Once upon a time in the Republic of Uncommon Sense—where every WhatsApp admin is a part-time political analyst and every trotro mate has a PhD in Current Affairs—there lived a gentleman of gargantuan courage and elastic titles. Some called him Eze Ndi Igbo Ghana; others, relying on the respected syllabus of WhatsApp University, promoted him to “Igbo King of Everywhere and Nowhere.” He woke up one morning, adjusted his cap like a man about to chair a family meeting, and decided to add one more season to Ghana’s long-running sitcom: Titles, Thrones & Things We Forgot to Ask the Landlord.
Our story does not begin at Manhyia, no. It starts in Accra, where the sea breeze carries gossip like a hawker carries sachet water—swiftly, loudly, and with confidence. Rumour had it that His Eze-ness had planted a cultural umbrella so wide even coconut sellers could stand under it. There were banners, there were sashes, there were “hear ye, hear ye” speeches fragrant with new-title perfume. The only thing missing was the small matter of whose house we were all standing in. In Accra, you greet the landlord before you plug in your rice cooker; else, you will discover the miracle of light off without ECG’s assistance.
But our hero had momentum. He wasn’t just a man; he was a parade. He was procession and punctuation, moving comma by comma toward a full stop that would later find him in Kumasi. News articles sprouted like mushrooms after the rain. Debates flared like charcoal under kelewele. One group said, “My friend, he is not a Ghanaian chief; he is a cultural leader for his people.” Another group shouted, “Ebei! So on whose soil does this cultural leadership stand? On Accra land? Then please greet the Ga landlord and bring kola nut!” As old aunties say at weddings, “The broom that forgot the compound belongs to the wind.”
Meanwhile, a flyer appeared: New Yam Festival—Efua Sutherland Park. A glorious thing. Who doesn’t love yam? Yam is the philosopher of tubers—quiet, dependable, sermonizing only when roasted. But like every philosopher, yam requires context. You can’t bring your entire yam faculty to a neighbour’s backyard without asking who owns the backyard, whether the dogs bark in Ewe or Twi, and if the landlord is allergic to brass band. Very soon, letters were written with biro seriousness. “Halt this,” said some. “Explain that,” said others. The yam remained innocent, but the conversation fried hotter than kelewele in rush hour.
Now let us travel to Kumasi—Manhyia, to be precise—the city where tradition wears shoes made of thunder and walks with a cane named Protocol. Even the birds there tweet in proverbs. If you have never been to a great Asante funeral, imagine Parliament, the Olympics opening ceremony, and your grandmother’s kitchen on Christmas Day—then add golden umbrellas and drums that command your heart to beat in public.
Into this stately calm walked our Eze, basking in the aroma of self-confidence. His attire glowed like fresh palm oil; his beads announced him like the siren of a new ambulance; his entourage was long enough to require traffic wardens. “Make way,” the aura said, “for handshake diplomacy.” And truly, the Otumfuo Osei Tutu II, lion of Asanteman, sat in solemn regality, an atlas of history resting lightly on his shoulders. Cameras went up. Thousands of pocket historians prepared to narrate to future grandchildren, “I was there.”
Then, as destiny often prefers, the plot twist arrived wearing kente. The okyeame—Asante’s linguist, translator, guardian of tone and temperature—stepped forward with the serenity of a surgeon and the precision of a customs officer at Kotoka. In that moment, time paused for a quick meeting. The okyeame’s staff whispered to the floor, “Protocol.” The Eze’s hand whispered to the air, “Handshake.” The ancestors looked down, folded their arms, and said, “Let’s see who studied the syllabus.”
The tap of the staff went kpakpakpa! The Eze’s handshake froze mid-air like a screenshot. A collective “Ei!” traveled through the crowd like a stadium wave. Somewhere, a DJ’s invisible soundtrack played the kind of record that stops exactly when the comedian enters. And with that, the internet started boiling like jollof.
Within minutes, X (formerly Twitter but still stubbornly called Twitter by uncles), TikTok, and Facebook turned into Kejetia Market for memes. One video slowed the moment into cinematic slow motion: “Handshake… disallowed… for offside… by Protocol.” Another overlaid commentary from a fake VAR room: “Upon review, direct handshake was attempted without linguistic clearance. Decision upheld.” Auntie Benedicta in a voice note declared: “If you won’t greet the landlord, don’t plug your blender in his socket. It will shock you—and the rice will still remain raw!”
Let us pause here for a public service intermission. There is nothing wrong with diaspora communities choosing cultural leaders. In fact, it can be beautiful—like watching a well-fried plantain float confidently beside beans. But titles carry freight. The word Eze may mean “king” in one story and “community head” in another. When you export that word to Ghanaian soil and season it with the pepper of “king,” the soup boils differently. Ghana already has kings, chiefs, sub-chiefs, and a queue of elders whose eyebrows alone can call a meeting. If you arrive carrying your own throne, you must first find out where to park it, who issues parking stickers, and whether your stool legs will scratch the palace floor.
