Fellow Ghanaians,
Over the past few days, this country has been treated to a very troubling discourse, one that threatens to unravel the very fabric of harmony we have managed to build and sustain for decades as a people. A social media influencer stood at the Kwame Nkrumah Memorial Park, one of our nation’s most important symbols of independence and shared heritage, and pointed a camera at the word Akwaaba—the Akan word for welcome—and the word Woezor—the Ewe word for welcome. He then declared in his broadcast that because the park is located in the Greater Accra Region, which is historically Ga land, the inscription should have included Ga language as well.
At first glance, this might have seemed like a harmless request, perhaps even a fair one. After all, inclusivity is something we should never frown upon. But what followed is what I fear the most: a dangerous wave of ethnic and tribal sentiments being stoked in mainstream and social media, turning a small matter of language choice into an excuse to draw battle lines where none need to exist. Within days, it appeared the authorities caved, replacing the welcome insignia with “Oobaké,” which we are now told is the Ga word for welcome. And suddenly, this single act has set off a frenzy of demands and counter-demands, with some voices now calling for the large Akwaaba sign at our only international airport in Accra to be torn down and replaced with Oobaké.
But my fellow Ghanaians, why can these words not sit side by side? Why must it always be a zero-sum game where one word must erase the other? Why must “Akwaaba” be diminished for “Oobaké” to be recognized? And if this logic holds, are we then prepared for every ethnic group in Ghana to demand that public monuments and institutions be renamed or inscribed in their languages simply because those structures fall within their traditional lands? Do we want a Ghana where national monuments are turned into a linguistic tug-of-war, a patchwork of tribal claims, and a constant source of division instead of unity?
Fellow Ghanaians, this is dangerous. Terribly dangerous.
For decades, despite occasional flare-ups, we have lived together largely in peace. From independence until now, Ghanaians of different ethnic groups have intermarried, traded together, schooled together, fought side by side in our security services, prayed together in our churches and mosques, and cheered the Black Stars together. While elsewhere on the continent, nations have been torn apart by violent ethnic conflicts, Ghana has managed to remain an oasis of relative harmony. That peace is not accidental; it is the product of mutual tolerance, shared values, and a refusal by generations of Ghanaians to allow ethnic politics to define us.
But where we are now feels like a dangerous tipping point. The rise of ethnic grievances framed around language, monuments, and territory is a spark that, if not doused immediately, can ignite a fire that no one will be able to control. Ghana is a unitary state. Although lands may historically belong to traditional ethnic groupings, every part of this country belongs to one homogenous Ghana. The Constitution is clear: sovereignty belongs to the people of Ghana, not to an ethnic enclave.
So when politicians, influencers, or even ordinary citizens begin to fan tribal flames, they are not merely exercising free speech—they are endangering national cohesion. And when state authorities, instead of standing firm on principles of inclusivity and common national identity, cave under pressure and erase one word to please another, they set a precedent that can only lead to endless division.
Professor Stephen Kwaku Asare, one of our foremost civil society activists, made an important point this week: there are certain words in Ghana that by virtue of their usage, history, and cultural saturation, have transcended ethnic boundaries. They are no longer the exclusive property of the language they originated from. They have become nationalized. They belong to all of us. They are part of our shared vocabulary, embedded in our everyday lives, understood across tribes, and tied to our national identity.
Let me remind us of a few:
1. Akwaaba (Akan) – Welcome. It is Ghana’s calling card to the world, our warm handshake to every visitor at the airport, our signpost of hospitality.
2. Ayeeko (Ga) – Well done, congratulations. The universal praise word, shouted in stadiums, classrooms, and workplaces alike.
3. Chale (Ga) – Buddy, friend. Perhaps the most globally famous Ghanaian slang, understood by young and old across the country and even beyond.
4. Trotro (Ga) – The minibus transport that unites rich and poor, young and old. Every Ghanaian has a trotro story.
5. Koko (Akan) – Porridge. A breakfast staple enjoyed from Bolgatanga to Takoradi.
6. Obroni (Akan) – Foreigner, especially a white person. From playful tease to everyday description, it has crossed into national vocabulary.
7. Dumsor (Akan) – Power outages. Sadly, a word that became nationalized by shared suffering.
8. Akpeteshie (Ga) – Local gin. A word every Ghanaian knows, whether you drink or not.
9. Shinkafa (Hausa) – Rice. The everyday grain that feeds millions.
These words cut across tribes and tongues. They are part of our everyday reality. When a word crosses that threshold, when it is spoken in classrooms, markets, churches, mosques, buses, and music lyrics everywhere, it is no longer “Akan” or “Ga” or “Hausa”—it is Ghanaian. That is the point. That is the spirit of national identity.
So why fight them? Why wage tribal battles over them? Why can’t we embrace them as part of our shared inheritance?
