There are tremors beneath the Ghanaian earth. They do not roar — not yet. But to those who listen closely, to those who still hear the whispers of history, they sound like the slow grind of an old empire’s wheel turning once more. There are movements in the shadows, forces aligning — not for the good of Ghana, but for her quiet undoing.
Take, for instance, the new obsession with crowns. Some within Ghana’s political class now labor to elevate the Ga Mashie Mantse into the Ga Mantse — even, in whispered circles, the “King of GaDangme.” It would be comic if it were not tragic. For the Gas have never had a king. The Dangmes have never had a king. And the GaDangme, that noble brotherhood of two peoples, has never knelt before a single throne. The idea of a GaDangme monarch is an invention — not of the people, but of politics.
Such inventions are never innocent. They echo the methods of empire: divide, redefine, enthrone, and rule. And so we turn north, to Asanteman — where the same imperial playbook unfolds. The Asantehene, once merely the king of Asante, now finds himself paraded before the world as the ruler of an “empire,” the supposed heir to some medieval dominion that never was. Western journalists, still enchanted by their colonial myths, repeat the phrase “Asante Empire” with a reverence that borders on idolatry. The irony is lost on them — that the Asante never conquered Akyem, nor subdued Fante, nor ruled over half the peoples now placed under its imagined crown.
But history remembers what propaganda forgets. It remembers the Battle of Katamanso — when the GaDangme and others, with British arms and their own courage, halted Asante’s march and shattered the illusion of invincibility. The British called it victory; we still don’t know what to call it. And yet, nearly two centuries later, the same British Crown that armed the GaDangme against Asante now courts the Asantehene with polished smiles and royal hospitality. What changed? Not the gold. Never the gold.
The British come as they always have — draped in civility, armed with cunning. They bring gifts, smiles, and narratives. But beneath the soft diplomacy lies the same imperial instinct: to control the story, and through it, the mind. The “Asante Jug,” that latest fabrication, exposed by the historian Abeku Adams of Ekumfi from the British Museum — a 600-year myth where only 300 exist — is not merely an error of history.
Asanteman did not rise in the 15th century. It rose in the 18th. But to the British imagination, stretching that timeline serves the old imperial purpose: to make African civilization appear ancient or infantile when convenient, primitive when not, and dependent on Western validation either way. It is an act of theft — the theft of truth.
Across Ghana, one can sense the fever rising. Among the Gonja, the Anlo, the GaDangme — ethnic pride swells, but not the kind born of wisdom or dignity. This is a pride of desperation, of peoples who feel the earth slipping beneath them, clutching at crowns that never existed and histories that were never theirs. They forget that the Republic — imperfect though it is — was the highest fruit of our collective struggle. They forget that kings once fell and returned to the backseat so that citizens might rise.
Yet, amid our forgetfulness, Britain remembers. The empire that split the Gold Coast still divides with precision — this time with documentaries, museums, and “cultural partnerships.” It rewrites African history not to preserve it, but to possess it. It is the same imperial craft that birthed the Balfour Declaration, divided the Middle East, and sowed discord in Crimea — to confuse, to conquer, and to cash in. Britain no longer rules by gunboat; it rules by narrative.
Let us not be fooled. Empires do not die; they adapt. They shed their uniforms and wear our languages. They sing our anthems and drink our cocoa. They no longer rule by decree, but by narrative — by the story we are taught to tell ourselves.
Britain came to the Gold Coast once — as merchant, missionary, and marauder. It took our gold, our lives, our memory. And when we drove it out, we believed it gone. But the empire returns — this time not with gunboats, but with “friendship.” Not with the Bible or the sword, but with the pen. Not with cannons, but with flattery. Not as conquerors, but as curators. And yet, that is precisely how empires return: not by force, but by forgetting.
Ghana must remember. Because nations that forget their betrayals are destined to relive them — in softer tones, but with the same ruin.
Beautifully put.
Well, if time have you, glance through this essay.
When I said that you should stop comparing great thought leaders of a society in the past, to those nomads and war mongers who later transformed into a complete instrument of individual and state control in the name of organized religion. This is what I was referring to.
Serwaa, take your time. I need no permission to say you have eyes for critical details. Take a look at this jug for titi, titi and titing! Respect the Akan’s and look for a better materials to compare them with, wai wati?
I knew where it was getting to! lol. Asante never conquered the Akyem nor subdued Fante?
Narmer, your piece is brilliant. You’ve exposed what too many pretend not to see — that Britain’s empire didn’t die; it just changed clothes.
It no longer sails in with gunboats; it strolls in with “cultural partnerships,” “heritage projects,” and polite smiles. It no longer conquers by force, but by narrative. By defining who we were, who we are, and who we should become.
You’re right: the new imperial weapons are museums, documentaries, royal visits, and “development funds.” All dressed in diplomacy, but all serving the same old purpose — to divide, redefine, enthrone, and rule.
But here’s the deeper wound: they could not return if we ourselves hadn’t opened the gates.
It’s our political elite and academic class — ever hungry for Western validation — who now serve as agents of our insidious recolonisation. They wear Kente to Buckingham Palace and call it “cultural diplomacy,” while Britain quietly reclaims our story, our symbols, and our sense of self.
Our scholars still quote Oxford to explain Africa. Our media still romanticise “empires” that never existed. And our leaders still treat British praise as anointing oil on their foreheads.
That’s how the empire returns — not by decree, but by flattery. Not through violence, but through vanity.
You’ve nailed it: they are rewriting us into submission, curating our past so they can own our future. But I’ll add this — remembering alone isn’t enough. We must unlearn the self-delusion that foreign approval equals progress.
Empires survive not just by deceit, but by the vanity of the deceived.
The British now come smiling, pen in hand. But as you said so powerfully — that is precisely how empires return: not with guns, but in our willfully induced forgetfulness.
Yes we’re the ones supplying the amnesia.
Aluta continua!