Gold diggers and “galamsey” Republic: I still can’t think far

I am sorry, but the dire state of a Gold Coast turned “Galamsey Republic” should concern us all.

Hospitals have no beds to treat taxpayers, yet the gold diggers we pay in the “Galamsey Republic” sleep soundly on comfortable beds in the comfort of their taxpayer-funded accommodations.

I am sorry, but the gold diggers who rest on king-sized beds at night do not feel the pain of those who die on the floors of our hospitals during the day.

I am sorry, but it is naive to believe that the gold diggers in the “Galamsey Republic,” who can afford private hospitals abroad, understand the pain of those who cannot afford public hospitals at home.

I am sorry, but it is a disgrace when we have no buses for the poor taxpayer in the “Galamsey Republic,” yet the gold diggers we pay are chauffeured in their comfortable SUVs to their luxurious offices, funded by those standing in the early morning sun, their faces sweaty, waiting for the next ‘trotro’ driven by an unlicensed driver who might take them to an early grave.

I am sorry, but I am surprised you believe that the gold diggers who fly first class will make your ‘trotro’ troubles their concern.

I am sorry, but it is disheartening to see the streets become the bedrooms of the poor at night, while the gold diggers in the “Galamsey Republic” fail to deliver on their promise of affordable housing. I am sorry, but those who live in mansions do not understand the plight of the homeless.

I am sorry, but it is painful to see young able-bodied men and women in the “Galamsey Republic” hawking dog chains and groundnuts on the streets with a dogmatic belief that better jobs are ahead. I am sorry, but if the graduate is unemployed, don’t expect a job in the near future. Christmas is still very far away, and Santa Claus is sleeping.

In the “Galamsey Republic,” the gold-owning chiefs, with their ‘calabashious’ endorsements, beg for their share of the “Galamsey” pie in a winner-take-all competition, where endorsement might put a piece of the “Galamsey” cake in their pots and cowries in their calabashes.

I am sorry, but the gold diggers in the “Galamsey Republic,” whose dogs eat more than the hungry and whose dustbins have more food than the poor man’s pot, do not understand that the anger of the hungry is like the wrath of God. While they wine and dine with the taxpayers’ money, the anger of the hungry boils in the pot nearby. They will not notice it until it pours out like lava from a volcano.

I am sorry, but I am not surprised that you think the gold diggerswhose children eat ice cream for dessert and pizza for snacks will make your “waakye” struggles their problem.

In the “Galamsey Republic,” our democracy was a promise of change, but instead, we are chained to poverty, chasing shadows with no chance of claiming our share of the national cake in a winner-take-all competition. The champion advances the cause of the inner circle, leaving us in our chains, and the foot soldiers lick their wounds like dogs, expecting crumbs from the table, believing one day we will eat from it.

I am sorry, but woe to us if the gold diggers pretend to be preachers, and preachers pretend to be prophets, and prophets prophesy for their pockets, leaving the perishing to perish and the pulpit to the highest bidder, abandoning their calling in a senseless craze for fame.

It is genocidal for voices of morality to remain loudly silent while the greedy exploit the needy, driving them to dig their own graves in a galamsey pit.

I am sorry that you are not sorry that I am sorry, because for you, the sorry state of the “Galamsey Republic” is your advantage.

I am sorry, but I still can’t think far.