Fellow Ghanaians, the real danger here is not whether Akwaaba or Oobaké is written on a wall. The danger is the weaponization of ethnicity. The danger is the ease with which politicians, influencers, and now even state authorities are willing to inflame ethnic divisions for clout or short-term appeasement. This is the slippery slope to ethnic chauvinism. And once that door is opened, closing it again is almost impossible.
Let me be very clear: we do not need a Ghana where Ewes insist on inscriptions in Ewe wherever they are a majority, Asantes demand monuments renamed in Twi wherever they dominate, Gas insist on Ga labels in Accra, and Dagombas do the same in Tamale. That is not unity; that is Balkanization. That is a recipe for division.
And this is why I must strongly condemn what I consider reckless comments of the Greater Accra Regional Minister, Linda Ohenewaa Ocloo, who declared that Greater Accra is Ga land. Traditionally, she may be right. But politically, constitutionally, and nationally, it is dangerous rhetoric. It is unbecoming of a minister who swore an oath to represent all citizens in her region, not only those of her ethnic extraction. It is embarrassing that at a time when she should be fixing the darkness of Accra’s streets, where streetlights lie broken and entire highways are unsafe, she finds the time to beat ethnic drums. Madam Minister, Ghanaians deserve light on their streets, not darkness in their politics.
Fellow Ghanaians,
If you doubt how dangerous tribal and ethnic sentiments can become when allowed to fester, look just across our borders and into the broader African continent. Nigeria, our giant neighbor, is perhaps the most vivid cautionary tale. For decades, tribal and religious fault lines have repeatedly threatened the stability of Africa’s most populous nation. The Nigerian Civil War, from 1967 to 1970, was not caused by economic hardship alone but by ethnic and regional divisions that hardened into secessionist ambitions. The scars of Biafra remain, and to this day, politics in Nigeria is filtered through ethnic lenses—the Hausa-Fulani in the north, the Yoruba in the west, the Igbo in the east. Every election season, these identities are stoked, promises are made to “our people,” and national unity becomes fragile theatre. The result is a nation of immense wealth and talent that continues to underperform because its energy is drained by mistrust and division.
And Nigeria is not alone. In Kenya, tribal politics has been the tinderbox of repeated electoral violence. After the disputed 2007 elections, ethnic mobilization turned deadly, and neighbors who had lived side by side for decades suddenly saw each other as enemies. More than 1,000 Kenyans lost their lives, and hundreds of thousands were displaced, all because politicians weaponized tribal identities to cling to power. The lesson from Kenya is that it doesn’t take much—just a few inflammatory words, a few reckless leaders—to turn political competition into ethnic bloodshed.
And then, of course, there is Rwanda, where the manipulation of ethnic identity between Hutus and Tutsis led to one of the worst genocides in modern history. Close to a million lives were lost in 1994 in a hundred days of horror. What began as careless rhetoric about “us” and “them” ended in mass graves and rivers filled with bodies. Rwanda has since made impressive strides in reconciliation, but the pain remains etched into its soil and its people.
These examples are not distant echoes. They are warnings. They remind us that no nation is immune. Ghana is often praised for its peace, but peace is not permanent. It is fragile. It is maintained by constant vigilance, by rejecting the poison of tribalism, by refusing to reduce one another to ethnic labels. The moment we normalize ethnic grievances as political capital, we set ourselves on a path that others have walked—and suffered for.
Now, Fellow Ghanaians, how do we move forward?
First, we must accept that some words have become part of our national identity, transcending their ethnic roots. Words like Akwaaba, Ayeeko, Chale, Dumsor, and Shinkafa are Ghanaian words. They should be embraced as national treasures, not fought over as ethnic possessions.
Second, we must consider the proposal by lawyer Chris Nyinevi: a special law to define the parameters for naming public monuments, institutions, and landmarks. Such a law would prevent ad hoc decisions, tribal lobbying, or political manipulation from dictating how we name and inscribe our shared spaces. It would provide clear guidelines that respect both inclusivity and national unity.
Third, we must cultivate a culture of pride in our shared heritage, not in our isolated identities. Let every child in Ghana know what Akwaaba means, and let them also know what Oobaké means. Let them know what Woezor means, and what Shinkafa means. But let them know it as Ghanaians, not as ethnic warriors.
Finally, we must hold our leaders accountable for their words. Dangerous rhetoric from political leaders is not mere speech—it is a matchstick in dry grass. Ghana has survived because we have avoided the ethnic wars that have ravaged other nations. But survival is not guaranteed. The more we normalize tribal claims in politics, the more we edge toward conflict.
Fellow Ghanaians, language is supposed to unite us, not divide us. Words are supposed to build bridges, not walls. Let us not turn Akwaaba, a word of welcome, into a weapon of division. Let us not turn Oobaké, a word of greeting, into a grenade of ethnic rivalry. Let us instead embrace these words as symbols of our diversity, woven together into one Ghanaian identity.
Because in the end, Ghana is not Ga land, or Akan land, or Ewe land, or Dagomba land. Ghana is Ghana. One country, one destiny, one people.