In Ghana’s swelling theatre of the absurd, the latest act is a proposed legislative measure to regulate prophecy. Not prophecy in the casual sense of vague predictions over tea, but actual proclamations from self-proclaimed men and women of God. The suggestion is simple enough: before a prophet speaks, their prophecy should be vetted—approved, stamped, and, one assumes, filed away in some prophetic registry.

We are to imagine a Prophecy Approval Board—staffed, perhaps, with theologians, lawyers, security operatives, and the occasional bureaucrat with a fondness for red stamps. A prophet walks in, trembling not with divine inspiration but with the anxiety of failing a review. “Yes, Reverend, we’ve gone through your submission. The bit about nationwide famine? Too vague. Can you provide supporting data? And please tone down the locusts—they might cause public panic.”

How does one vet a prophecy? What is the metric? Accuracy? Politeness? GDP sensitivity? The entire idea collapses under its own weight the moment it’s spoken aloud. Prophecy, by nature, is an unregulated declaration—wild, unverifiable, sometimes absurd, and often dangerous. The state, in its infinite wisdom, now believes the way to protect citizens from false prophets is to build a bureaucracy to verify divine visions.

The irony is not lost: politicians who have never successfully predicted the stability of the cedi or the timeliness of road projects now wish to regulate predictions of the end times. It’s the blind asking the visionary for proof of sight.

This is where it gets deliciously strange. Prophecy has always been a dangerous political instrument. History tells us kings have gone to war, peasants have revolted, and movements have risen from nothing, all on the back of a single uttered vision. In modern Ghana, however, prophecy has been cheapened—more football scorecard than moral compass, more celebrity gossip than revelation. Regulation won’t restore its dignity. It will only make the state the co-owner of whatever madness follows.

And so, the stage is set for the day when a prophet’s vision comes not from a mountaintop but from a desk piled with forms. The angel speaks, the prophet listens—and then heads straight to the licensing office.

As the Latin reminds us, Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? —Who will guard the guards themselves?