusion: The Baobab Lesson

The gathering ends under the baobab. Cedi walks away limping, Naira staggers with his oil barrels, CFA straightens his French suit, and Eco disappears back into the womb of ECOWAS communiqués.

The proverb says: “When brothers fight over inheritance, strangers inherit the land.” West Africa’s currencies fight over envy, dependency, and procrastination, while the dollar, euro, and yuan quietly dominate their markets.

The lesson is clear: unless West Africa learns to speak with one monetary voice, the Eco will remain unborn, the Cedi will keep limping, the Naira will keep groaning, and the CFA will keep smiling in borrowed shoes.

And maybe one day, when Eco finally arrives — if he ever does — he will look at his older brothers and ask: “Why did you wait so long to grow up?”

Agyakrom Blog Series, Blog Series, Ghana's Political Economy, Ghanaian Politics, Political Satire & Fiction, Politics, Sarcastic Commentary, The Bandage Economy

Final Episode: Habit, Not Miracle

Dr. George Asiamah

The arena was quieter now. The drums no longer beat like war; the songs of victory had faded into cautious murmurs. Cedi was not sprinting anymore. He was walking—slow, deliberate, with soap stings still fresh on his wound. His steps were heavy, but they were his own, not borrowed from a syringe.

The crowd was divided. Some sulked, disappointed that there were no fireworks or miracle punches.
“Where is the lion we saw last month?” they complained.
Others watched silently, realising for the first time that the real fight was not against the giants in the arena, but against the wounds beneath Cedi’s skin.

Cedi’s Training

Every morning, before the crowd arrived, Cedi practiced. No steroids, no bandages – just discipline.

  • He lifted sacks of local rice, learning to depend less on imported bags.
  • He sparred with cassava and yam, training his stomach to be filled by what his soil grew.
  • He studied the moves of cocoa, not as raw beans but as chocolate and cosmetics, teaching his arms to strike with value addition.
  • He jogged alongside industry, sweating to build factories that could meet Euro’s clipboard standards.

It was not glamorous work. There were no cheering trotro mates, no dancing politicians. But slowly, his muscles remembered how to fight without artificial strength.

The Giants Observe

Dollar folded his arms. “Hmm. He is learning to refine oil? This may weaken my hold.”

Pound frowned. “He is training teachers and engineers at home? That might reduce my September harvest.”

Euro adjusted his clipboard. “If his factories begin to meet my standards, he may turn from applicant to competitor.”

The giants did not panic; they were too seasoned for that. But for the first time, they respected Cedi – not for his sprint, but for his discipline.

The Crowd Learns

At first, the people complained. Prices did not fall overnight. Kenkey was still arguing with transport. Waakye was still gossiping with taxes. But as moons turned into seasons, they noticed something strange:

  • Tomatoes stopped panicking every time Dollar coughed.
  • Cement began to price itself with more confidence.
  • Farmers smiled as local rice found loyal customers.
  • The fuel pump still frowned, but less often than before.

The people realised: true strength is not a miracle – it is a habit.

The Old Wise Man’s Final Lesson

Under the baobab, the Old Wise Man raised his staff one last time.

“Ahwenepa nkasa.”
(Precious beads do not rattle.)

He explained:
“Real strength is quiet. It does not announce itself with noise or slogans. It is seen in steady prices, in factories that hum daily, in reserves that sleep peacefully, in farmers who plan next season without fear. Cedi must not chase applause anymore; he must build silence that lasts.”

The apprentices bowed. “So, Grandfather, the battle is not won in one miracle?”

He smiled. “No, my children. Miracles impress crowds. Habits build nations.”

Policy Reflection – The Long Lesson of Cedi

  1. Short-term fireworks don’t feed households. True stability comes from structural reforms: diversifying exports, building local industries, investing in agriculture, and fiscal discipline.
  2. Habit beats miracle. A currency that steadily strengthens on productivity and buffers is worth more than one that sprints on steroids.
  3. Quiet progress is real progress. The best economic victories are invisible—when prices stay steady, when reserves quietly grow, when the exchange rate ceases to dominate the evening news.
  4. Resilience over applause. The goal is not to “beat Dollar, Pound, or Euro” in a sprint but to build an economy that does not collapse when they flex.

Closing Scene

As the sun set over Agyakrom Arena, Cedi stood tall – not roaring, not sprinting, but breathing steadily. The crowd no longer screamed his name, but they watched him with a new kind of respect.

