“JJ Bie, John Mahama”: A Brother’s Call from Bamboi

We, the people of Bamboi, speak today with hearts that are full—full of gratitude, full of memory, full of a love that time has only deepened. We begin with thankfulness. We thank His Excellency the President for appointing Abdulai Mahamud, one of our own, as District Chief Executive. That single decision warmed our homes and steadied our pride. It told us, again, that Bamboi and the Mo/Deg people of North Mo are seen, remembered, and valued.

Our President has never hidden his bond with us. In his speeches, he returns to us with humility, acknowledging that our hands, our voices, and our belief were part of his journey. He has said it openly—that we are among the reasons he rose in politics, among the reasons he stands today as the Commander-in-Chief of the Ghana Armed Forces. Those words did not pass over us like the wind. They settled in us.

To us, he is more than a President. He is not distant. He is not ceremonial. He is our brother—the brother we have always had, the brother we have always claimed, the brother we will always want to have.

Those of us who came of age in the 1990s carry a memory that still beats in our chests. When he came home—whether to visit or to campaign for the parliamentary seat of Bole–Bamboi—we did not need lessons in politics. We needed only a name. We chanted it with the innocence of youth and the certainty of belonging:

“JJ bie, John Mahama.” In Deg, it meant “JJ’s child, John Mahama.” In our hearts, it meant one of us.

We were young then—too young to understand manifestos, old enough to understand love. We remember running after his convoy, breathless and laughing, our legs chasing what our eyes could barely see. Even when we could not glimpse his face, his presence filled Bamboi. His name was enough to make the town glow.

Bamboi was always alive when he came. We knew no politics then. We knew joy. We knew pride. We knew that John Mahama belonged to us.

And he has never disappointed us.
During his first term as President, Bamboi felt his vision not as a rumour but as reality. We saw it. We touched it. We lived it. That is why we say this without exaggeration or apology: Bamboi is John Mahama, and John Mahama is Bamboi.

Today, even a little boy from Bamboi finds it hard to call him “His Excellency.” Not from disrespect, but from closeness. The name that flows—natural and unforced—under our trees, at our farms, in our markets, at funerals and naming ceremonies, is simply John Mahama. That name is at home in every corner of Bamboi.

And now, as we stand at this moment—knowing this is his final turn as President under our Constitution—we come not with drums of disappointment, but with a whisper of longing. We will not gather at the village square to sing songs of anger. That would mean ingratitude. Worse, it would lower the standard of the bond we share. We will not burn tyres to call strangers to witness our pain. That would sell the integrity of our own brother.

No. That is not who we are.
We only ask for a listening ear—quietly, respectfully, within the house we share.

Our request is simple, almost tender in its simplicity: give us just one opportunity. Let just one person from Bamboi serve in the Office of the President. Just one.

So that when we return from our farms in the evening—dust on our skins, sweat on our brows—we can sit under our trees and speak his name with fresh closeness. So that we can gossip gently, the way families do, and say with pride, “That one works at the Office of the President.” So that we can mention a father’s name, a mother’s name, laugh softly, and feel—again—that nearness which once made our town run after convoys.

We have them. Able, disciplined, deserving young men and women—Deg and non-Deg—committed members of the NDC, ready to serve without noise. Emmanuel Num, Bannewel Kunguri, Joshua Etse Dodovi, Wisdom Samabia, Sampson Jebuni, Emmanuel Cheranquah, Joseph Krah—and many others whose names are known in Bamboi. Even the children of KT—they can serve in different roles. We are not asking for titles. We are not chasing prestige. Even a cleaner would be received with joy. Let us feel closer.

Let us hear of your welfare through one of our own who walks the corridors of Jubilee House. Let us say, with the quiet pride of family, “Our brother is safe. We hear from home.” We have heard of others from other towns, but we will not compare. We will never do that. All we ask—only this—is one regular person, known and rooted in Bamboi, to work at the Office of the President. Just one.

So we can feel the old John Mahama vibe again—the one that made children run and elders smile, the one that turned politics into belonging.

Our brother, look at Bamboi once more. Not with speeches alone, but with presence—human presence. We remain grateful. We remain loyal. And we remain hopeful.

Under our trees, in the hush after the day’s labor, the chant still lives—soft now, but steady: “JJ bie, John Mahama.”

Written by;
Francis Anwulibo Jebuni
anwulibo@gmail.com

0248604542

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