Dear Citizens,
Once upon a time in the Republic of Uncommon Sense, our WASSCE results glowed like a politician’s smile on a fresh campaign poster — polished, bright, and suspiciously perfect.
For years, the grades rose like steam from hot tuo zaafi, rising even in schools where textbooks were rarer than affordable housing and laboratories were as mythical as dragons in Aburi Gardens.
Parents jubilated, teachers exhaled, politicians waved graphs like victory flags, and students behaved like future Nobel laureates who had finally broken free from generational academic bondage.
Then came 2024 and 2025 — two years that marched into our educational system like unexpected in-laws during mealtime, forcing us to reveal everything we had hidden under the bed.
WAEC suddenly remembered it had a spine. It shut down the channels through which exam leaks used to flow, locked the backdoor, and sent the pre-release syndicates on early retirement.
Immediately, the spiritual Wi-Fi powering our illicit exam culture went off without notice. And the results began whispering proverbs only the bold could interpret:
“If you refuse to learn, the exam will show you pepper.”
Core Mathematics plunged from 66.86% to 48.73% like a collapsing galamsey pit.
Social Studies dropped to 55.82% as if it too had surrendered to fate.
WAEC, calm as a crocodile in shallow water, announced: 6,295 subject results cancelled, 653 entire results erased, and 35 suspects — including 19 teachers — marched to court for creative academic corruption.
The nation convulsed.
Parents produced doctoral theses on WhatsApp.
Students accused WAEC of witchcraft.
Prophets on social media declared the trumpet was warming up.
But before the crowds could gather at WAEC’s gate, a new character entered the drama: the Education Minister.
He announced — with the tone of a man who has seen enough — that many students had turned their government-issued tablets, meant for e-learning, into portable adult-film cinemas.
Yes, the devices intended to teach Mathematics and English were instead providing… extracurricular lessons in anatomy.
And as if that wasn’t enough, rumours swirled louder than trotro gossip that students were spending entire nights on TikTok, Snapchat, Instagram Reels, Telegram trends, and every social media challenge known to humanity.
Ask them to define a metaphor and they panic —
but ask them to recreate a TikTok dance and they’ll deliver choreography so sharp even Beyoncé will take notes.
Teachers whispered privately that students were now majoring in TikTok, minoring in Snapchat, and doing elective courses in late-night promiscuity.
Some students reportedly knew 50 viral dance routines but could not spell “simile.”
And behind the closed doors of staff common rooms came the real confession: a rising wave of promiscuous behaviour among students that left teachers wondering whether senior high school had become a rehearsal space for telenovelas.
So by the time the exam arrived, many candidates were academically unprepared but socially very experienced.
Enter NAGRAT.
Angel Carbonu, President of NAGRAT, with the serenity of a headmaster who has supervised generations of mischief, declared he was not surprised at all.
To him, the results simply reflected what students had actually learned — or what they had enthusiastically avoided learning.
He blamed a collapsing system:
double-track chaos, unpredictable calendars, evaporating instructional hours, vanished discipline, and classrooms overcrowded to the point where mosquitoes needed appointment cards to land.
And then WAEC itself added fresh seasoning to the soup.
On JoyFM’s Super Morning Show, Mr. John Kapi, WAEC’s Director of Public Affairs, revealed that many students could not use basic English vocabulary.
Synonyms confused them.
Language expression collapsed.
Text analysis was a disaster.
They could read — but understanding was optional.
Suddenly, Ghana’s academic drama gained a painful new angle:
Leaks may have lifted past results, yes — but a deeper rot had been quietly growing: weakened vocabulary, dying comprehension, social media addiction, tablet misuse, and distractions that turned learning into a side hustle.
And so the nation split into three noisy camps.
One camp insisted the results were the naked truth walking boldly through Kaneshie market.
Another camp — NAGRAT’s camp — argued that students had potential but the system had sabotaged them.
Then came the wise but unpopular middle group:
Past results? Inflated.
Present results? Sabotaged.
Current generation? Distracted beyond rescue.
Whichever camp one joins, the mirror refuses to lie.
Ghana has:
a cheating problem a learning problem a distraction problem a discipline problem and a vocabulary problem
— all preparing group work to humble the nation.
Illicit exam support may have helped some students glide through WASSCE like azonto dancers, but WAEC has introduced a new rhythm — one requiring comprehension, focus, discipline, and the ability to read something longer than a TikTok caption.
Now the Republic stands at a crossroads.
One path leads to discipline, digital exams, stable calendars, vocabulary rehab, and the revival of reading and thinking.
The other path leads to leaked questions, TikTok rehearsals at midnight, Snapchat confessionals, tablet mischief, and disastrous exam results.
As the elders say:
If you cheat to pass an exam, life will still set its own questions — and no leaked script will come.
Ghana has seen its reflection — and the mirror didn’t smile back.
Breaking it will not fix the face.
Only truth, reform, and real effort can do that.
Yours in Uncommon Service,
Jimmy Aglah
The Republic’s Humble Storyteller.