It was 5:30 pm on a typically moody Friday in Kumasi—the kind of day when the clouds gather for a union meeting with thunder serving as chairperson. I found myself leaning on the rusty railings of our office balcony, gazing at the Kumasi-Accra highway, where traffic was peeling out of town like students fleeing a surprise quiz.
There it was—our sacred hour of national meditation known as rush hour, when every vehicle moves precisely two inches every five minutes, and trotro drivers become philosophers of lane innovation. The sky above was growing darker, not with night, but with that Kumasi-style rainfall that doesn’t arrive like a gentleman—it storms in like a drunk uncle at a funeral, uninvited but impossible to ignore.
I stood there, frozen—not from the chill of the wind, but by that profound Kumasi dilemma: To drive, or not to drive? That, indeed, was the question. You see, Kumasi rain has a secret relationship with traffic lights. At the first drop, they vanish like civil servants on Friday afternoons. No signal, no order, just pure anarchy—like okro soup without salt.
Just as I was about to resolve my balcony dilemma using the ancient Ashanti method of Ɛnyɛ hwee, yɛbɛ nya aboterɛ, a sharp, urgent wail pierced through the urban orchestra of honking horns and frustrated trotro mates shouting “Shift small!”
It wasn’t an ambulance—not in Ghana where ambulances are shy and mostly nocturnal. No, this was a police dispatch rider on a single motorbike, his siren howling like a banshee on caffeine, slicing through the cacophony of rush hour like a hot knife through ampesie.
The rider weaved through the oncoming traffic like a man whose pension depended on it. He wasn’t driving on the road—he was redefining it. One hand on the handlebar, the other in the air like Moses parting the Red Sea of Picanto drivers. It was clear: a VIP was coming. Not just any VIP, but a blessed anointed one, housed in the holy sanctuary of Ghanaian power—a Toyota Land Cruiser V8.
The V8 came gliding down the opposite lane, majestic and untouchable, like a bishop late for a naming ceremony. Rain or no rain, lights or no lights, traffic or funeral, the V8 does not negotiate. It is the one vehicle in Ghana that obeys only one rule: Make way, or be made history.
And as the V8 passed, windows tinted like the conscience of a tax evader, we all paused. Not out of fear, but out of reverence—because who knows which honourable behind was being transported? Could be a minister. Could be a cousin of a deputy director. Or even someone who once shook hands with someone who once went to Parliament.
To my astonishment—and to the utter confusion of a sparrow perched nearby—the so-called “convoy” veered off the main road, swung into our humble car park like it owned shares in the building, and rolled to a halt just behind the stubborn gate that guards our inner courtyard like a jealous housewife.
Now, in any well-ordered republic, such an entrance might be announced with a phone call, a knock, or at least a courteous “who dey here?” But in Kumasi, when you drive a Land Cruiser V8, your horn is your calling card and your tinted windows your ID.
The newly assigned security man—let’s call him Owusu, because all confused security men in this country are called Owusu—stood still, torn between duty and destiny. He glanced up at me like a man watching his pastor’s facial expression during a controversial prophecy. His eyes pleaded: Sir, should I open? Or should I pretend I’m not here?
I sighed, waved my hand like an old Roman emperor granting clemency, and Owusu—bless his confused soul—obeyed. He opened it as if unlocking the gates of destiny. The Land Cruiser hummed through like it had done it before.
I stood there, arms crossed, trying to look managerial. But inwardly, I was wondering: Who the heavens is this? A donor? A new Board Chair? A long-lost uncle returning with America in his suitcase?
Little did I know, the drama was just beginning. The VIP door swung open slowly—as if the person inside was waiting for background music.
And oh, the surprise that awaited me…
I stood frozen on the staircase like a statue of Kwame Nkrumah at 5:30pm—stoic on the outside, but bubbling with questions within. I had taken my position near the front desk, ready to greet the mystery dignitary with my best managerial posture: arms lightly folded, chin tilted at a 17-degree angle, and a politically correct smile that said, “Welcome, whoever you are.”
