People of the land in the eyes of the politician: Mere voters or citizens of a nation?

It has been almost a year since the 2024 general elections, and I find myself reflecting on the events leading up to the polls.

There is a certain rhythm to life in Ghana that becomes most pronounced every election season—a familiar choreography between the governed and those who seek to govern. It begins quietly: abandoned road projects resurface, long-forgotten MPs reappear in their constituencies, and party footsoldiers suddenly distribute branded rice, student bags, and T-shirts, as though national prosperity has finally arrived.

Our towns and cities bloom with political colours, transforming communities into canvases for national ambition. In these moments, the people of the land are visible, important, and fiercely courted. Yes—only in these moments.

The rest of the time, the citizen dissolves into a shadow: unheard, unseen, unremembered.

One begins to wonder: what are we in the eyes of the Ghanaian politician? Are we merely voters, summoned at cyclical intervals to legitimise someone’s ascent to power? Or are we citizens of a nation, equal heirs to its treasures, opportunities, and future? That question sits heavily at the heart of our democracy, echoing across markets, trotro stations, university campuses, Parliament, and even our pulpits.

Years pass, and Ghana’s political promises feel like lines from an old script performed by a rotating cast of actors. Manifestos return like recurring dreams, nearly identical, only repackaged in new fonts and colours. The promises are always grand: factories that will rise like constellations in every district, farm programmes that will turn farmers into exporters, and employment schemes that will absorb the restless energy of the youth. Roads will be fixed. Hospitals will be built. Schools will be resourced. Corruption will be slain.

Every election year, Ghana becomes a land on the brink of transformation. Yet the morning after the elections, the nation settles back into its familiar posture: hopeful but resigned, alert but exhausted, patriotic yet weary.

And in the House of Parliament, that should reflect the seriousness of a nation’s destiny, our leaders often reduce debate to theatre. Bills concerning the nation’s financial future are interrupted by chants, walkouts, and embarrassing scuffles that become memes within hours.

The Majority taunts the Minority, the Minority retaliates, and the people watch with a mix of amusement and despair as Parliament resembles a schoolyard more than a constitutional institution. The tragedy is not the noise, but the message it sends: that the nation can wait while politics entertains itself.

This behaviour mirrors our national attitude. At state events where we are to embody the dignity of the republic, solemnity is often optional. People take selfies during official prayers, whisper during national anthems, and rush home once the main speaker leaves. Even funerals of national importance become political runways, where leaders measure significance not by contribution to national life but by the size of the entourage that escorts them.

It is this same culture that permeates state institutions. The judiciary, ideally the quiet heartbeat of justice, often walks a tightrope between neutrality and perceived political influence. Citizens now debate court decisions not in terms of law, but party colours. Every ruling becomes a battle between what is legal and what is politically “expected,” and the very notion of judicial independence has become a question, not an assurance. The courts stand as our last defence, yet we stretch them thin with suspicion. When people see the law as an extension of political power rather than a shield against it, the soul of the nation trembles.

The clergy, too, has wandered into this entanglement. The pulpit, once a sanctuary of prophetic truth, now sometimes echoes with political endorsements wrapped in spiritual language. Pastors parade politicians before congregations, draping them in prayers that signal allegiance. Religious leaders occupy political boards, councils, and committees in ways that blur the line between creed and state. The ancient concept of separation of church and state feels increasingly porous. In Ghana, it is difficult to tell where divine calling ends and political networking begins. And when faith intertwines too tightly with power, truth is often the first victim.

But the real heart of the matter lies not in institutions or leaders alone—it lies in us. We oscillate between outrage and acceptance, laugh at things we should protest, defend things we should interrogate, criticise loudly until “our” side is in power, and then fall mysteriously silent. We are a nation of brilliant thinkers and passionate people, yet we often treat our democracy as spectators, not co-authors. For many, political affiliation has become a substitute for national conscience.

Party before country.
Loyalty before truth.
Emotion before principle.

This is why our politics continues to behave exactly as we permit it to behave.

Despite all this, Ghana remains a nation of immense promise. Our resilient, wise, humorous, and creative people are not mere voters. We are the descendants of kingdoms, heirs of freedom fighters, and custodians of a democratic experiment admired across the continent. We are teachers who keep classrooms alive with minimal resources, nurses who serve with compassion despite shortages, young people who innovate with extraordinary ingenuity, and farmers who feed entire regions with little recognition. We are citizens—human beings whose worth is not measured by a ballot, but by a Constitution that places sovereignty in our hands.

The politician sees voters—but the nation needs citizens. The difference is profound.

A voter appears every four years. A citizen is present every day.
A voter waits for promises. A citizen demands accountability.
A voter is counted once. A citizen counts always.
A voter legitimises power. A citizen shapes it.

The question that remains, and which we must confront with honesty, is not simply how politicians see us, but how we see ourselves. The day Ghanaians understand the weight of their citizenship as a living mandate rather than a ceremonial identity will be the turning point. The day we insist that Parliament behave like a Parliament, that courts stand beyond suspicion, that clergy speak truth rather than endorsements, and that politicians prioritise the nation beyond election cycles is when our politics will experience the shift we so crave.

Ghana will only rise the moment her people do.

Until then, the question remains suspended in the national air like a quiet challenge:
In the eyes of the politician, are we mere voters? Or citizens of a nation whose dignity, inheritance, and future must never be mortgaged for political convenience?

And more importantly:
In our own eyes, who are we willing to become?

Yen sempa!

About the Writer

Gifty Nti Konadu is a writer and analyst whose work sits at the intersection of faith, governance, and the human condition. She reflects deeply on Ghana’s democratic journey, political rhythms, and the responsibilities of citizenship in a rapidly evolving nation. Her writing blends analysis with storytelling, offering fresh perspectives on leadership, justice, identity, and collective destiny. She believes in the quiet power of words to awaken nations and inspire hearts toward truth.