For the first time in years, Cedi was not a miracle patient or a wounded warrior. He was simply a fighter in training – learning that the true battle is not won in the arena but in the habits of the everyday.

And under the baobab, the Old Wise Man whispered to himself:

“Strength is not a miracle. Strength is a habit.”

Blog Series, Ghana's Political Economy, Ghanaian Politics, Political Satire & Fiction, Politics, Sarcastic Commentary, The Bandage Economy

Episode 8: The Choice – Syringe or Soap

Dr. George Asiamah

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.

Blog Series, Everyday Life, Ghana News, Ghana's Political Economy, Ghanaian Politics, Political Satire & Fiction, Politics, The Bandage Economy

Episode 7: Enemies Tell the Truth

Dr. George Asiamah

The night deepened at Agyakrom Arena. Cedi crouched in the dust, panting, his bandage damp with sweat and whispers. The steroids in his blood had dimmed; each punch now felt like an overdraft. The crowd still clapped, but their rhythm was half-hearted, like churchgoers forced to sing a hymn they don’t know the tune to.

Then something unusual happened: the giants stopped fighting.

Instead of charging, Dollar, Pound, and Euro stood tall, brushing dust from their shoulders. They looked at Cedi – not with scorn this time, but with the weary patience of creditors who have seen too many debtors at their desk. One by one, they spoke—not to taunt, but to teach.

Dollar’s Confession

Dollar stepped forward, his voice booming like oil rigs in the Niger Delta.

“Cedi, hear me. I am not just your enemy; I am your addiction. Every time you thirst for fuel, you come running to me. Every time you borrow, you do it in my name. You waste your reserves trying to tame me, but you never ask why you need me so much.

Build your own refineries, cut your deficits, grow exports, and I will lose my grip on your throat. Until then, I am your oxygen. And if you don’t manage your breath, you will choke.”

Cedi lowered his eyes. He remembered the endless fuel queues of old, the heavy import bills, the sleepless nights of central bankers.

Pound’s Sermon

Pound polished his monocle and cleared his throat like a colonial headmaster.

“Cedi, every September you flood to me with tuition fees, remittances, and consultancy payments. You drain yourself financing dreams abroad while your own schools hunger for chalk. Spare parts, luxury imports, legal advice – you lean on me for all.

Train your own teachers, fix your industries, grow your skills at home. Then I will stop being your examiner. Until then, I am your headmaster, and I mark in sterling.”

Cedi felt the sting. He saw parents selling land to send children abroad, businesses wiring pounds for spare parts, officials hiring British consultants to solve problems Ghanaian brains could have solved.

Euro’s Lecture

Euro shuffled his files, stacked neatly like regulations in Brussels.

“Cedi, your bandage will not protect you from me. You import my machines, my pharmaceuticals, my wheat, my vehicles. My standards control your exports. Until you process cocoa into chocolate, until your farmers meet sanitary tests, until your industries add value, you will remain chained to my clipboard.

Diversify, industrialise, and I will become your market instead of your master. Ignore this, and every cargo ship docking at Tema will remind you who holds the pen.”

Cedi clenched his fists, but he could not deny the truth. Even cocoa – the pride of his veins—was exported raw, only to return as imported chocolate bars.

The Old Wise Man Nods

From under the baobab, the Old Wise Man raised his staff and chuckled.

“Nokware nsuo nom yɛ den.
(Truth is a hard water to swallow.)

Sometimes, even your enemies tell you the bitter truth your friends hide. Do not hate the water because it is hard; drink it and grow teeth.”

The apprentices asked, “Grandfather, why would enemies help?”

He replied: “Because they don’t need to lie. Their profit is secure. It is your pride that blinds you. A man drowning in the river may refuse the insult, but he cannot refuse the water.”

Cedi’s Reflection

For the first time, Cedi did not roar back. He sat quietly, staring at the dust. The ache under the bandage pulsed with each word.

He realised the giants were not just bullies – they were mirrors. They exposed his weaknesses: oil dependence, education outflows, import addiction. He could fight them forever and lose, or he could listen and heal.