Then it began.
The passenger door swung open with the caution of a bomb squad. Out stepped a young man who looked like he was carved out of granite and fed on raw protein and gym mirrors. Macho, muscular, and mean-mugged—your classic Ghanaian bodyguard whose hobbies include frowning at people and clearing innocent bystanders. His steps said, “I came here to protect, intimidate, and perhaps lift weights.”
Without a word, he circled the V8 like a ritual and opened the back door with the precision of a royal butler.
And then—drumroll, please (because even destiny deserves a soundtrack)—out came not one “VIP”, but four. Yes, four humans dressed in synchronized black caftans, walking like an elite quartet of funeral consultants. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought they had just come from a funeral—or were on their way to one where they were also scheduled to give motivational speeches and collect per diem.
They walked in unison, not quite sad, not quite smiling. Their faces wore that solemn expression typical of Ghanaian Important People: the look that says, “We’re serious o, but if fufu is involved, we’ll smile small.”
By this time, Owusu the security man had disappeared entirely. Probably hiding behind the gate, texting his friend: “Bro, V8 come inside oo. I no dey inside again.”
And there I stood—still unsure whether to welcome them with akwaaba or check the obituary column for clues.
I stretched out my hand, still in that official “welcome, possibly important person” mode, and the lead VIP grabbed it with the enthusiasm of a lotto winner who’s just been asked for directions. He pumped the handshake firmly, smiling like a man who’d just opened a sachet of chilled ‘Ice Cool’.
“My name is Kwame,” he said, puffing up with the confidence of a man who knew I was now officially intrigued. “We are from the camp of Rev. Obofour, the great miracle worker.”
There was a brief silence. Not the awkward kind—but the type where your brain steps out for a bathroom break and leaves your face to improvise.
From the camp of who?
I glanced briefly at the V8, half expecting the Reverend to step out with incense, holy oil, and perhaps a spare resurrection in hand. But no. All I saw was the macho bodyguard, now leaning on the car like a bouncer at a nightclub for the spiritually elite.
I asked, still clutching the last shreds of my professional calm: “Is the Reverend in the car?”
Kwame looked at me with genuine surprise, as if I’d asked whether Jesus personally sold anointing oil at Kejetia.
“Oh no,” he said casually. “He’s not here.”
Ah. So the bishop was not in the building. Just his disciples. Like the Apostles, only with a Land Cruiser and matching caftans.
Trying hard to mask my confusion—and the slow simmering of my managerial fury—I smiled gently, in the same way bank tellers smile before rejecting your loan application.
“So what brings you here, gentlemen?” I asked.
Inside, I was praying for self-control. Outside, I was channeling the calm of a Presbyterian elder.
Kwame, now comfortably positioned as the spokesperson of this black-caftan brethren, cleared his throat with the ceremonial weight of a man about to announce either a miracle or a manifesto.
“We came to meet a guest scheduled to appear on your evening programme Wiasemu Nsem,” he said, pausing dramatically—as though expecting applause. “And to commiserate with her for the loss of her dear relative… on behalf of the mighty.”
On behalf of the mighty?
For a brief second, I genuinely thought they meant Almighty God—but I quickly remembered we were in Ghana, and the term “mighty” now includes anyone with 3,000 Facebook followers, a prayer camp, and a V8. The delegation had descended, not to record a show, not to pay for airtime, but to show empathy—with fuel and full protocol.
I knew I was a few syllables away from saying something unbroadcastable.
So with the grace of a man dodging both temptation and hypertension, I gently waved over Akua, our front desk executive—a lady whose smile has diffused more crises than the UN Peacekeeping Force. I whispered something vague about VIP hospitality and fled the scene like Lot escaping Sodom.
Once safely in the sanctuary of my office, I closed the door, leaned against it like an extra in a telenovela, and just stood there. For several minutes, I tried to make meaning of what I had just witnessed.
