Once upon a time in the Republic of Uncommon Sense, Parliament — that august House meant for sober deliberation — quietly transformed itself into a National Theatre production without auditioning a single actor. Citizens tuned in expecting lawmaking; instead, they were rewarded with choreography, percussion, costumes, and enough dramatic tension to power a telenovela. All this because one modest A4 letter declared the Kpandai seat vacant, and suddenly our Honourables remembered they had studied Theatre Arts in their previous lives.

The Clerk to Parliament, whose job is to write harmless English and avoid trouble, accidentally authored the most explosive letter of the year. It simply said the Kpandai seat was vacant, but Minority MPs read it like a painful breakup message: “Dear Hon., it’s over. It’s not you, it’s the High Court.” And, just like any respectable Ghanaian breakup, the aftermath featured shouting, marching, black clothing, and the solemn vow that government business would suffer until someone “talked to them nicely.”

The Minority then performed what can only be described as the Table-Banging Olympic Trials. They rose from their seats, stormed the centre of the floor, chanted, hooted, and slammed tables with such patriotic passion that even the furniture began reconsidering its life choices. Their hydration breaks were dignified, featuring bottled water — because one cannot stage a parliamentary riot while clutching a sachet like a trotro passenger. For a full 40 minutes, Parliament resembled a durbar where the chief was absent, the linguist was confused, and common sense had boarded a bus to Paga.

But the real mystery baffling citizens was this: if the NDC already has an absolute majority — enough MPs to approve a minister before breakfast — why were they fighting so desperately over one seat in Kpandai? The answer, as always in Ghanaian politics, is that arithmetic behaves like a trotro driver’s mood: unpredictable, temperamental, and highly influenced by weather conditions. A majority on paper is one thing; a majority on voting day is another. MPs travel, MPs fall sick, MPs vanish into meetings nobody scheduled, and some simply forget why they came to Parliament in the first place. So the Majority fights for every extra seat not for mathematics but for insurance — the political equivalent of keeping small change away from a trotro mate who swears, “Boss, your balance, I dey come.”

Meanwhile, the Majority behaved like a determined hairdresser braiding a child’s hair even as she’s screaming “Mummy!” and begging for mercy — but the cornrows must continue because school starts tomorrow. While the Minority hooted and hollered, the Majority calmly passed allocations, adopted reports, and pushed government business forward, unbothered by the noise. Their message was clear: “Cry all you want, this hairstyle will be finished.”

And then there was Matthew Nyindam, the man at the centre of the storm, sitting somewhere in a state of pure Zen. “I am not troubled,” he said. “We didn’t cheat,” he assured. This is a man so calm he could sip koko during a coup. You can picture him in Kpandai, enjoying boiled yam and kontomire stew, watching Parliament erupt over his seat and murmuring: “Please call me when they finish.”

But the true casualties in this entire spectacle were the people of Kpandai, watching Honourables fight over vacancy letters while they simply longed for representation. Democracy, meanwhile, was on short break, drinking Fanta and chewing bofrot behind the Speaker’s office. A frustrated voter somewhere surely shouted at the television: “Honourables, are we voting today or rehearsing for a drama competition?”

Eventually Parliament adjourned — which in Ghana simply means the noise has paused, not ended. No minds were changed, no conclusions were reached, and the Kpandai seat remained as vacant as the reasoning that started the chaos. Order was “restored,” meaning only that the shouting had stopped long enough for the microphones to rest.

And so the Republic learned yet again that in the House of Uncommon Sense, a majority can still behave like a minority, a single seat can spark spiritual warfare, a simple letter can cause World War Table, and Parliament can adjourn while Common Sense stands outside, still waiting for its turn to enter.

Ladies and gentlemen, our democracy is alive — but like that stubborn hairdresser, it insists on finishing the hairstyle even when the child is crying.