At dawn the sirens wailed and the NDC Brigade arrived – not with sabres but with stethoscopes, calculators, and a trolley that squeaked like a budget line. They found Cedi facedown, chest heaving, eyes cloudy from Dollar’s oil hooks, Pound’s spare‑parts jabs, and Euro’s paperwork chokehold.
“Vitals?” the chief medic asked.
“Pulse erratic. Confidence low. Reserves anaemic. Imports demanding transfusion,” replied the junior medic, thumbing a ledger as if it were a heartbeat monitor.
“Hmm,” the chief said, rolling up their sleeves. “We cannot build a new ribcage on the battlefield, but we can stop the bleeding and get him standing. The crowd needs a fighter, not a eulogy.”
They produced a bandage so wide it could wrap a stadium – tight enough to quiet a scream – and an ampoule labelled Booster (the kind that makes a tired goat chase a Land Cruiser). One jab. Two. A whisper of prayers and policy. The squeaky trolley exhaled.
Cedi twitched.
Another ampoule – this one called Confidence (side effects: swagger, selective hearing, short poems on social media).
Cedi blinked, sat up, spat dust, and – before anyone could recite a fiscal rule – leapt to his feet.
The arena erupted.
“Cedi! Cedi! Cedi!” The kelewele sellers beat ladles on pans; the trotro mates whistled a high‑pitch exchange rate. Even tomatoes – usually stoic – blushed a little.
Cedi tested his limbs like a man fresh from a long dream. He flexed. The bandage hugged his ribs. The Booster burned hymns in his veins. He sprinted.
First, he feinted at Dollar – a quick combination of auctions and attitude. Dollar stumbled, surprised that this same patient was now a pursuer. Then Cedi pirouetted and slapped Pound so neatly that Pound’s monocle somersaulted into the dust. Euro – never theatrical – adjusted his stack of standards but still caught a neat hook that sent three of his smaller allies scrambling for their compliance manuals.
For a moment, even the giants looked… mortal.
“Wonders shall never end!” a trader shouted, waving an invoice like a victory flag.
“See our boy – fresh like new salary!” a teacher laughed, already calculating what his arrears could buy if this miracle held.
From under the bandage, a dull ache cleared its throat. I’m still here, it said. But the drums were louder than pain, and Cedi – full of Confidence – could finally hear himself think louder than the crowd.
He prowled the ring.
Dollar scowled, nursing his jaw. “Enjoy your lap, small boy. Invoices don’t forget.”
Pound retrieved his monocle, breathing like a man who had just remembered colonialism had a returns policy. “Splendid sprint. We shall… reconcile later.”
Euro stacked his papers again – pharma, machinery, wheat – then said, softly: “Imports due is a bell that always rings.”
Cedi only grinned. The Boosters sang revival tunes. He felt strong enough to head‑butt a balance of payments.
Around the ring, Makola Market lifted one eyebrow.
Fuel sniffed. Nice footwork. Do I smell refinery discounts? No? Then I shall remain an elder.
Cement rotated its baggy shoulders. Exchange rate is cousin to my price, not my father.
Tomatoes adjusted their headscarves. We came by truck; truck speaks the language of diesel; diesel does not read hashtags.
Still, the mood was carnival. For a few glorious days, the story was simple: Cedi had fallen; Cedi had risen. The medics were geniuses. The giants had finally been taught manners. The memes were sweet; the thread counts were high.
But in the shade of the scoreboard, two apprentices of the Old Wise Man argued quietly.
“Miracle!” said the first. “Look how fast he runs.”
“Pain management,” said the second. “Look how tight the bandage is.”
They carried their debate to the baobab, where the Old Wise Man was mending a fishing net of proverbs.
“Grandfather,” they said, “is this healing?”
He smiled the patient smile of one who has buried several booms and three busts. “Listen, my children. A man with pepper in his veins can outrun a cheetah—but it is not speed; it is fire. A house painted gold will sparkle in the sun—but knock the wall, and you will meet its mud. If you hush the drum with palm oil, it will play a soft song; when harmattan comes, it will crack all the same.”
They frowned. “So…no miracle?”
“Miracles exist,” he said. “But budgets prefer arithmetic.”
Back in the ring, Cedi continued to dazzle. He threw a flurry at Dollar (call it guided auctions), feinted at Pound (call it administrative tightening), and smiled at Euro through a priority‑imports wink. Each move bought space, time, and – most valuable of all – silence from the panic that ruins weeks in a day.
The chief medic, watching from the corner, scribbled notes:
- Stabilise the patient: reduce visible volatility; restore breath.
- Buy time: signal discipline; calm expectations; tidy the rumour mill.
- Manage the optics: markets eat with their eyes first.
Then, as the sun tilted, the junior medic whispered, “Chief, the vial box…”
“I know,” the chief said.
They both looked at the bandage. Under it, heat gathered like unasked questions.
Proverb of the Day:
“Sɛ wopɛsɛ wo kum aboa a, bɔ ne ti, na ɛnyɛ ne kotodwe.”
(If you intend to bring down an animal, aim for the head, not the knee.)
Meaning: Go for the root cause; don’t only stun the symptoms.
Policy Reflection – What the “Bandage” and “Booster” usually mean
The Bandage Miracle is the toolkit of short‑term forex stabilisation. It is useful – sometimes essential – on a battlefield. But it is not the surgery. Typical “bandage/booster” moves include:
- Heavy FX interventions (central bank sells dollars to market): calms spikes but burns reserves if not paired with real fixes.
- Forward auctions / tighter FX windows: guides price discovery; squeezes speculation – can also squeeze genuine importers if rationing bites.
- Cash‑flow steroids: one‑off inflows (IMF/BOP tranches, syndicated loans, commodity pre‑financing) that fatten reserves quickly – Powerful, but with repayment footprints.
- Administrative tightening: documentation checks, surrender requirements, limits on certain outflows—slows leaks; risks pushing demand to side streets.
- Interest‑rate signalling & liquidity mops: strengthen the carry to cool demand for foreign currency – helps the rate, but financing costs bite SMEs.
- Import prioritisation: channel scarce FX to essentials (fuel, medicines, inputs) – wise triage; also admits we can’t feed every appetite today.
Why it feels like a miracle: expectations flip fast. Fear goes quiet. The rate retreats. Headlines clap. But…
- Prices don’t fall in a straight line. Inventories were bought at the old rate; fuel taxes and margins exist; transport costs are sticky; wholesalers hedge by memory.
- Reserves are not rivers. If the surgery (exports, productivity, fiscal diet) doesn’t follow, the bandage wets through.
- Credibility clocks tick. Markets forgive emergency medicine; they punish addiction.
So yes – stanch the bleeding. Wrap the ribs. Inject composure. But then pick up the scalpel for the real work: trimming deficits, growing exports, adding value at home, building buffers when cocoa smiles and gold winks. The crowd loves a sprint; stability is marathon grammar.
From the baobab, the Old Wise Man’s voice drifted back into the cheering:
“Bandage is mercy. Booster is breath. But the head of the animal is the structure: what you make, what you sell, how you spend, how you save. Miss the head, and you will chase the tail until evening.”
Episode One: The Fall of the Cedi
Episode Three: The Giants and Their Taunts
Dr. Asiamah's Gazette 