The cocoa industry in Ghana is undoubtedly a political theatre. It is scripted in Accra, passionately rehearsed in opposition, and dramatically staged in government. Each season brings a new cast, a revised script, and familiar lines delivered with renewed conviction.

Yet, despite the changing actors, one character remains constant: the cocoa farmer who is frequently praised, consistently referenced, but too often reduced to a supporting prop-puppet in a drama where the real script is written elsewhere.

Once again, the stage is set for another tragicomedy.

The announcement that the producer price of cocoa has been reduced from GH¢3,625 per bag to GH¢2,587 by one of the lead actors has triggered outrage, justification, and the now-familiar choreography of political explanation.

Government voices cite global market forces, declining international prices, and the fiscal realities of cocoa marketing. The language is technical, sober, and persuasive.

But to the farmer, it sounds like a script he has heard before.

Because in the last act of this same play, when the price was around GH¢3,100, the very same voices then dressed in the garments of opposition declared that figure wicked, insensitive, and evidence of a government that had lost touch with the suffering of the ordinary Ghanaian.

People were called Nebuchadnezzars. The rhetoric was fiery. The moral outrage was theatrical. The farmer was defended, sanctified, and given hope with optimism.

Today, the costumes have changed, and sadly, so has the script.

What was once termed “wicked” is now “necessary.” What was once “insensitive” is now “realistic.” What was once a moral crisis has become an economic inevitability.

In theatre, we call this character metamorphosis. In politics, it is called power.

The tragedy is not that prices fluctuate. Markets do what markets do. Cocoa is traded globally, and Ghana does not control the invisible hand that dictates international demand and supply. The tragedy is that political memory in Ghana appears shorter than the life cycle of a cocoa pod.

Because if the price of GH¢3,100 was once an act of cruelty, what then shall we call GH¢2,587?
Or does morality, like campaign posters, expire after elections? This is where cocoa policy ceases to be economics and becomes a state performance.

The announcement of cocoa prices is no longer merely a policy decision; it is a carefully staged act. There is the press conference the opening scene. There are the spokespersons major and minor characters.

There are the justifications mmoguo. And there is the audience the Ghanaian public, who are expected to suspend disbelief long enough to applaud, or at least accept, the performance in whatever form it takes.
Meanwhile, the cocoa farmer- the puppet watches helplessly.

Not from the front row, but from the fringes.

Because in this drama, he is not the author of the script. He is not even the director. He is the character whose suffering gives the play its emotional depth; but whose voice rarely shapes its outcome.

Our elders say that “truth does not change with position.” But in this our political theatre, truth keeps dancing in musical chairs.

It is also said, “By their fruits you shall know them” Not by their speeches. Not by their press releases. Not by their campaign promises and slogans but by outcomes.

And outcomes, in this case, are measurable; not in rhetoric, but in livelihoods…in pockets.
The cocoa farmer does not live on speeches. He lives on prices.

He lives on the ability to pay school fees, maintain his farm, hire labour, and survive another season.

When those prices fluctuate dramatically without corresponding structural support, the consequences are not imaginary. They are immediate and catastrophic.

Yet, in the grand theatre of politics, these realities are often overshadowed by performance.
The farmer becomes a symbol. A talking point. A campaign slogan. And, when necessary, a convenient victim.

From a theatrical perspective, what we are witnessing is a masterclass in political dramaturgy. The same actors who once performed outrage now perform pragmatism. The same lines are delivered with different intonations. Yet the audience is expected to respond differently depending on who is speaking.

This is not policy. This is theatre without accountability.

And unlike the theatre we practice, this version refuses critique. In theatre, when a performance fails, reviews are written. The director reflects. The actors adjust. The production evolves.

In this political tragedy, however, the performance continues; review or no review, excuse or no excuse, consistency or no consistency. Dare to critique, and you are branded a nation-wrecker, a saboteur, a sore loser.

The danger of this perpetual performance is not merely economic; it is epistemic. It teaches the public that truth is flexible, principles are negotiable, and outrage is seasonal. It normalizes contradiction as strategy.

Afterall the Ghanaian forgets easily

Today, GH¢2,587 is “necessary and unprecedented.” Tomorrow, it may be “historic.” Very soon, in opposition, it will likely become “wicked,” “unrealistic,” and “Nebuchadnezzar-like” again.

And the cycle will repeat.

Still, the farmer watches on and as usual, helplessly.

The deeper question, then, is not about price alone. It is about integrity. It is about whether policy is guided by principle or by position. It is about whether the cocoa farmer is a stakeholder in national development or merely a character in an ongoing political dramatic circus.

Because if the script keeps changing with every change of government, then the farmer is not being governed.

He is being performed.

He is a puppet.

As a Theatre Artist, I am tempted to admire the precision of this production—the timing, the rhetoric, the emotional appeal. It is, in many ways, a compelling performance.

But as a citizen, I am less impressed.

Because unlike theatre, where illusion is acknowledged, this performance claims to be reality. And unlike theatre, where the audience can leave when the play is not good, the Ghanaian citizen has no such luxury.

He must sit through the entire play.

Season after season.

Election after election.

Price after price.

Until perhaps one day, when the script will change, not in response to political convenience, but in commitment to national consistency.

Until then, the cocoa farmer remains in the theatre and applauded in speeches, praised in campaigns, and forgotten in policy.

And the play continues.

The Drama of Cocoa Politics.

A production in which the stakes are real but the performance is all too familiar.

Cocoa, as a national asset, should be managed beyond partisan interests. Governments may change, but the farmer remains. It is therefore important that we build policies that are consistent, transparent, and sustainable, so that farmers can plan their lives with certainty.

Political transitions should not translate into policy uncertainty for those whose livelihoods depend on cocoa.

It is time we stopped over-politicizing the cocoa industry. Cocoa is not a campaign slogan, and the farmer is not a political pawn. When every price adjustment becomes a partisan argument, the real issues are lost and the farmer continues to pay the price.