Back to Manhyia. People asked, “But couldn’t they just shake hands?” My brother, my sister, shaking hands is not a neutral act in the palace. It is not a handshake; it is a chapter. Who introduces you? Who speaks first? Have you greeted the gate, the ants, and the ancestors? The okyeame is not a mere translator; he is the conductor of a ritual orchestra in which even silence has a key signature. If you bypass him, the music stops and the drummer glares at you in E♭ major. This is why the staff descended with surgical tenderness: not to disgrace, but to recalibrate the scene to the original settings—Respect, Order, Custom.
The Eze’s defenders protested: “But he meant well!” And they may be right. Intention is a fine perfume; alas, it cannot cover the smell of protocol violations. Others said, “Why the drama?” Friends, Ghana is the theatre of gentle dramas. We are the people who can turn crossing the street into a press conference. We like things done properly because our elders paid the price of disorder in past centuries. If you treat tradition like a YouTube ad that you can skip in five seconds, you will discover it is the version you cannot skip.
Meanwhile, the memes advanced from battalion to brigade. Someone designed a mock poster titled “A Short Course in Surviving Funerals Without Becoming Content.” Modules included “Okyeame 101,” “How to Bow Without Removing Your Spine,” and “Stool Etiquette for Borrowed Thrones.” Another creative added a subtitle to the video: “When your Bluetooth tries to pair without permission: Connection failed.”
Then came the philosophical debates. Is the word king the problem? Are Ghanaians being oversensitive? Is the diaspora leader unfairly targeted? In the Republic of Uncommon Sense, we measure these questions with the proverb scale. If a stranger brings a goat to your compound for roasting, the problem is not the goat; the problem is that he started rubbing pepper without greeting your mother. Greets first; grill later. Even Google knows to ask for permissions before pushing notifications.
What about the New Yam Festival? It remains an innocent tuber on trial. Yams did not apply for visas; humans did. But festivals do not float like balloons. They require permits, protocols, and the kind of friendly diplomacy that makes neighbours bring their own bowls and join. The extra pepper here is that Accra has a proud tradition with chiefs and councils; you cannot erect a new flagpole without asking where the wind blows. Otherwise your flag will salute the wrong house.
In time, the Eze himself posted a contemplative message online—the kind of gentle reflection that makes you tilt your head and put hand on chest, like melodrama in a Nigerian film. Some applauded him for maturity; others crowned him unofficial “Eze of Algorithm,” ruler of likes and comments, chairman of engagement metrics. And truly, if leadership is influence, he had certainly influenced a whole nation to conduct a crash course in palace protocol. Even nursery children started inserting “okyeame” into their rhymes: “Okyeame go to school, okyeame come back, who will you greet? The stool will talk back!”
Now, dear reader, allow me to propose a truce written in the language of laughter. Ghana and Nigeria are siblings who fight over jollof yet dance the same Afrobeats. We roast each other like plantain, but we also eat together. The moral of our episode is simple: when you enter another man’s courtyard, let your titles remove their shoes. Keep them in your bag; introduce them one by one; let the okyeame translate their CVs. And if the staff taps the floor, don’t argue with wood—wood has been in the forest longer than you have been on Instagram.
Picture this corrective scene: The Eze arrives again at Manhyia—not with a marching band of cameras but with a humble kola nut and a small smile. The okyeame steps forward, staff gleaming, the language of tradition humming like a guitar. Greetings flow in measured ripples: from the Eze to the okyeame, from the okyeame to the Otumfuo, from Otumfuo to the ancestors. Hands meet—not like random birds colliding in the sky—but like two rivers greeting under the supervision of the land. The crowd sighs. The memes retire. Even the yam nods, happy to be boiled in peace.
Until then, let us keep our laughter legal and our respect intact. Satire is not a weapon; it is a mirror polished with jokes. It allows us to see our awkwardness and trim it with common sense. Today our brother tripped on protocol; tomorrow any of us might trip on someone else’s custom. The lesson is evergreen: greet the gate before the palace; cook respect before jollof; and never let your titles arrive five minutes ahead of your manners.
As for the linguist—the bouncer of tradition, the human firewall—may his staff remain blessed. In a world where everybody wants a selfie with the throne, it is comforting to know someone still holds the manual: “Insert greeting. Press okyeame. Wait for approval. Proceed.” The elders taught us that a drum which refuses the drummer will learn rhythm from the stick. That day at Manhyia, the stick did not beat; it merely tapped a reminder. And the reminder echoed across the internet like church bells on a Sunday morning before a big funeral: Respect is not an app; you cannot download it at the gate.
So we close our tale the way proper storytellers do: with a proverb and a promise. The proverb: “When the visitor knows the path to the kitchen, the soup never quarrels with the spoon.” And the promise: the Republic of Uncommon Sense will continue to serve satire warm—peppered with proverbs, garnished with giggles, and seasoned always with respect. Long live friendship, longer live protocol, and may every yam festival henceforth carry the landlord’s permit, laminated and smiling.
The end—until the next episode, when yet another title tries to overtake on a curve and meets the traffic warden called Custom.
Enjoyed this? Share it with a friend and tag us. Uncommon Sense spreads best in daylight.
