There’s a dangerous illusion many Ghanaians have grown accustomed to: that the problem with Ghana begins and ends with the political class. That if we simply had “the right leader,” all our problems—economic, social, moral—would vanish. But that belief is not only false; it is fatal.
A foreigner, John Zibiri, who lived and worked in Ghana for over two decades, described our national condition with brutal clarity. He did not speak from hearsay or distant observation. He built a business in Accra, engaged the public and private sectors, and like many honest professionals, was eventually driven away by a system designed to punish decency and reward dishonesty.
His account was not an isolated rant; it was a painful truth we have all witnessed—and too many of us have participated in.
He spoke of directors demanding money before awarding contracts. Of bank officers refusing loans unless they get a personal cut. Of supervisors and clerks who deliberately stall your progress unless you “do the needful.” Of files that never move without bribes. Of professionals watching unqualified political loyalists win contracts and appointments. Of a country where trying to act ethically makes you look like a fool—or worse, a target.
We are quick to say, “The system is broken.” But we seldom ask: Who broke it?
The rot in Ghana is not abstract. It is personal. It is intimate. It is us. From the public servant padding paperwork, to the civil engineer awarding road contracts to incompetent friends, to the ordinary citizen bribing a policeman to avoid accountability, we are all feeding a machine of decay.
The tragedy is not only that corruption exists—it is that we have normalized it. We laugh about it in conversation. We whisper about it in church pews and mosque halls. We joke about it on radio and social media. And we vote for it at the ballot box, expecting different results.
We see young people coming out of school full of ambition and talent, only to be told that unless they have “connections,” they are wasting their time. We see public funds looted without consequence. We see men and women elevated not for their competence or service, but because they belong to a tribe, a party, or a religious clique.
In the midst of it all, we pray. We fast. We preach. We sing.
But nothing changes.
Because religion has become a veil for hypocrisy. We claim to love God, but hate the truth. We go to church on Sunday, then take bribes on Monday. We give offerings from money stolen in contracts. We ask Allah for favour while refusing our neighbour justice.
If prayers alone could build a nation, Ghana would be a superpower. But no country was ever built on fasting and slogans. A nation is built on integrity, on truth, on sacrifice, on laws that work, and a culture that shames dishonesty—not celebrates it.
And here lies the most painful truth: No politician can fix Ghana until Ghanaians decide to fix themselves.
Yes, leadership matters. Policy matters. But nothing substitutes for the daily moral choices of citizens. If the teacher cheats on student assessments, if the contractor builds with sand instead of cement, if the voter trades a vote for a handout, if the journalist distorts facts for political favour—no amount of leadership can save us.
Ghana does not suffer from a leadership crisis. It suffers from a values crisis.
And so I say to you, fellow citizen: Look into the mirror. What do you see?
Are you the kind of Ghanaian who would build a better nation—whether anyone is watching or not? Or are you the kind who only complains, criticizes, and then participates in the very things you condemn?
Change will not come from Parliament. It will come from personal decisions. From thousands, then millions, of Ghanaians choosing to do right when no one is watching. That is how nations rise. Not in revolutions, but in quiet acts of accountability repeated over time.
If we want a Ghana where hard work is rewarded, where justice is blind, where the youth have hope, where talent is recognized regardless of tribe, where the truth is not an enemy—then we must create that Ghana by becoming different people.
Until then, we are simply tickling ourselves and laughing.
And the mirror never lies.
About the Author
Nsiaba Nana Akwasi Kobi is a social commentator and development advocate who believes that national transformation begins with individual accountability. He writes from London.
