Woes of Democracy Part 3: When the Flame is Attacked

In Ghana, politics is not just a game of numbers. It’s a game of survival.

And when you dare to step outside party lines, the beast bares its teeth.

After JKC launched The Citizen’s Flame, things escalated. At first, it was subtle.

His bank account got “flagged for suspicious activity.”

His office in Wa was burgled—nothing stolen, just papers scattered, laptops damaged.

His mother in Kumasi began receiving anonymous calls: "Tell your son to behave.”

“He thinks Ghana is for saints?” “We are watching.”

But JKC was unshaken.

"Let them come,” he told me. “I’ve already lost the perks. Now I have nothing to fear.”

Then it turned ugly.

While speaking at a youth forum in Sunyani, he was ambushed by men wearing T-shirts of the ruling party’s youth wing.

Chairs flew. Bottles shattered. A generator caught fire.

JKC escaped with a bleeding arm and a bruised rib.

His cameraman? Hospitalised.

The police arrived—three hours later.

And when they finally spoke, it was like reading from a script:

"The violence appears to be a misunderstanding between rival youth factions. Investigations ongoing.”

Nothing happened. No arrests. No apology. No justice.

“Why are they afraid of you, JKC?” I asked him that night, bandaging his arm.

He winced, then said:

"Because I remind them of what they’re not. And that’s dangerous.”

He leaned back and continued, voice heavy:

"Martey, if you doubt me, look at the calibre of leaders who win elections in Africa.

And people celebrate just to say they know these incompetents—proud to dine with them.”

“Our foreign policy? Bootlicking. Sycophancy. At the expense of national pride, growth and development.

We’ve been infected with a we-can’t-do-it-ourselves mentality. The examples are countless.”

“So please, Martey… don’t glorify suits and bow ties. They’re just chaff.”

I was speechless.

A week later, the Electoral Commission rejected his application to register The Citizen’s Flame as a political party.

"Inadequate regional offices.”

“Inconsistencies in documentation.”

“Security concerns related to recent rallies.” Lies. All of them.

But who do you appeal to when the referee is wearing the jersey of your opponent?

Then came the media onslaught.

Talk shows branded him a “failed MP looking for attention.”

Some journalists mocked him as “Traoré’s copycat”, claiming Ghana didn’t need rebels.

A leaked (clearly doctored) audio surfaced, alleging he had taken bribes during his first year in Parliament.

Old friends stopped picking his calls.

JKC grew quiet.

Not defeated—but tired.

The kind of tired that comes not from fighting your enemies, but from fighting your country’s apathy.

One night, he came to my compound again.

No speeches. No slogans. Just silence.

He stared at the fire in my coal pot.

"Martey,” he said softly,

"What if they’re right? What if I’ve wasted it all?”I looked at him.

"JKC, listen to me. You didn’t waste anything. You exposed them.”

You made them afraid. Even if they destroy you—they’ll never forget you.”

He nodded.

Then he said something that chilled me:

"If I disappear... tell my story. Let them know I tried.”

The next morning, his Facebook page was hacked.

His house in Accra was raided—tax audit, they claimed.

Two of his movement’s coordinators were picked up by plain-clothes men.

They were released later—bruised and shaken.

And yet... the youth still reached out.

Sending poems. Songs. Videos.

A boy from Ho sent him this message:

"Sir, I saw what they did to you.

But my heart is awake now.

 will not sleep again.

You’ve given us light.”

And sometimes, light is all you need.

Fire in Mateki

After I told her the story of JKC, Mateki didn’t speak for days.
And that alone was strange.

This was a girl whose voice could shake roofing sheets. Whose laugh used to ring through the compound like a bell that refused to be quiet.

But for three days—silence.

Then, one Saturday morning, she walked out of her room wearing a white T-shirt with words scrawled in black marker:

"Truth is not a disturbance. Silence is,” I blinked.

“Where from this one too?”

She looked me straight in the eye.

“I’m starting something in school,” she said. “It’s called The Honest Circle.”

I paused. The Honest what?

Before I could ask, she opened a small notebook—pages full of messy handwriting and big dreams. "No more cheating in exams.

No more staying quiet when teachers misuse funds meant for student clubs.

No more ignoring the filthy state of the girls’ dorm toilets.

Every student has a voice. Even the ones in torn uniforms.

I blinked again.It was like looking at JKC—just smaller, with puffed braids and eyes that burned.

Monday came. And Mateki began her quiet war.

She stood in front of her class during “Talk Time” and declared,

"We are not enemies of the school. We just want truth to live here too.”

Her classmates clapped.

Some teachers? Not so much.

The backlash came like a slap.

They called her “disrespectful.”

The assistant headmistress accused her of “undermining school authority.”

They banned her from speaking at assembly.

Ripped down her hand-drawn posters from the notice board.

Even told the dining hall staff to stop her from leading “table talk.”

But the flame had already caught.

One girl from JHS 2 came up to her crying.

"I always thought I was alone. Now I know someone cares.”

Another boy whispered,

"They can stop your posters, but they can’t stop our minds.”

And so, The Honest Circle went underground.

They met behind shelves in the library.

They shared ideas through WhatsApp, using silly names like “Mango Lovers” and “Homework Club.

One week, they cleaned the school’s filthy water tank—unasked, unpaid.

Another week, they pooled lunch money to buy sanitary pads and soap for a shy girl who always seemed to disappear around the same time each month.

Then came the spark that nearly set everything on fire.

During morning devotion, in front of students and teachers alike, Mateki raised her hand and asked:

"Sir, if our PTA money is for school development, can we see the breakdown of how it was spent last term?”

The teacher froze.

The staffroom boiled.

By evening, Mateki was summoned to the headmaster’s office.

"Who do you think you are?” the headmaster roared.

She didn’t flinch.

"I’m just a student,” she replied, “asking for what belongs to all of us.”

They threatened suspension.

Called her parents.

Even whispered about “external political forces” influencing her.

(When she told me that, I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my tea. Little did they know her “external influence” was just me—and the ghost of a man named JKC.)

That night, I sat with her under the orange light of our veranda bulb.

"Mateki,” I said gently, “sometimes the system fights you not because you’re wrong—but because it knows you’re right. Are you sure you want to keep going?”

She looked at me. Her eyes were fierce, but calm—like a storm that had already made peace with its own thunder.

"Uncle, if I stop now, they win twice. Once by doing wrong. And again by scaring us from asking why.”

 In that moment, I knew— A revolution had begun.

Not with guns.

Not with riots.

But with a girl, a notebook, and the most dangerous question in any broken system:

"Why not tell the truth?”

(Coming Soon in Part 5: When the Flame Meets the Spark

What happens when courage spreads faster than control? As Mateki’s fire grows, so does the resistance—and the price of speaking out becomes painfully personal.)

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By Martey Akita, farmer and entrepreneur.