Had I met men on a divine diplomatic mission?
Was this a religious condolence tour?
Or was this simply Ghana in full performance mode, where everybody must arrive in a V8, whether they’re casting out demons—or casting votes?
Either way, I knew one thing for sure: the next time I hear a siren approaching our car park, I’ll say a short prayer, hide my keys, and pretend to be on Zoom.
As I sat in my office, replaying the day’s drama like a Nollywood thriller, a deeper ache settled in—not from the absurdity of the moment, but from the greater farce that is Ghana’s road culture.
Let’s be frank: in Ghana, road traffic regulations exist the same way New Year resolutions do—noble, widely publicized, and abandoned by the third week.
Our roads are democracy-free zones. There, horsepower determines hierarchy. It is not uncommon to see a Toyota V8—often black, often tinted, always air-conditioned—bulldozing through traffic, led by a police dispatch rider who has either been seconded by the Inspector General… or rented like a bouncing castle for a Saturday party.
You see, in this republic of roundabouts and red lights, there’s a curious caste system. Pedestrians must wait. Trotros must squeeze. Taxis must fight. But once a V8 appears with its flashing hazard lights and a blaring siren, the Red Sea parts. Everyone must scatter like cockroaches in torchlight. Never mind who’s inside. Could be a Minister. Could be a mallam. Could be Kwame, a well-dressed errand boy on a condolence mission, sent by His Holiness to deliver holy water wrapped in tissue paper and sympathy.
And the saddest part? It is no longer strange. We’ve normalized the absurd.
Our law enforcement officers, who ought to uphold the rule of road, are sometimes the first to break it—selling the authority of the uniform like roasted plantain. For the right price, a siren becomes your passcode to lawlessness. A flashing blue light becomes your license to misbehave.
Where else in the world can an errand boy, clutching a letter and anointing oil, ride with police escort through traffic lights to deliver “regards” from a pastor?
It would be hilarious—if it weren’t so tragic.
Until we start treating road laws as tools of order rather than obstacles to power, we will continue to live in a society where status is measured by decibels, not decency.
So yes, when next you hear the wail of a siren on a cloudy Friday in Kumasi, don’t assume it’s an emergency. It could simply be Kwame and the Caftan Quartet, on divine assignment to beat the traffic.
I looked out my office window, and just like that, the heavens had had enough of sulking. The dark clouds that once threatened tears were gone—perhaps even they had been frightened off by sirens and unsolicited condolence delegations.
It was finally time to hit the road.
As I descended to the car park, I was greeted by a wholesome Kumasi tableau: my friends gathered around a street vendor, casually rehydrating the way Ghanaians do best—bottled drinks, unfiltered banter, and unpaid bills.
And there in the thick of things was none other than Ogidi Brown, our Ofie Kwanso presenter, radiating the kind of celebrity calm that comes from knowing you’re both loved and eternally broke around friends.
I couldn’t help but slow down and eavesdrop—strictly for cultural research.
One of the boys, puffed up with the audacity that only thirst can inspire, barked at Ogidi:
“We’ve just bought fulla, 70 Ghana cedis. Pay for it!”
No negotiations. No fundraising. Just an invoice delivered with the moral authority of a Supreme Court ruling backed by the spiritual power of his Holiness the Rev. Obofour
And that, dear reader, was the final miracle of the day. After a week of deadlines, dispatch riders, and unexpected evangelism, it was this street-side robbery-by-friendship that made my evening.
I laughed. Loudly. The kind of laughter that confuses passersby and forces security guards to peek.
Then I drove off, smiling all the way to my favorite watering hole—where Fridays are healed with peppered tilapia, highlife classics, and stories like this one, told better each time they’re retold.
Because in Ghana, every road leads to a story—and some stories need no sirens, just fulla and good friends.
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DISCLAIMER: The Views, Comments, Opinions, Contributions and Statements made by Readers and Contributors on this platform do not necessarily represent the views or policy of Multimedia Group Limited.
