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?”

Uncategorised

The Life and Trials of Prince Cedi

Dr. George Asiamah

The Cedi is not weak because he was born weak. No — he was born with promise, a child of gold, cocoa, timber, oil, and a people whose sweat could have built empires. He was born a prince.

At birth, his father, Kwame Nkrumah, and his mother, Ama Ghana, held him in the highest esteem. He was clothed in fine linen, stamped with dignity, and introduced to the world as heir to a proud kingdom. He walked shoulder-to-shoulder with the Dollar, the Francs, and even his adopted elder brother, the Pound – who was politely retired once the Cedi came of age.

But this story, like many royal tales, was not to remain one of unbroken glory. The fall of his father, Nkrumah, threw his palace into disarray. Ama Ghana, vulnerable and uncertain, was forced into a string of troubled marriages. Each new husband claimed to love her, yet each one treated young Cedi differently – some with iron fists, others with false promises.

And so begins the tragic and wandering tale of Prince Cedi.

The 1960s: A Prince is Born

The early years were full of hope. At independence, the Ghanaian economy glittered with foreign reserves, robust cocoa exports, and national pride. The birth of the Cedi in 1965 was a celebration of sovereignty itself – a declaration that Ghana would no longer walk in the shadow of the British Pound.

Nkrumah, the proud father, wanted his son to be a symbol of independence and self-reliance. But the young Cedi’s childhood was cut short. The coup of 1966 left him fatherless, his household broken, and his destiny in the hands of guardians who neither understood nor cared for him.

The 1970s: The Vagabond Years

Ama Ghana’s remarriages during this decade brought turmoil to the Cedi’s adolescence. His new fathers said he was too pampered. They ordered him to “adjust” – which in economic language meant devaluation. For the first time, his princely robes were stripped, and his dignity was questioned.

Cedi, restless and abandoned, turned vagabond. He was often spotted playing in the shadows of the black market, mingling with abochi boys who traded him at prices his own mother disapproved of. The palace guards (government officials) would chase him down the streets of Accra, but each time they caught him, he slipped away again.

The official home (the banks) and the street home (the black market) no longer agreed on his worth. A prince who once dined with the Dollar was now mocked at chop bars and trotro stations.

The 1980s: The International School of Hard Knocks

By the 1980s, Ama Ghana’s marriage to military fathers had failed. They had neither the patience nor the wisdom to raise a fragile son. Out of desperation, they enrolled the Cedi in a foreign “international school” run by strict headmasters – the IMF and the World Bank.

There, Cedi met the true bullies of the playground: Dollar, Yen, and Pound. They mocked him daily. The headmasters insisted on “discipline” – structural adjustment programs, austerity, and liberalization. Cedi was told to sit quietly, eat less, and obey. He was put on medication (currency reforms) but given no food (production support).

He grew lean, frail, and unrecognizable. His own mother, Ama Ghana, often wept: “Is this the son I bore with such promise?”

The once-princely Cedi, starved and bullied, developed an inferiority complex. He began to believe he was truly worthless.

The 1990s: The Struggling Youth

The 1990s brought democracy, but democracy alone could not feed him. His new stepfathers came in suits and ties, promising care and stability, but their love was shallow. They opened Ghana’s borders wide, encouraging imports while Cedi still had no strength to compete.

As factories closed and jobs disappeared, Cedi became more fragile. He worked odd jobs in the informal sector – remittances from abroad, small-scale trade, and aid inflows kept him alive. His classmates – the Dollar and the Euro (a new student who joined in 1999) – grew taller and stronger, while Cedi remained stunted.

The 2000s: Cosmetic Surgery

In the 2000s, his stepfather came with a bright idea: plastic surgery. They said his frail, disfigured body could be rebranded. A “re-denomination” was carried out in 2007, lopping off four zeros. His parents proudly proclaimed: “The value is the same.”

For a while, the new look fooled the world. Cedi looked sleek, confident, even modern. He strutted through markets and banking halls as though reborn. His West African friends – the Naira and the CFA Franc – looked at him with a mix of envy and pity.

But cosmetic surgery could not cure his inner weakness. He still had no stamina. Each time the economy trembled – from oil price shocks to fiscal indiscipline – his bandages came loose.

The 2010s: The Sickly Adult

By the 2010s, Cedi was an adult, but one plagued with chronic illness. Inflation gnawed at him like a parasite. Governments tried steroids – Eurobonds, donor inflows, short-term fixes – but the effect always wore off.

He lived from crisis to crisis, bailout to bailout, plaster to plaster. Each year, Ama Ghana would cheer him on at the Independence parade, hoping this would be the year her son would rise. But each year, disappointment followed.

The 2020s: Pandemic, War, and the ICU

The 2020s brought global shocks: a pandemic, supply chain disruptions, and war in Ukraine. Cedi was rushed to the ICU. He gasped for breath as inflation soared past 50% in 2022. The Dollar, smug as ever, mocked him in public.

