Lots of IDs and of no Identity

        Chief Superintendent George Kuntu, (not his real name) is one of the few passionate officers in the police service I know who work within serious challenges to enforce the laws of the land. He studied criminology at the university and trained at the prestigious Scotland Yard for policing.

George is tall and handsome; although older than me he’s still better looking than I am. He has 18 years experience as an officer in the service.  I am going to tease him to find out why the police helplessly watch Ghanaians get slaughtered in road violence. I intend to engage a lawyer to bring them to court to answer for their non-performance but to that means I am well informed.

I am running this errand for a 17-year-old orphan who asked me to sue the government for security failures.   I am not talking about the huhudious national security used to intimidate poor souls like me but human security, which, as I understand it is the number one duty of every government.  Not in our country; everyone is sleeping behind iron bars in windows and doors and walk beneath barbwires at home not because he or she is a criminal no. Accra is comparatively a paradise, there are few criminals in the country yet the citizens are dying on the roads, getting killed in our homes by robbers, intimidated in our offices and on the streets as car snatchers take our cars and reckless driving frightens us to hell.

I called George to ask for a meeting and when he took the phone, his first question was: ‘Kwame, are you sure it’s not about the controversial elections?’

‘I would have gone to Dr. Afari Gyan; he’s the one to answer to our political questions not a humble officer like yourself, even if you are a Chief Superintendent.’

‘Very well, I have some beer in my fridge which has been there since Nkrumah’s days. It’s probably meant for you.’

‘Great stuff, I like them sweaty. Give me the address; I haven’t had the honour to be at your new home yet.’

‘I think you’ve forgotten your present location. We don’t have addressing system here unless you are asking about my P.0. Box address?’

‘Directions to the house that’s what I mean George.’

‘I know I was just teasing, you will be coming from Airport, right?

‘Yes.’

‘Alright, drive towards Adenta, about two hundred meters to the petrol station...’

‘Which of them, there are two or three of them on the way if I remember correctly?’

‘The Mobil filling station; it is the first one. Turn two hundred meters before it to a junction on your left, its called SDA. Drive on to about a kilometer and half till you come across a white church building on your right. There is a road beside it, take that road for another hundred meters; you’ll see a woman selling waakye there. It’s a very popular place you can’t miss it. Ask her or anyone that you are looking for me and they’ll bring you to my house.’

‘George, what happens if the waakye woman is closed and gone home?’

‘She will be there. She begins to sell at late afternoons till midnight but don’t worry. I am quite popular in the area too.’

‘If you say so George, I will be there by half past six. I assume it’s a good time for you…?’

‘I have to make it good.’

I thanked him and wrote the directions on a sheet. I had a hazy idea of the area described to me but I should be able to find my way. Leisurely, I left the office early to beat the rush hour traffic; it felt good to drive laidback and at my own pace.

The newly re-constructed road however robbed me off the hazy mental picture I had of the area. I stopped to ask for directions, a young boy pointed it out to me. It was not too far from where I had parked. The new road had indeed transformed the area tremendously but not attitudes; there were no directional signs to announce turning points and locations to motorists, the few available ones were crowded out by commercial signboards haphazardly sited.

I found the church as George described and indeed the Waakye seller was selling and serving as a signpost for people like me.  It was undeniably a very popular waakye joint judging by the number of people waiting to be served.

I called a girl from the crowd of buyers and asked if she knew Superintendent Kuntu’s house.

‘Inspector Kuntu is my father,’ she proudly answered.

‘He’s my friend.’ I offered jovially and winked at her.

‘I will take you there and come back…’

‘No, you just show me the house, I can make it out.’

‘It’s alright I’ll come back later.’ she insisted.

‘How many people are ahead of you? I asked pointing to the queue around the waakye seller.

‘Five.’

‘Get served I’ll wait.’  I settled but the girl shook her head obdurately to reject it.’

‘I can’t sit in your car with the waakye.’ She explained.

‘And why is that?’

‘My father does not allow us to sit in his car with food of any kind, particularly waakye.’

