Words Of Wisdom For Religious Bigots! My Dear Asomdwekromanians!

Let us gather beneath the Baobab Tree, where the whispers of our ancestors blend with the rustling leaves. The air carries the scent of history, a rich blend of cocoa, sweat, and the dreams of a nation. Here, we embark on a journey with a symphony of voices, each note echoing through time.

Our Kente Cloth – woven meticulously, thread by thread, mirrors our collective identity. Each color, each pattern tells a story. The red speaks of courage, the gold of wealth, and the indigo of wisdom.

Imagine the calabash as a pot passed from elder to youth, brimming with tales. Within its curved walls lie the stories of chiefs, the whispers of storytellers, and the laughter of children. As we sip, let us ponder. What drink do our leaders offer? Is it the honeyed nectar of progress or the bitter draught of empty rhetoric? The calabash knows; it has tasted both.

And so, we all gather – chiefs, farmers, traders, teachers, and dreamers. Our voices rise like the chorus of village drums, echoing across hills and valleys. Let us debate, not with clenched fists, but with open minds. For Asomdwekrom, our beloved land, deserves leaders who wear their kente with honour, sip from the calabash of wisdom, and dance to the winds of truth.

In Asomdwekrom, when the sun warms the soil, cocoa pods nestle in its embrace, and when the waves kiss our shores, faith blossoms like wildflowers after rain. Our churches and mosques stand side by side, their pinnacles reaching for the heavens. Here, the faithful gather, seeking solace, guidance, and a glimpse of eternity.

Let us tread carefully, my compatriots. For a campaign that focuses solely on religious identity is like a palm wine gourd with a leak and a pot that quenches no thirst. We must move beyond the surface, beyond the labels that cling to our souls like morning dew on grass. Substance is the solution we seek.

Picture the mosque's minaret and the church's bell tower, etching patterns against the sky. They share more than proximity; they share the heartbeat of our people. So, when a candidate dons the cloak of faith as their sole banner, we must ask: Is this enough? Does piety alone steer the ship of state? Our ancestors, whispering through the rustling palms, urge us to look deeper.

Being Christians or Muslims are but beads on the string of identity. We wear them on our necks, but they do not define character or competence. Christlikeness transcends denominations. It's the compassion that binds us, transcending religious boundaries.

Christlikeness is being steadfast in the midst of a storm. Yesu Kristo didn't flee when the storm raged. So, leaders must weather the storms, their hearts anchored in service. For Asomdwekrom needs leaders who will not abandon ship at the least storm.

Alan K, with eyes fixed on the presidential prize, feels his birthright slipping like sand through fingers. Dr. Bawumia, the rising star, stands in his path. Alan K, once a contender, now wears the cloak of bitterness – a garment woven from threads of thwarted dreams and bruised pride.

He gazes at the looming polls, their numbers etched in fire across the night sky. But he knows too well that his chances are slimmer than a crescent moon. Getting ten percent will be a miracle! But miracles are elusive, like dewdrops on spider silk.

Dr. Bawumia, the wonder kid, stands tall. He is a colossus of intellect and strategy. Alan K's purpose is not victory, but sabotage. To wield his influence like a dagger, to ensure Bawumia's defeat, and in that defeat, to scream, “See! See how my absence wounded the party!”

The Elephant, once a symphony of unity, now echoes with disagreement. Alan K, the embittered maestro, conducts a discordant tune. His baton slashes through loyalty and the orchestra trembles. But will the audience applaud this cacophony? Or will they yearn for harmony that once swirled around him?

As the curtain rises, Alan K steps into the spotlight. His eyes, enthusiastic with defiance, fixed on the ballot box. The nation holds its breath. Will he be the tragic hero or the fallen star? Or will he fade into obscurity?

But let us not be blinded by entitlement. Leadership isn't a birthright; it's a sacred duty to the land we love. The mantle of leadership weighs heavy, and it rests on the shoulders of those who serve, not those who claim.

And so, let us heed the words of Rev. Anthony Cudjoe, echoing across time and faiths, “God does not need a Christian to bless a Christian nation.” Remember Cyrus, the foreign king who blessed the Jews. Let us celebrate competence, vision, and the fire that burns within, whether it glimmers in a church's candlelight or glows on a mosque's prayer rug.

So, my kith and kin, let us shed religious blinders. If the Bearded Old Man Above can use Dr. Bawumia, a Muslim, to bless Asomdwekrom, who are we to question?

In the marketplace of ideas, let wisdom be our currency. Let us debate policies, not dogmas. And may our nation thrive, whether led by Christian, Muslim, or the whispering winds of destiny.

See you next week for another interesting konkonsa, Deo volente!