Governments tried quick fixes: gold-for-oil schemes, central bank interventions, and frantic borrowing. They put Cedi on life support, but the bandages were visible to all. His weakness was not of birth, but of neglect, misuse, and betrayal.

The Philosophy of Cedi’s Struggle

The story of Cedi is not just the tale of a currency. It is the parable of Ghana itself. For in him lies the reflection of a nation that has danced between promise and betrayal, between pride and dependency.

The Cedi is not inherently weak. He was born a prince, with the resources of a kingdom behind him. But every marriage of Ama Ghana to fickle stepfathers, every neglect of discipline, every short-sighted policy, has left him wounded.

Through it all, Ama Ghana, the ever-supportive mother, still sits in the stands, cheering her son on. She sees his scars, but she has not given up.

The fight of the Cedi is the fight of Ghana. And in that truth lies the final lesson:

“No plaster lasts forever. No steroid can replace strength. Only wisdom, honesty, and discipline can restore lost glory. Until then, the fight continues – and each jab is a reminder that the value is never the same.”

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, Politics, The Bandage Economy

Episode 6: The Steroid Hour Wanes

Dr. George Asiamah

The moon rose over the Agyakrom Arena. The cheers of the crowd had dulled into background chatter—like trotro horns during rush hour, still noisy but no longer thrilling. Cedi, our patched-up fighter, still danced around the giants, but something was changing.

The bandage that once felt secure now itched like an overdue debt. The steroids, once burning like fresh palm wine, were thinning in his veins. His arms felt heavier, his legs slower. The roars of the crowd, once intoxicating, now sounded faint—like applause from people too far away to buy you kenkey.

Dollar Notices First

Dollar, the loud landlord of the arena, smirked.
“Ah, I knew it. Steroids are expensive friends. Look at him—breathing harder, swinging softer. My oil invoices will not wait forever. Reserves are draining, and soon he will come crawling.”

He stretched, broad-chested, and tapped his oil barrels like drums. The sound alone made importers nervous.

Pound Adjusts His Monocle

Pound, still holding tuition bills in one hand and spare parts in the other, leaned forward.
“September is coming, my boy. Parents will need me, car mechanics will need me, consultants will need me. When they rush, you will stumble again. Your bandage cannot stop school fees.”

He chuckled in that smug British way—half sarcasm, half invoice.

Euro Shuffles His Papers

Euro, tall and silent, stacked his regulatory files.
“Imports due, my friend. You may beat me in applause, but my clipboards are patient. Machinery orders, wheat cargo, vaccines, pharmaceuticals—they are already on their way. When they land, your boosters will not save you.”

He smiled thinly, as if to say: “I am bureaucracy. I do not rush, but I never forget.”

The Crowd Begins to Doubt

From Makola to Kejetia, people started to whisper again.

  • “Ei, but why hasn’t kenkey price dropped?”
  • “Transport still the same—didn’t they say Dollar is down?”
  • “Hmmm, the cedi is slowing. Or is it just me?”

The kelewele seller sighed. “Miracles don’t fry plantain. Only palm oil and patience do.”

Cedi Feels the Ache

Cedi swung another punch at Pound, but it missed. He tried to jab at Euro, but his arm trembled. The ache under the bandage was now louder than the crowd.

For the first time since the miracle, Cedi whispered to himself:
“Am I healed, or just high?”

He looked at the medics in the corner. They were already rummaging for another vial, another injection. He shivered. Steroids made him strong, but also made him afraid—afraid of the moment they ran out.

The Old Wise Man Shakes His Head

Under the baobab, the Old Wise Man spoke again:

“Anomaa a ɔntua dua so a, ɛto no fam.”
(The bird that refuses to perch will fall.)

“Cedi must learn that you cannot fight forever on borrowed wings. The medicine was good for standing up, but standing up is not the same as standing strong. If he refuses to pause, to rebuild, to rest on solid perches – exports, savings, buffers – he will fall again. And this time, the crowd will not be surprised.”

Policy Reflection — The Fading Steroid Effect

  1. Reserve Drain: Central bank interventions buy temporary calm, but without new inflows, reserves shrink and confidence erodes.
  2. Seasonal Pressures: Tuition, import bills, and debt servicing create recurrent demand spikes that return as soon as the boosters fade.
  3. Sticky Prices: Inflation slows, but structural costs (fuel, food imports, levies) prevent prices from falling quickly, souring public perception.
  4. Credibility Risk: Markets, traders, and citizens can sense when recovery is built on chemicals, not capacity.

Lesson: Steroids are for emergencies, not diets. Rely on them too long, and they lose their power – while the underlying wound deepens.

