I was at a chop bar in Adabraka last week, just trying to enjoy some waakye in peace, when I overheard this heated conversation at the next table. Two taxi drivers, arguing over the radio headline blaring from a nearby speaker: “Suspended Chief Justice says resignation is not an option.”
One of them slammed his spoon on the table and said, “Ah! If it were me or you, we’d be sacked by now!”
The other just laughed and said, “Bossu, in this country, power dey sweet o. E no dey let go easy.”
That line stuck with me. Power doesn’t let go easy.
See, I’ve never been Chief Justice (obviously), but I have worked under bosses who were clearly in the wrong and still showed up to the office like nothing happened. You know the type—they make shady deals, abuse their authority, and when they’re caught? They issue a statement, double down, or cry “political witch hunt.” Resigning? Nah. That’s for the small boys.
And that’s what this feels like.
A whole Chief Justice gets suspended over serious allegations—things that cut at the very foundation of what justice should look like—and instead of stepping down, he’s on the mic saying, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Imagine a referee caught cheating mid-match and still insisting on officiating the next game.
That’s what this feels like.
I don’t know the full story (because you and I both know, the truth in Ghana is like jollof rice—everyone swears they’ve got the real version), but here’s what I do know: when the people at the top mess up, there’s rarely accountability.
In my experience, resignation is treated like a confession. Like saying “I quit” is admitting guilt.
But sometimes, stepping aside is just the honorable thing to do.
You know… for the integrity of the office. For the sake of public trust. For the system you supposedly serve.
I mean, what message are we sending when the head of justice refuses to accept even the possibility of being wrong?
That justice is untouchable? That titles are more important than truth?
I could be wrong, but it feels like we’ve built a system where leaders hang on to power not because they believe they’re innocent—but because they know stepping down would expose just how bad things really are.
And it’s frustrating.
Because if a Chief Justice can get suspended and still say “resignation is not an option,” then what about the rest of us? The teacher wrongly accused. The nurse fired over a missing file. The journalist locked up for asking questions.
They don’t get to say “I’m staying.” They don’t get press conferences.
They just… go.
Here’s what I’ve noticed lately: the higher the office, the thicker the skin. Not in a good way. But in that “I’m untouchable” kind of way.
And I’m not saying he’s guilty. Maybe he really is a victim of politics. Maybe the system’s out to get him.
But if justice means anything—real justice—then nobody should be above being questioned. Not even the one wearing the robe.
So yeah, he says resignation is not an option.
But maybe the real question is:
What does it cost a nation when its leaders refuse to let go—even when the evidence says they should?
What if we lived in a country where stepping down was seen as strength, not weakness?
Where saying “I made a mistake” wasn’t the end—but the beginning of something better?
I don’t have all the answers. But I know this:
Power, when it refuses to bow to truth, becomes a threat to the very justice it claims to protect.
And we all feel it—one suspended headline at a time.
Keyword phrases used naturally: suspended Chief Justice, Ghana justice system, refusal to resign, political accountability, resignation and integrity, corruption in public office, justice and leadership ethics, Ghanaian public trust, judicial misconduct, power and justice.
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