Policy Reflection – When Enemies Tell the Truth

  • Dollar’s truth: Ghana’s dependence on oil imports and borrowing drains reserves. Real cure = refinery capacity, fiscal discipline, and export diversification.
  • Pound’s truth: Tuition, remittances, spare parts, and consultancy dependence funnel cedis into pounds. Real cure = strengthen education, industrial base, and domestic services.
  • Euro’s truth: Standards and imports tie Ghana to Europe. Real cure = add value to exports, meet standards, and industrialise.

Lesson: External powers may sound arrogant, but their pressure exposes internal weaknesses. Their insults are uncomfortable data.

Blog Series, Ghana's Political Economy, Ghanaian Politics, Political Satire & Fiction, Politics, The Bandage Economy

Episode 5: The Old Man Under the Baobab

Dr. George Asiamah

The stadium noise began to soften. The initial fireworks of Cedi’s resurrection still glimmered in the minds of many, but the murmurs from Makola, Kaneshie, and Kejetia were now echoing louder than the trotro horns. Tomatoes had spoken. Cement had complained. Fuel had rolled its eyes. And the ordinary stomach – always the most honest economist – kept grumbling.

In the shade of the mighty baobab, the Old Wise Man sat. His beard was long like the minutes of a parliamentary debate, his eyes heavy with memories of cycles past. He had seen currencies come and go, debts pile and collapse, slogans fly and expire. Around him gathered apprentices, traders, students, and curious onlookers who wanted to understand why their cheers had not bought them cheaper kenkey.

The Old Wise Man Speaks

He tapped his staff on the earth three times. Dust rose, as if even the soil knew he was about to speak sense.

“My children,” he began, “you celebrate because the bandaged warrior Cedi has leapt to his feet. You sing because the giants stumbled for a moment. But let me tell you something:

Sɛ ɛprɔ a, yɛbɛte ne kankan.
(When it rots, we will smell the stench.)

What does this mean? A wound under a bandage may look neat, but when it festers, it cannot hide forever. The smell will betray the silence.”

The crowd leaned closer.

“Steroids can make a man run. But steroids do not heal broken bones. Bandages can cover sores, but they cannot cure infections. And when leaders chase optics instead of surgery, the crowd will clap today but cough tomorrow.”

He paused, allowing the proverb to sink like gari into water.

The People Respond

A market woman asked, “So, Grandfather, are you saying the NDC medics were wrong to revive Cedi?”

The Old Man smiled. “No. A dead fighter cannot train. Emergency medicine has its place. But my worry is when emergency becomes tradition, when steroids replace food, when applause replaces planning. That is when the wound rots.”

A young graduate interjected, “But isn’t it good that inflation has slowed a bit, that the exchange rate looks calmer?”

The Old Man nodded. “Yes, it is good to slow the bleeding. But slowing bleeding is not the same as restoring strength. If you remove the bandage and find no healing beneath, then what have we gained? We are only postponing the smell.”

The Giants Listen Too

From across the arena, Dollar, Pound, and Euro leaned against the ropes, listening. They smirked, but even they knew the truth of the proverb. They had seen Cedi rise before, only to stumble again.

Dollar whispered, “He will come running back for me when reserves thin.”
Pound muttered, “September will remind him whose tuition he pays.”
Euro sighed, “Imports will not forgive him. They never do.”

The Old Wise Man raised his voice so that even the giants could hear:
“Your enemies are not merely bullies; they are reminders. They expose what you refuse to fix. Do not hate them – learn from them. For if you build your canoe strong, the flood cannot disgrace you.”

Proverb

“Sɛ ɛprɔ a, yɛbɛte ne kankan.”
(When it rots, we will smell the stench.)

Meaning: Temporary cover-ups will always reveal themselves. True solutions cannot be faked.

Policy Reflection – The Wisdom of the Baobab

The Old Man’s parable cuts deep:

  1. Emergency medicine is necessary – Liquidity injections, IMF inflows, and forex controls can prevent collapse in the short run.
  2. But temporary measures have consequences – They risk depleting reserves, creating distortions, or masking deeper weaknesses.
  3. Structural reform is the only cure – Without boosting exports, building buffers, and cutting wasteful spending, the “smell” of crisis will return.
  4. Markets have long memories – Traders, investors, and ordinary citizens will eventually sense when strength is artificial.

Lesson: The test of policy is not applause in the moment but resilience in the storm. Short-term victories mean little if they cover long-term decay.

