[A Christmas tale from the Republic of Uncommon Sense]

Once upon a time in the Republic of Uncommon Sense, December did not “come.” It arrived like a coup—swift, loud, and with immediate effect. One minute you’re a responsible adult minding your small budget like it’s a national asset, the next minute you’re in town negotiating with a tomato seller as if the fate of democracy depends on it, because overnight tomatoes have been promoted from “ingredient” to “investment.”

That’s how Christmas season works here: it doesn’t announce itself politely. It invades. It changes the atmosphere. It rewires the brain. Suddenly calm becomes suspicious. Planning becomes optional. And discipline—sweet, innocent discipline—gets bundled into a trotro and driven out of the city without farewell. Even the most principled citizens begin chanting the national December hymn: “It’s Christmas. I deserve small enjoyment.” A harmless sentence, you’d think—until you realise it has financed more debt than student loans and more regret than a WhatsApp “seen” at 2am.

In Ghana, Christmas is not a holiday. It is a national mood swing with background music. The air changes. People start walking faster. Tailors stop answering calls. Market women begin smiling the kind of smile that says, “My sister, I hope you brought money, because I have brought December.” Even the poor become ambitious. Even the disciplined become spiritual. Everybody begins the month with the same innocent lie—“This year I’ll be disciplined”—and by the second week, discipline has been deported to Burkina Faso without passport.

December is the only month where Ghanaians spend money they haven’t seen yet, on things they don’t need, to impress people who don’t care—then turn around and thank God for “a successful year” as if that success is not currently sitting in the corner with interest charges. Your bank alert becomes a motivational speaker: “Balance: GHS 12.38. Stay strong. Keep believing. Miracles are coming.” And because Ghana is Ghana, you will still reply it with vibes. “Chale, it’s Christmas.” As if Christmas is a receipt that cancels consequences.

And Christmas in Ghana is also our annual national audition for “Who is doing well?” Because we don’t celebrate quietly. No. We celebrate competitively. Your joy must be visible. Your enjoyment must be proven. Your clothes must testify. If you wear last year’s outfit, people will look at you with concern like you’re grieving. They won’t ask, “Are you okay?” They’ll ask, “So you’re not sewing this year?” And the question is never a question. It is a verdict.

Tailors, in particular, become the real presidents of Ghana in December. Once you pay a deposit, your human rights vanish. The tailor enters campaign season. He will promise delivery dates with confidence and then disappear like a politician after elections. You will call—no answer. You will WhatsApp—blue ticks will become luxury. You will visit the shop and meet a stranger wearing your fabric like a curtain. And the tailor will tell you with a straight face, “Boss, I’m on it. Tomorrow.” In Ghana, “tomorrow” is a flexible concept. It can mean tomorrow. It can also mean “let’s not fight in this heat.”

Then there is the market—our national theatre of pain. In December, prices rise not because of demand and supply, but because tradition has spoken. Sellers don’t even pretend to explain. They just say, “It’s December,” the same way people say “It’s raining.” You will ask why onions are expensive and they will respond like you have asked why the sun is hot. Even chicken becomes an aristocrat. A simple bird that used to be humble in the freezer now carries itself like a CEO. You will stand there calculating whether to buy chicken or to just buy bones and add faith.

But regardless of market wickedness, every Ghanaian home must cook. Cooking in Ghanaian Christmas is not about hunger. It is about reputation. It is evidence. It is public relations. Your house must smell like stew, otherwise the neighbourhood will start investigating. Christmas Day is the only day where aroma is a national ID card. If your compound is quiet and your kitchen is not producing smoke, people will begin to whisper, “They are not doing anything oo.” Imagine. Your poverty becomes breaking news.

And once the food is ready, invitations start flying. Christmas is when people suddenly remember you exist—especially those who ignored you all year. That same person who left your “Good morning” on seen in May will now call you “my brother!” with urgency. People will invite you to eat and drink and you must go, because refusing a December invitation in Ghana is like rejecting a peace treaty. You will go and eat politely, then go to the next house and eat again, because Ghanaian Christmas is also the season where cholesterol becomes a citizen and moves in permanently.

Church too will play its part, because in Ghana, Christmas service is not service; it is a festival with a microphone. Everyone dresses like the choir is going to perform at the UN. The pastor preaches about love, then transitions into offerings with the skill of a seasoned DJ. “God has been good to us,” he says—and you agree, because God has indeed been good, but your wallet is currently under pressure. Then they announce “special thanksgiving,” which is Ghanaian language for “December tax.” If you try to hide, ushers will locate you with spiritual GPS. And if you give “something small,” the offering bowl will pass your seat again, just in case you were joking.

