When the Gavel Speaks, Where Is the Choir That Once Sang for Wontumi?

There are moments in politics when the microphone suddenly becomes heavier than the man holding it.

For years, Chairman Wontumi was one of those political figures whose voice seemed capable of shaking Kumasi before an earthquake could even clear its throat. He was everywhere on radio, at rallies, in political conversations, and in the imagination of loyalists. His name could produce applause in one room and nervous silence in another.

Then came the gavel.
And suddenly, Ghana discovered something politicians occasionally forget: the microphone has an off button.

The law has spoken, and the legal process continues through the avenues available to an accused or convicted person. But whatever happens in the appellate courts, there is already a lesson worth extracting from this episode.

Power is temporary. Character is permanent.

The most amusing thing about political power is how quickly everybody remembers that they were never really close to you.

When you are powerful, your phone battery is always busy. People call to check whether you have eaten. They call to ask whether you slept well. They call because they suddenly remembered an old school friendship dating back to 1998.

You become “Chairman,” “Boss,” “Oga,” “Our Leader,” “Our Messiah,” and occasionally, if the sycophant is sufficiently ambitious, “the greatest political strategist Ghana has ever produced.”

But let the political weather change.
Suddenly, the same people develop excellent network problems.

Calls do not connect.
Messages remain unread.
Photographs disappear from WhatsApp status.

And yesterday's “my Chairman” becomes today's “the former Chairman.”

Vanity upon vanity.
This is where the word sycophant becomes useful. Hon. Fifi Kwetey has used the term in Ghana's political vocabulary, and perhaps no word better describes the strange species that flourishes around power: the professional praise singer.

The praise singer does not tell you what you need to hear.

He tells you what keeps him close to the chair.

If you say the sky is blue, he says it is blue because you personally negotiated with heaven.

If you make a mistake, he calls it strategy.

If you lose an argument, he calls it political maturity.

If everybody else sees danger, he sees “an opportunity for greater leadership.”

And when the throne disappears?
He discovers another throne.
That is the tragedy of political worship. Some people do not love the politician. They love access to the politician.

So when the politician falls, the worshippers do not fall with him. They simply relocate.

Perhaps that is the hardest lesson for anyone who occupies public office: never confuse applause with loyalty.

Crowds are temporary tenants. Positions expire. Titles change. Governments change.

Party executives change.
Even the most powerful political machines eventually require spare parts.

But the law remains.
The river also remains.
The land remains.
And the consequences of decisions can outlive the political careers of those who made them.

Nobody should celebrate another person's misfortune. Learn from it. Equally, nobody should behave as though power provides immunity from accountability. The principle is simple enough for a schoolchild: no one is above the law.

The real tragedy would be if Ghana learned nothing.

Today it may be Wontumi. Tomorrow it could be somebody else.

The lesson therefore should not be about one man alone. It should be about all of us who participate in public life.

Be measured.
Be humble.
Listen to people who can tell you “No.”

Keep friends who can correct you before the court corrects you.

And, above all, beware of the man who claps the loudest whenever you make a mistake.

He may not be your loyalist. He may simply be protecting his chair beside yours.

In politics, the music can be very loud when you are dancing.

But when the music stops, you discover who was dancing with you and who was merely dancing near you.

Vanity upon vanity.
Today you are on top of the mountain. Tomorrow, you may be explaining to somebody how you got there. And somewhere between the applause and the silence lies the oldest lesson of power:

Rise with humility. Act with restraint. Remember the law.

Because the praise singers may forget you.

The party may replace you. The crowd may move on.

But history has a remarkably long memory.

I will end with this final thought: “And water, unlike politicians, does not forget.” — Sylvester Nti