Before I proceed any further, I will put it on record that this article was written entirely under bright electric lights, with a fully charged phone, a stable ceiling fan and with no intention whatsoever of overthrowing the Republic via suspicious flashlight commentary. Before I proceed any further, I will put it on record that this article was written entirely under bright electric lights, with a fully charged phone, a stable ceiling fan and with no intention whatsoever of overthrowing the Republic via suspicious flashlight commentary.
In fact, if at any point this write-up sounds like a national security threat, then perhaps Ghana has at last become the first country where talking about electricity now requires spiritual clearance, legal representation and possibly witness protection.
These days, one must be careful.
In the old Ghana, people feared armed robbers.
In the new Ghana, your greatest fear may be typing:
“Hmm… have the lights gone off again?”
Because apparently, darkness itself has entered politics.
Once upon a time in the Republic of Uncommon Sense, the lights blinked twice during supper time, and although the electricity returned almost immediately, the entire nation reacted the way old soldiers react to distant gunfire.
Nobody panicked openly.
Ghanaians just stopped and looked around suspiciously, because this country has seen enough darkness to know that power troubles rarely come dramatically. They are first polite. They flicker small-small like a visitor who says he won’t stay long but unpacks his bags three days later and starts to adjust your television antenna.
There are certain words in Ghanaian public life that have emotional scars within them. There are certain words in Ghanaian public life that have emotional scars within them. Say “kalabule” to an old trader and see her face tighten in a flash. Say “kalabule” to an old trader and see her face tighten in a flash. Say the word “coup” in front of your grandmother and she may just begin to stockpile gari and matches on instinct. Say the word “coup” in front of your grandmother and she may just begin to stockpile gari and matches on instinct. But no political term in modern Ghana carries the same trauma as “dumsor.” But no political term in modern Ghana carries the same trauma as “dumsor.”
The word itself has become a national ghost story.
It no longer merely describes power outages. It awakens collective suffering.
Traders remember frozen chicken losing its dignity gradually before the market opened. Traders remember frozen chicken losing its dignity gradually before the market opened. Students recall studying under rechargeable lamps that would die out before they could reach the important examination topics. Students recall studying under rechargeable lamps that would die out before they could reach the important examination topics. Generators were coughing like chain smokers and tailors remembered sewing wedding clothes under impossible deadlines. Generators were coughing like chain smokers and tailors remembered sewing wedding clothes under impossible deadlines. Barbers still bear the emotional scars of half-finished haircuts that turned respectable men into confused experiments. Barbers still bear the emotional scars of half-finished haircuts that turned respectable men into confused experiments.
Ceiling fans died, and the whole relationship as well, on hot April nights when even mosquitoes looked too tired to be flying properly.
So when a certain gentleman in Agona West reportedly went onto Facebook and suggested that perhaps the old spirit of dumsor had started stretching its legs again under President Mahama’s administration, the state allegedly responded with the seriousness usually reserved for attempted coups, cocaine trafficking, or Black Stars penalties.
According to reports, armed officers allegedly picked him up after his post gained traction online.
Armed officers.
For Facebook.
By now the ordinary Ghanaian does not know which subjects are no longer safe to discuss. A concerned citizen might soon post that tomatoes are getting expensive again and before sundown heavily tinted pickup vehicles will arrive demanding clarification on the source of his economic pessimism.
The nation has, of course, now split into two powerful camps, each defending its position with the confidence of people who have already recorded long WhatsApp voice notes to be circulated after midnight.
One side insists that freedom of speech must not become freedom to spread fear, misinformation, or politically motivated panic.
Others argue that if citizens cannot openly complain about frequent power outages, then democracy itself is beginning to behave like prepaid electricity: unreliable, stressful and likely to disappear at the very moment when you need it most. Others argue that if citizens cannot openly complain about frequent power outages, then democracy itself is beginning to behave like prepaid electricity: unreliable, stressful and likely to disappear at the very moment when you need it most.
Meanwhile, social media has become a national courtroom where suddenly everybody has honorary degrees in constitutional law, political science and electricity distribution. Meanwhile, social media has become a national courtroom where suddenly everybody has honorary degrees in constitutional law, political science and electricity distribution.
Radio stations are full of outrage. Radio stations are full of outrage. TikTok political analysts are starting to sound like military spokespeople. TikTok political analysts are starting to sound like military spokespeople. Facebook prophets are invoking democracy with Old Testament intensity. Facebook prophets are invoking democracy with Old Testament intensity.
Every Ghanaian uncle who once forwarded COVID-19 conspiracy theories has now become an expert in civil liberties and state intimidation.
Yet beneath all the noise lies a deeper national anxiety that many people are afraid to admit openly.
Ghanaians are not merely reacting to one alleged arrest. They are reacting to memory itself.
The country remembers what dumsor felt like.
It reminds us of the frustration, the capriciousness, the nights of insomnia sweating out as generators growled across neighborhoods like angry spirits demanding sacrifice.
It remembers businesses quietly dying. It reminds you of whole communities shouting “light nu aba oo” when the power is suddenly back at 2am, as if light is a visiting celebrity.
And so, even the hint of dumsor is politically perilous in Ghana. The word is like dry season fire at a fuel station. As soon as someone says it in public, emotion travels faster than explanation.
And perhaps that is the truly fascinating part of this entire story.
In many countries, darkness is merely an inconvenience.
In Ghana, darkness is political language.
It is campaign material. It is historical trauma. It is opposition strategy, government embarrassment, economic anxiety, and household suffering all rolled into one unstable electrical cable.
Today, the ordinary Ghanaian citizen sits beneath a ceiling fan that may or may not survive the evening, charging every device in sight with the discipline of a man preparing for war.
Nobody wants propaganda.
Nobody wants political intimidation.
All people want is reliable electricity and to be able to complain when the lights go out unexpectedly without feeling as if they have unwittingly committed a constitutional offense.
Because after all these years, Ghanaians have learned one painful truth: when darkness visits a country too often, even conversations about darkness eventually start producing more heat than light.
Welcome back to the Republic of Uncommon Sense, where the power may be off, but the political voltage never sleeps.