Blog Series, Ghana's Political Economy, Ghanaian Politics, Political Satire & Fiction, Politics, The Bandage Economy, UK Politics

Episode 3: The Giants and Their Taunts

Dr. George Asiamah

The dust settled for a moment at the Agyakrom Arena. Cedi was on his feet again, swinging punches with a swagger only steroids can buy. The crowd still sang, kelewele still hissed in pans, and trotro mates hung off the stands like drunken griots, whistling victory songs.

But the giants had not retired. They had only been surprised. And when giants recover from surprise, their words weigh heavier than their fists.

With a chest broad as the Atlantic and oil barrels rolling behind him, Dollar spat sand and bellowed:

“Listen, small boy! You think you can beat me with temporary medicine? I am not just a fighter; I am plumbing. Every pipe in your economy flows through me – fuel contracts, global trade, your IMF injections. If your pipes leak, I will flood your house. Fix the pipes, and maybe – just maybe – I will calm down. But keep wasting reserves, and I will return with thunder.”

Cedi clenched his fists, but the ache under the bandage whispered, “He is not lying.”

Adjusting his dusty monocle, Pound cleared his throat like a retired headmaster calling assembly.

“You colonial students never learn. Every September, you run to me with your school fees. Every December, you buy my spare parts for your trotro funerals. Every Easter, you come for my visas, my remittances, my consultants. And then you complain when I tighten your throat? Build skills at home, and I shall stop billing you like a stubborn headteacher. Until then, I remain your examiner, and the pass mark is in sterling.”

Cedi glared, but behind his fury lay memories of parents selling land for tuition abroad. He had no reply.

Euro dusted his stack of papers, each stamped with blue stars. His twenty-seven soldiers stood like clerks behind him, filing invoices.

“You punch me today, but tomorrow your ships will dock at my ports, begging for machinery, medicines, and wheat. You say you can fight me, but can your factories meet my standards? Can your farmers pass my sanitary tests? You depend on my bread, my vaccines, my machines. Until you build your own, you cannot escape my clipboard. Imports due, my friend. Imports are always due.”

Cedi tried to laugh it off, but deep in his gut he remembered: even cocoa beans needed European chocolate factories before they reached their true value.

The people in the stands argued.

Some jeered at the giants:
“Stop bullying our Cedi! Today he is winning. Tomorrow too he will win!”

Others scratched their heads:
“Hmm. Dollar, Pound, and Euro sound arrogant, but are they not speaking truth? If we do not produce, how can we stop them from charging us rent?”

The kelewele seller muttered, “My oil still comes from Dollar’s cousin. Unless we fry with palm oil only, we will keep smelling his kitchen.”

The Old Wise Man listened from his corner, eyes closed, staff tapping the earth like a metronome.

He spoke softly:
“Ɔkɔtɔ nwo anoma.”
(The crab does not give birth to a bird.)

“The Cedi cannot pretend to be what he is not. Steroids make him leap, but they cannot change his bones. If he does not build his own muscles—factories, farms, savings—he will always be dragged back to the mudflats where the crab belongs. A crab cannot fly; it must walk its own way. And if it wishes to fly, it must build wings, not borrow feathers.”

The crowd fell silent. Even the trotro mate stopped whistling.

Policy Reflection — What the Giants’ Taunts Mean

  • Dollar’s taunt = Ghana’s dependence on oil imports, external borrowing, and reserve burn. Without fixing fiscal leaks and building real reserves, Dollar remains the landlord.
  • Pound’s taunt = Education, remittances, spare parts, and consultancy dependence. Heavy outflows to the UK weaken Cedi each year. The solution is building skills, industries, and alternatives at home.
  • Euro’s taunt = Dependency on European standards and imports (machines, medicines, food). Until local industries meet those standards, Euro’s clipboard rules Ghana’s destiny.

Lesson: These “giants” are not just villains – they are mirrors. Their taunts expose the weak ribs of the economy. The crowd may not like the insults, but the insults are data.

Blog Series, Ghana's Political Economy, Ghanaian Politics, Political Satire & Fiction, Politics, The Bandage Economy

Episode One: The Fall of the Cedi

Dr. George Asiamah

The drums of Agyakrom Arena rolled, and the crowd gathered. In the red corner stood Cedi, the wiry fighter of the land. He wasn’t the tallest, nor the strongest, but he carried cocoa in his fists, gold in his teeth, and oil dripping down his back. The people chanted his name, believing their warrior could at last tame the mighty giants.

