Because nothing says governance like drama in stereo.
It all began like a normal Wednesday—with radio stations blaring morning shows, interlaced with gospel tunes and political lamentations. Suddenly, the gods of regulation stirred. The National Communications Authority (NCA), in what seemed like a regulatory Pentecost, descended upon the land with fire and fury, branding 64 radio stations as illegal squatters on the airwaves. “Off with their signals!” they declared, like a digital Macbeth in full regulatory regalia.
Their sins? A festival of infractions: expired frequency authorisations, unauthorised broadcasting, signal obesity (yes, some stations were accused of transmitting beyond their waistline), and owing fees heavier than their entire transmission towers. It was a regulatory clean-up, but without broom or brush—just the click of a button and off went your favourite station mid-sentence.
Then, just when listeners were adjusting to life without their mid-morning ‘Asɛm Yi Di Ka’ or ‘Yɛn Nsɛm Pa,’ behold! The President himself, like a good landlord noticing the rent is late but deciding not to evict the tenant just yet, intervened. President Mahama, in an act more fatherly than presidential, called for restraint. Like a teacher catching students cheating but choosing a counseling session over a cane, he halted the closures.
The Ghana Journalists Association (GJA) rose and clapped—not once, but twice—blessing the President for balancing law with logic. According to the GJA, pulling the plug on 64 stations in one swoop was like using a bulldozer to chase a chicken. Job losses would have piled up like leftover weekend kelewele on Monday morning. Public access to crucial news and, more importantly, juicy gossip, would have suffered irreparable harm.
They agreed that laws must be obeyed—but must also be seasoned with a pinch of wisdom. The GJA appealed for a kinder, gentler regulatory approach. They also politely nudged the NCA: “Could you, perhaps, show us a list of who is legal, who is limping, and who has vanished from the books entirely?” Transparency, they argued, is the oil that keeps the media machine running without smoke.
But just as the media fraternity exhaled in relief, the Media Foundation for West Africa (MFWA) popped its head through the louvre blades like an old uncle overhearing a conversation. “Ahem,” they cleared their throat. “We agree the stations erred. But let’s talk about political influence.”
They pointed to the closure of Gumah FM in Bawku on national security grounds. Valid? Possibly. Convenient? Suspiciously. MFWA, drawing from Chapter 12 of our Constitution—not the one in your head but the one in the law books—advised that such matters should be handled by the National Media Commission (NMC), the only body that doesn’t carry a party card in its breast pocket.
They warned against a future where media houses are picked off like overripe mangoes by unseen political hands wearing the gloves of legality. Their solution? Strip the NCA of its licensing power and hand it over to the NMC—a body better suited for such delicate surgery. That way, we avoid regulatory chop bars serving political fufu.
Now, the big question tiptoes into the room: Was this entire affair an episode of self-injury propaganda?
Ah yes, the age-old political plot twist where a crisis is created, milked, and resolved—just in time for applause. You injure yourself slightly, limp dramatically in public, then recover at a campaign rally—cue standing ovation. It’s a performance as old as our independence square.
But to be fair, was President Mahama gasping for political air that he needed such theatrics?
Let’s not insult the man. No, he wasn’t. Despite a few wobbles, he hadn’t lost enough face to stage a crisis just to glue it back for show. This wasn’t self-injury propaganda. It was more like a family head preventing a domestic fight from turning into a village festival.
In the end, Mahama’s move wasn’t a staged miracle—it was instinctive statesmanship. In our beloved country, where democracy sometimes runs barefoot, we need leaders who not only read the law but feel the people.
And so, as our radio stations find their voices again, let us hope this dance between regulation and freedom doesn’t become a wrestling match. For the media is like a talking drum—you don’t mute it because it plays a sour note. You tune it.
That’s the crux of the matter.
The writer, Jimmy Aglah, is a media executive, author, and sharp-eyed social commentator. His debut novel, Blood and Gold: The Rebellion of Sikakrom, now available on Amazon Kindle, explores power, rebellion, and the soul of a nation. When he’s not steering broadcast operations, he’s busy challenging conventions—often with satire, always with purpose.
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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.
