Sometimes I wonder whether we really love this country or we simply love what we can take from it.
It is an uncomfortable question, I know. But some questions deserve to make us uncomfortable.
I have been fortunate to travel through many parts of Ghana, and every journey leaves me with the same feeling. This country is unbelievably beautiful. It is almost unfair how generous nature has been to us.
I fell in love with the Ashanti countryside long before I understood its history, many years before I was transferred here by my employers.
There is something about those winding roads, the towering trees that seem to welcome you into every town, and the cool breeze that reminds you that nature was here long before we were.
The same feeling comes over me whenever I travel through parts of Sefwi and Nzema lands. The forests appear endless. The blue ocean lines look stainless. The rivers snake quietly through communities that have lived with them for generations.
Even after countless journeys, I still find myself slowing down just to admire the scenery. Sometimes I deliberately ignore my car’s air conditioner, roll down the window and simply watch Ghana go by.
Sadly, reality has interrupted. Another forest has disappeared. Another hill has been stripped bare. Another river has changed colour. Another community has exchanged tomorrow for today’s money.
Our leaders often say we are fighting environmental degradation. I smile whenever I hear that. Are we? Because from where I stand, it looks more like we are attending the funeral while pretending the patient is still alive.
Take Kumasi for example. For decades, people proudly called it the Garden City. You didn’t need anyone to explain why. The trees did all the talking. Entire neighbourhoods breathed. The roads had character because nature was allowed to exist alongside development.
Today, you drive through some of those same areas and admire magnificent houses that would not look out of place anywhere in the world. Beautiful buildings. Awesome architecture and perfect paving blocks.
But somewhere along the line, it has been decided that every mature tree had become an inconvenience. Concrete has become the new status symbol. Natural shade has become old-fashioned.
A compound without a single tree somehow is enough proof that one had “made it.” Don’t get me wrong. I am not talking about flowers and lawns.
I have nothing against beautiful homes. We should all aspire to live well, especially when retirement comes with loads of free time.
But why must every new building declare war on every old tree? I thought development and nature were never enemies until this new reality. I honestly don’t know whether future generations will understand why Kumasi was ever called the Garden City.
Perhaps they will assume it was somebody’s imagination.
The same anxiety grips me whenever I think about Lake Bosomtwe. It is about time our folks in these areas are told that there are places that belong to the people who live around them, and there are places that belong to all of us as Ghanaians.
Lake Bosomtwe belongs to Ghana. It is one of our cherished places to take our visitors, because it tells a story about who we are. It is one of those places that makes us proud before we even say a word.
This is why every report of illegal mining activities creeping towards the lake should frighten all of us.
We have watched what happened to the Pra. We have seen the Ankobra. We have witnessed the Densu.
We watched, complained, debated, blamed governments, blamed chiefs, blamed foreigners, blamed everybody except ourselves.
Must Bosomtwe become another chapter in that same depressing story before we finally decide enough is enough?
One experience still refuses to leave my mind.
Some time ago, I visited a community in the Bono-Ahafo area. I was genuinely impressed. Almost every surrounding district had visible signs of illegal mining, yet their forests remained remarkably intact.
I remember thinking, “Finally. Here is a traditional authority that has chosen courage over convenience.”
I was ready to praise their traditional leadership. Then a group of young men from the area corrected me, confidently. “Oh,” they said, “it isn’t because they don’t want mining. The chief simply doesn’t support the current government. When our political party comes into power, we will also have our turn.”
I honestly didn’t know what to say again. That conversation to me, explained more about our environmental crisis than a hundred academic papers ever could. Imagine reducing a forest to an election promise.
Imagine treating rivers as political rewards. Imagine waiting for political power; not to improve schools, hospitals or roads but to destroy the very land your grandchildren will inherit. That was both moral and environmental degradation. Let’s just say, a deadly disease that is very hard to cure.
Then there is Assin Kushea. If there is any community that has already gained national (if not international) recognition, it is Kushea. Nana Prah Agyensaim VI’s Assin Kushea.
While many others see forests as cash waiting to be harvested, Kushea has chosen something far more valuable. The invaluable choice of restraint.
Kushea’s leadership has demonstrated that protecting our environment is development than an obstacle.
This is the leadership we ask to experience. Not speeches nor communiqués. Not annual tree-planting ceremonies with branded T-shirts and cameras. Don’t get me wrong, I love our fanfares, proud of our beautiful festivals, and adoption “gen-zeeism” in our Ghanaian traditional culture.
Kushea’s leadership is saying no when everybody else says “yenkor nkoaa”. Leadership is protecting what cannot be replaced.
I say this with every respect for my revered chiefs all over the surface of Ghana where the greens have become browns and creams.
The explanation that traditional authorities are helpless because government has issued mining concessions simply does not satisfy us at all.
None of our revered traditional leaders would fold his or her arms if I entered stool land tomorrow and started putting up a shopping mall or school building without permission.
None would say, “My hands are tied.” They would mobilize their youth and elders and charge. They would stop the project and call meetings with red bands. They would let everyone know that “we don’t tolerate any Kweku Ananse trick on their Bona fide property“.
Why then, does that same authority sometimes appear powerless when excavators invade forests and rivers?
It is not disrespectful to ask that question. In fact, respect demands that we all ask them.
Let us ask because history remembers not only those who destroyed our heritage. It will also remember those who watched quietly while it happened.
I still dream of a Ghana where our rivers run clear again. Where our forests become thicker instead of smaller.
Where children know Lake Bosomtwe for its breathtaking beauty and not because they read about how we almost destroyed it.
Where the Garden City and Sunyani inspire other cities once again.
Where every chief becomes known first as the protector of the land before being remembered as its custodian.
Perhaps I am asking for too much.
Or perhaps I am simply asking us to become the people our ancestors assumed we would be. After all, they did not borrow this land from us. We borrowed it from them.
So that one day, when our children ask what we did with it, “we made money” will not be the only answer we have.
I have said mine. “You too, don’t just say something”. Plant a tree to beautify our communities.
By Benjamin Quarcoo