Behind him stood his commander, the NPP Marshal, decorated not with medals but with slogans stitched into his uniform: “Battle-Tested Plan,” “Dr. Fundamentals,” “One District, One Factory.” His sword gleamed with promises; his shield shone with borrowed optimism.

“Forward, Cedi!” the marshal shouted. “This is your destiny.”

But the battle was no village wrestling contest. Across the arena, three giants lumbered forward: Dollar, broad-chested, carrying oil barrels in one hand and global invoices in the other. Pound, dressed like a retired colonial officer, cane tucked under his arm, school-fee receipts in his pocket. Euro, tall, sleek, marching in formation with twenty-seven foot soldiers holding briefcases of regulations, machinery, and pharmaceuticals.

The whistle blew.

Dollar swung first, a heavy punch from crude oil imports. Cedi staggered. Pound jabbed with spare parts and tuition fees, cracking his ribs. Euro didn’t shout; he suffocated him quietly with wheat, vaccines, and machinery. The crowd gasped as Cedi stumbled, his shield splintered, his armour cracked.

“Hold the line!” the marshal cried. But the line broke. Cedi fell face-first in the dust, groaning, the flag of Agyakrom trampled beneath him.

The people looked at each other in silence. The trotro mate muttered: “So, this is the plan?” A Makola trader shook her head: “Even my tomatoes are ashamed.”

The giants didn’t even boast; they simply stood over him, as if to say: “This is what happens when you enter the ring unprepared.”

Proverb

“Sɛ nsuyire ba a, ɛna yɛhu deɛ ne kodoɔ yɛ papa.”
(When the floods come, we see the quality of the canoe.)

Policy Reflection

When global storms hit – rising oil prices, higher imports, currency shocks – Cedi revealed what had long been hidden: an economy built on weak planks. The canoe had been painted with slogans, but its wood was cracked. Imports outpaced exports, debts outpaced revenues, and buffers were too thin to weather the current.

In the flood of global markets, you do not rise by chanting; you rise by building a canoe that floats.

Read Episode Two

Blog Series, Ghana News, Ghana's Political Economy, Ghanaian Politics, Political Satire & Fiction, Politics, The Bandage Economy

Prologue: The Cedi Vs. The Giants

Dr. George Asiamah

Long before the drums beat at Agyakrom Arena, the fate of Cedi was already whispered in chop bars, lorry parks, and Parliament corridors.

Cedi was no ordinary fighter. He was born in 1965, young and ambitious, wrapped in national pride like kente on Independence Day. At birth, he carried cocoa in one hand, gold in the other, and oil hidden beneath his skin. His parents promised him glory:
“You will stand tall among the giants. You will not beg; you will command.”

But the world is not a fair marketplace. The giants – Dollar, Pound, and Euro – had been in the ring for centuries, bulging with the muscles of empire, trade, and industry. They had their networks, their soldiers, their standards, their debts. They did not just fight with fists; they fought with memories.

Cedi grew up in this world, always smaller, always hustling. Sometimes he rose with swagger, sometimes he fell with shame. He had seen coups and slogans, IMF infusions and debt write-offs, promises and disappointments. He had been bandaged, boosted, and broken more times than the crowd could count.

Yet the people of Agyakrom never gave up on him. Every election, they dressed him in a new uniform, gave him a new commander, and shouted, “This time, he will conquer!” The crowd’s memory was short, but their hope was long.

The arena itself was merciless. Every import, every school fee, every litre of fuel was another punch. Every cocoa harvest, every gold sale, every donor inflow was another jab back. Victories were rare, defeats were common, but the spectacle never ended.

The elders said:

“Sɛ anomaa anntu a, ɔbuada.”
(If the bird does not fly, it starves.)

Cedi might never soar like Dollar or Pound, but he had to perch somewhere sturdy – or risk falling forever.

This is the story of Cedi: a fighter wounded and revived, mocked and applauded, sprinting on borrowed steroids, and finally learning that his survival depends not on miracles but on habits. It is the story of Ghana’s economy, told in the dust and sweat of a ring where applause is loud but stomachs are louder.

The battle of Cedi is not just about exchange rates; it is about identity, resilience, and the stubborn hope of a people who refuse to stop cheering, even when their pockets are empty.

And so, the drums beat again. The giants tighten their gloves. The medics prepare their syringes. The Old Wise Man sharpens his proverbs. And the crowd leans forward, asking the eternal question:

“Can Cedi stand?”

