Kyeiwaa’s Eulogy: The Theatrical Death of Yaanom

Yaanom—once a sturdy, if slightly rusted, political chariot—has officially transcended the realm of governance and entered the existential state of demise. If you listen closely to the corridors of their headquarters, you won’t hear the robust debate of policy or the clinking of campaign war chests. Instead, you hear the rhythmic, mournful thud of a bass drum echoing, eshie rado, rado, rado, zo!

Historians have long argued that political parties are rarely assassinated by their ideological adversaries. The true reaper of political movements is always the internal combustion engine of the party itself. As the legendary actress, Kyeiwaa might observe while adjusting her spectacles through a cloud of dramatic woe, Yaanom have fully embraced their transition and become "funeral". It is no longer a political machine; it is, quite literally, deceased.

The turbulence currently rocking the party is not merely political; it is an atmospheric anomaly. Grassroots members, once known for their unwavering zeal, have pivoted to a new hobby: creative litigation. Every committee meeting now requires a presiding judge, a stenographer, and a bailiff to ensure that when a motion is passed, it is done so in accordance with constitutional law and basic slapstick comedy. The presidential primaries, intended to be a coronation, instead served as the blueprint for an obituary. By the time the final tally was tabulated, the party had successfully managed to alienate everyone from the party elders to the village elephant mascot.

The signage on the streets tells the story. Where once there were posters promising "Prosperity for All," there are now posters that look suspiciously like sympathy cards. "Rest in Perpetual Peace," they seem to whisper. Like the classic obituary flyers pinned to community notice boards, Yaanom are "gone too soon"—victims of their own enthusiasm for self-immolation.

It is a fascinating phenomenon, really. The supporters, armed with grievances that date back to the early nineties, have turned the party’s constitution into a weaponised paper plane. They have fought so hard for the soul of the movement that they have neglected to notice the body has stopped breathing. Every legal dispute is a heavy spade of dirt; every primary grievance is a beautifully embroidered wreath resting on a casket of their own making.

Critics might suggest that the party needs a transfusion, a new vision, or perhaps an exorcist. But Yaanom's supporters are far too busy quarrelling over who gets to carry the casket to notice that there is no one left to mourn them. They have become the architects of their own sunset. They didn’t just lose the mandate of the people; they lost the ability to occupy space in the public consciousness without triggering a collective urge to play dirges.

As the sunset hits the headquarters, one can almost see the phantom image of Kyeiwaa, walking through the lobby with a handkerchief, shaking her head at the sheer theatrical inefficiency of it all. “Funeral,” she whispers, and the remaining party officials nod, weeping silently into their legal briefs. It is a grand exit, truly. Gone, indeed, too soon.

Anthony Obeng Afrane

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