There is an eerie proverb in the corridors of our elders:
“When the stool is not settled, even the calabash of peace will wobble.”

That calabash is now shattered in Bawku.

The wind from Kumasi blew into Bawku not with trade nor travellers—but with vengeance, smoke, and gunpowder. And like the legendary Abonsam that travels without visa, death crossed regions on foot, uninvited. The sacred killing of a Kusasi chief in Kumasi did not remain an isolated crime—it became the flint that rekindled Bawku’s age-old inferno.

And when Bawku burns, Ghana coughs.

Last Saturday night, a student of Bawku SHS—still sprouting his whiskers—was dragged from his dormitory and shot. His only crime? Bearing a name that sounded like another tribe. He was Mossi. Neutral by birth, innocent by design. But in this theatre of blind rage, even the colour of your sandals can be a tribal flag.

In another dark twist, the home of the town’s Member of Parliament and Majority Leader, Mahama Ayariga, was set ablaze. His house—once a symbol of leadership—is now a museum of soot and sorrow. Who lit the fire? Was it tribal passion or political madness? Nobody knows. But even the fire seemed unsure of which side to burn.

Residents now report symphonies of gunshots nightly. Children cling to mortar pestles for comfort, and mothers lull their babies with lullabies wrapped in fear.

Let’s pause and ask: What kind of war devours its own sons?
In the days of our forebears, a dispute over a stool was never settled by burying children. Stools, we must be reminded, are not thrones of blood. They are spiritual symbols of harmony, meant to unite—not divide.

But alas, we now live in an era where the stool cannot rest, because the gun refuses to sit.

And yet, our ancestors knew better. When chieftaincy disputes arose, elders gathered under the baobab tree, not in trenches. They debated with proverbs, not pistols. One would say:
“When two brothers fight, it is the stranger who inherits their father’s land.”

Today, the strangers—violence, hatred, and economic collapse—are indeed inheriting Bawku.

The most tragic part of this grim saga is the wasted youth. Once upon a time, our young men competed in storytelling, wrestling, and who could recite the lineage of chiefs backward. Today, they compete in ammunition count.

The SHS student who was shot was still memorizing Shakespeare. He probably didn’t know the difference between a Kusasi proverb and a Mamprusi war chant. He just wanted to pass his exams. Instead, he passed away.

This is a land where agriculture once thrived, where onions met markets before bullets did. Today, traders flee, schools shutter, and investors avoid Bawku like an angry deity.

Even the Otumfuo himself, custodian of the golden stool and elder of Ghana’s soul, has tried to mediate. He, who can summon silence in a room full of shouting chiefs, now watches with sorrow as his pleas for peace are drowned by Kalashnikovs.

The National House of Chiefs, too, has appealed. The government deploys troops. Curfews are imposed. Smocks are banned. Yet, the gunmen seem to have more airtime than the peacemakers.

To my Kusasi and Mamprusi brothers: Enough!

Let the ghosts of our ancestors rise and frown upon this folly. Lay down your guns. Embrace dialogue. Let the stools rest. Let the children grow. Let the markets reopen. And let the elders, for once, speak louder than the bullets.

Because if we continue like this, the day will come when Bawku will have no Kusasi nor Mamprusi—but only widows, orphans, and the ghost of a town that once was.

“When a drum is played only for war, even the dancers forget how to smile.”

Let Bawku drum again—not for war, but for weddings, harvests, and festivals. Let the gun be buried, and let the stool rise—not as a trophy of conquest, but as a beacon of reconciliation.

And may the gods forgive us—for we have truly lost our way.