Click to Read Episode One – The Fall of the Cedi

Agyakrom Blog Series, Ghana News, Ghana's Political Economy, Ghanaian Politics, Political Satire & Fiction, Politics

Episode 2: At Long Last… Agyakrom is Free!

Dr. George Asiamah

“When the drums of freedom beat, even the slowest beast begins to dance.”

By the early 20th century, young beasts in Agyakrom demanded answers. Beasts who read the colonial scrolls and saw the hypocrisy. Beasts who had drunk both palm wine and European philosophy. Beasts who demanded a Free Jungle.

One of them stood tall.

He was fast.
He was fierce.
He was relentless.

His name? Kwame the Visionary Panther.

Not born into wealth.
Not descended from chieftain trees.
But his speed was unmatched – both in thought and in speech.

He returned from the icy forests of foreign lands with a tail full of socialist theories, a mane full of Pan-African dreams, and a scroll titled “Positive Action.”

The UGCC and the Great Split

Before the Panther returned to Agyakrom, there existed a cautious committee of beasts known as the United Grove for Common Creatures (UGCC). Composed of owls, elder elephants, scholarly squirrels, and coconut-sipping lawyers, this elite circle wanted the colonial zookeeper gone – but politely. Through letters. Through procedures. Through distant petitions and gentlemanly growls.

They needed a spark. A beast with a voice that could rally the groundlings, not just the treehouse elites.

So they summoned the Panther – fresh from foreign groves, fire in his bones, socialism on his breath. Educated in the books of faraway lands, but burning with the fury of local injustice, the Panther spoke not like a bureaucrat, but like a prophet.

At first, he served them dutifully – the UGCC’s roarer-in-chief. But soon, friction brewed. The Panther moved too fast. Dreamed too loud. Called for immediate freedom, while the elders still debated resolutions.

He was bold. They were cautious.

He roared: “Self-rule now! Not next year, not when approved by colonial tail-waggers. Now!”

And so he broke off. He formed his own rebel camp. He built the Crop Protection Party (CPP) – a movement not of parchment and protocol, but of farmers, fisher-beasts, and furious youth.

He mobilised monkeys in the markets, drummers in the bush, cocoa porters, cassava vendors, and even the goats who had never been counted in jungle censuses.

Positive Action and the Beast Awakening

Under the Panther’s call, the jungle stirred. Farmers refused to send cocoa to colonial depots.
Teachers marched out of classrooms. Market mamas sang protest songs at dawn. Young cubs – who once only fetched water and memorised empire poems – began distributing leaflets and climbing platform trees to speak.

The colonial gatherers and zookeepers panicked. They arrested the Panther.

But that only made him a martyr.

While he sat in silence, his name echoed through the vines. His image spread across banana leaflets. His supporters, fierce and loyal, would not rest.

“Free the Panther!”
“The jungle must be ours!”
“Down with the Bulldog Empire!”

The Election That Changed the Jungle

In 1951, the hunters and the gatherers – realising the jungle’s heat could no longer be managed with cold treaties – organised an election.

The Panther ran from his prison cell.

And he won.

Landslide.

The message was clear: the jungle no longer wanted caretakers in suits.

It wanted leaders who ran with the people.

The Independent Jungle

Right from the start, the Panther did not rest. He dreamt big. Lived large. Built fast.

Banana factories. Coconut oil refineries. Cashew trains stretching across canopy corridors. He constructed cocoa processing hubs. He summoned engineers to build the mighty Volta Dam, a monument to modernity that promised power for all. The Black Star shipping fleet roamed the seas.

He didn’t stop at infrastructure. He wrote books. He launched five-year plans. He gave speeches that turned parrots into philosophers and squirrels into citizens.

African beasts across the continent looked to Agyakrom and said: “If they can run free, so can we.”

The Panther became not just a leader, but a symbol.

His dreams were continental. He envisioned a Union of Forest States. He funded liberation struggles in neighbouring groves. He hosted pan-jungle conferences where beasts debated unity in twenty dialects.

To the West, he was dangerous. To the oppressed, he was divine.

He welcomed revolutionaries.
He built a new capital.
He preached unity.

He declared:

“The independence of Agyakrom is meaningless unless it is linked with the total liberation of the African jungle!”

But… 

JUNGLE WISDOM OF THE DAY

“When the chains fall off the paws, the mind must still unlearn the leash.”