Then comes the family reunion portion, where celebration graduates into interrogation. December is our annual homecoming with people who believe your life is their business plan. You arrive and they hug you with love and questions. “You’ve grown!” they say—meaning they are about to measure your progress. Aunties ask about marriage like it’s a national emergency. Uncles ask about work like they are recruiting for IMF. Someone asks with a smile, “So what are you doing now?” and you answer, “We thank God,” because in Ghana, “We thank God” is the only safe answer that can cover unemployment, underemployment, confusion, and even scandal.

And the children—oh, the children. December turns Ghanaian children into procurement officers. They request bicycles with ministerial confidence. They demand phones like the exchange rate is your cousin. They look you in the eye and ask, “Daddy, what did you buy for me?” as if you have been budgeting with their approval. Parents respond with diplomacy and delay. “Your gift is coming.” “The shops were closed.” “Next week.” In Ghana, “next week” is the cousin of “tomorrow.” Both are professional liars.

Now, the real Ghanaian Christmas plot twist is not even Christmas Day. The true climax is the 31st night—Watch Night—our national spiritual-loudspeaker-and-fireworks conference. That’s the night Ghana turns into a holy nightclub, where everybody remembers God with urgency because the year is expiring like milk.

Churches rebrand the same service with exciting names to match the season: Cross Over, Jump Over, Step Over, Move Over, Carry Over, Take Over—everything over, except your debt, which will not cross over; it will sit in January waiting for you like a landlord.

Young adults flock to church at 11pm with maximum holiness. They enter wearing sharp outfits and serious faces, as if angels will do attendance. They clap, they dance, they speak in tongues, they shout “I reject!” with energy… and right after midnight—when the pastor says “You have crossed over!”—some of them cross over directly into the night. The same people who were rebuking spirits at 12:05 are suddenly rebuking boredom at 12:30 in a nightclub, shouting “DJ! Give me something!” with even more faith.

In Ghana, Watch Night is sometimes just a spiritual pit stop—like topping up airtime before you continue roaming. You go to church to secure divine insurance for the new year, then you go out to stress-test the insurance immediately.

And as if that isn’t enough, the revelry reaches its final boss on 1st January, when the nation wakes up and decides that the best way to start a new year is to go and roast ourselves at the beach like fish. That day, Ghana behaves as if the ocean is a national shrine. People who have never drunk water properly in December will drink alcohol properly by 10am on January 1st. People who shouted “This year I will be disciplined!” at midnight will be found in a beach party by afternoon, reintroducing themselves to bad decisions with hugs.

The beach becomes a human festival of sunburn, loud music, and happiness financed by optimism. A new year begins, and before you have even set one goal, you are already sweating in sand, holding a drink, promising yourself, “I’m starting my serious life from next week.”

January, of course, is watching all of this quietly—like a creditor in disguise. It will allow you to enjoy small, then it will show up fully dressed with bills, school fees, rent, and that debt you thought you rebuked during Cross Over service. You will open your wallet and discover that your “crossover” did not include money. Only you crossed. Your finances stayed behind.

Still, the funniest part is this: we will do it again. Next year, same pressure. Same tailoring emergency. Same market heartbreak. Same church offering aerobics. Same “Cross Over” branding. Same midnight holiness with 12:30am nightlife extension. Same beach parties. Same January regret.

Because Christmas in Ghana is not just a celebration. It is a tradition of organised financial chaos—wrapped in love, sealed with sarcasm, and delivered with a smile.

So enjoy your Christmas. Laugh. Love. Share food. Visit family. Go to church if you must. Go outside if you want. But if you hear yourself saying, “I deserve small enjoyment,” just know you have entered sacred Ghanaian territory—the same territory where budgets go to die, and January comes to collect the body.

Merry Christmas from the Republic of Uncommon Sense.

Jimmy Aglah is a media executive, writer, and satirist with extensive experience in broadcasting, content strategy, and public discourse. He writes on governance, leadership, media culture, and the everyday contradictions of public life, blending insight with restrained satire. Jimmy is the creator of the Republic of Uncommon Sense, a platform dedicated to civic reflection through wit, irony, and cultural observation.