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 News, Ghana's Political Economy, Ghanaian Politics, The Bandage Economy

Episode 4: Murmurs from the Market

Dr. George Asiamah

The arena still echoed with cheers for Cedi. The trotro mates whistled victory tunes, the kelewele sellers sang exchange-rate choruses, and even the drunk palm wine tappers staggered in to declare, “Our boy is back! Dollar is limping!”

But while the stadium roared, the real world – the quiet, unforgiving marketplace – remained unimpressed. Markets do not clap; they calculate.

The Tomatoes Speak

At Makola, tomatoes sat in their baskets, glistening under the sun.

One tomato whispered to the other:
“So, they say Cedi is now a lion on the battlefield.”

The other replied:
“Lion or lizard, did you see the cost of transport? My journey from Navrongo to Accra is still paid in diesel, and diesel bows to Dollar. Let Cedi run laps in the arena; my price will not fall just because the crowd is excited.”

The women selling them nodded in agreement, adjusting their headscarves.

The Fuel Frowns

At the pumps, fuel yawned and stretched.

“Look at them,” fuel said, watching the arena fireworks on a small TV. “Cheering as if my liters care about hashtags. Until the refinery sings, and until government taxes loosen their belt, I will not bow. Cedi can do press-ups on steroids, but I – fuel – still listen to global oil prices, not local slogans.”

A taxi driver grumbled, wiping sweat from his brow:
“So, this miracle rate, why hasn’t my tank clapped for me yet?”

Cement Crosses Its Arms

Cement sat in its dusty bag at the hardware shop, shoulders broad and unmoved.

“Exchange rates dance every day,” Cement growled. “But my story is longer. Energy costs, shipping fees, raw materials—all of them still salute the giants. If Cedi wants me to fall in price, he must win the marathon, not just the sprint. For now, I remain heavy.”

The mason sighed. “So my building project still sleeps. Even after this miracle, blocks still cost like I’m building with gold.”

The Market as Chorus

Everywhere the same chorus rose:

  • Soap in Kaneshie: “We were imported at the old rate. We cannot turn into charity overnight.”
  • Rice in Kumasi: “Until local harvests replace me, my price is chained to ships, not cheers.”
  • Pharmaceuticals in Tema: “We bow to Euro’s clipboard, not Cedi’s sprint.”

The people began to murmur. “If Cedi has defeated Dollar and slapped Pound, why are our pockets still crying? Why is kenkey still arguing with transport fares? Why does waakye ignore the exchange rate headline?”

The Old Wise Man Under the Baobab

The Old Wise Man listened as the murmurs reached him. He tapped his staff and declared:

“Ɛsono afu gye mmerɛ ansa na aprɔ“
(The elephant may be dead, but its belly takes time to collapse.)

He explained:
“When Cedi rises in the arena, it does not mean prices will fall tomorrow. Traders bought their stock at yesterday’s rate, so they price for yesterday’s pain. Wholesalers fear tomorrow’s uncertainty, so they pad today’s price. And taxes and levies are glue on the price tag; even when the exchange rate breathes out, the levies keep breathing in.”

The apprentices nodded. “So, Grandfather, victory in the arena is not the same as peace in the market?”

He smiled. “The stomach listens to the kitchen, not the stadium. The day we plant enough, process enough, and save enough, then the kitchen will finally clap for the arena.”

Policy Reflection – Why Prices Stay Sticky

  • Import Lags: Goods already in shops were purchased at old rates. Prices don’t adjust immediately.
  • Expectations: Traders hedge against possible future depreciation by keeping prices high even when Cedi rises.
  • Taxes & Levies: Petroleum, utilities, and cement prices are cushioned (or worsened) by taxes and regulatory margins that don’t move with the forex rate.
  • Structural Weakness: Local production is too weak; we depend on imports for food, fuel, medicine, and construction. Until that changes, forex improvements won’t translate quickly.

Lesson: A “miracle” exchange rate does not mean instant cheaper prices. The market runs on memory, caution, and structure – not on applause.

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, Everyday Life, Ghana's Political Economy, Ghanaian Politics, Politics, The Bandage Economy, UK Politics

Episode 2: The Bandage Miracle

Dr. George Asiamah

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:

  1. Heavy FX interventions (central bank sells dollars to market): calms spikes but burns reserves if not paired with real fixes.
  2. Forward auctions / tighter FX windows: guides price discovery; squeezes speculation – can also squeeze genuine importers if rationing bites.
  3. Cash‑flow steroids: one‑off inflows (IMF/BOP tranches, syndicated loans, commodity pre‑financing) that fatten reserves quickly – Powerful, but with repayment footprints.
  4. Administrative tightening: documentation checks, surrender requirements, limits on certain outflows—slows leaks; risks pushing demand to side streets.
  5. Interest‑rate signalling & liquidity mops: strengthen the carry to cool demand for foreign currency – helps the rate, but financing costs bite SMEs.
  6. 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