I nodded; I was also concerned about the smell of the food but thought I had no option.

 ‘Then just give me the direction I can make it, I promise.’

‘Ok, go up to the end of this road. She pointed. ‘Then turn left and continue to the end again, take the right it’s the last but two house on the left.’

‘Thank you very much, I didn’t ask of your name?’

‘Aggie.’

‘Aggie, thank you again I’ll see you soon.’ I said to the little girl as I committed the direction into memory.

‘Aggie, do you know your father is a Chief Superintendent not an Inspector?’ I had to ensure we were talking about the same person.

‘Yes sir, it’s because everyone calls him Inspector so…’

‘I understand, have fun with the waakye.’ I said and left her.

It wasn’t as complicated as the directional recitation from Aggie sounded. The gates of the house opened before I could prompt anyone with a horn or a bell. George was sitting on a porch barricaded with iron bars and mosquito netting and watching the evening news on a fairly large television. I was impressed with his new surroundings. I sat looking around; quickly the first bottle of beer arrived.

‘George, you need to be probed.’  I joked whilst opening the beer bottle.

‘You are impressed huh?’

‘If only you can account for everything…?’

‘I haven’t heard the government or anyone complain of theft or embezzlement?’

‘Ghanaians charge you and your outfit with bribery and corruption everyday.’

‘They must prove it…’

‘You sound like a politician, George?’

‘Aren’t we supposed to learn from the leaders of our country?’

‘Our country is in trouble then if you’re behaving like them?’

‘You can’t say all of them are guilty, Kwame?’

‘I didn’t hear myself say that, just that, it would be difficult to pick five good men from millions in “Sodom and Gomorrah” should God send his angels to save this country on their account.’

‘It sounds like you’ve lost hope in our system?’

‘Do we have one, George?’ I am not sure if we have systems in place?’

‘Of course we have systems in place; the institutions of state running…?’  

‘Then they have run aground starting from yours?’

‘The police service?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, the chickens have come home to roost so don’t look afar for the answers.  But let me clarify one thing before we go ahead…’

‘What’s that?’

‘I didn’t build this house. I couldn’t have; the children… my children, God bless them, they are responsible for everything you see here…’

‘John and Sara?’  

‘Yes, and a nephew of mine; I have a brand new car at the port waiting to be delivered here next week as I speak.’

‘I am happy for you George. I didn’t think you’d soil your reputation with anything untoward.

‘Of course, if you doubt me I’ll resign.’

‘I am glad, now back to my mission; a young woman asked me to bring you to court to answer for your non-performance and I agree with her. I have been wondering since I returned why all of us are in virtual prisons in this country for instance…’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You are a senior officer in the service but look at your house; the windows the doors and this porch each has metal bars. Is that not what we use to prevent criminals from escaping from prisons? On your wall as well as mine are barbwires. Are they not what we have in maximum-security prisons housing hardened criminals? What’s the difference between the state’s prison and where you live as an officer of the law? I have been closing my eyes till this girl brought my attention to the general situation with insecurity.

‘What does she want you to do with security?’

‘Her kid brother was the sole survivor of an accident that saw her whole family incinerated to ashes. The brother, only 10 or so is seriously ill and yet he’s not left alone; he’s reminded each morning and evening as he uses the road…’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘George, the little boy is seriously traumatised unable to bear any semblance of violence on the road. He has to be blindfolded before he gets to school and back home everyday’

‘Why?’

‘Because he can’t handle the reckless driving on the streets George, his sister, the only person left to take care of him is just a girl and completely overwhelmed each morning and evening as her brother screams for help because of dangerous driving. She wants your outfit to sanitize the roads.’

‘You’re not insinuating that the service should be blamed…’

‘You didn’t hear me George, I am not insinuating; I am attacking you directly. Your outfit is almost good for nothing except in name only.’

‘You are dead wrong, Kwame, like all those who play the blame game in this country…’

‘Why are we wrong George? Demanding security and efficiency from men and women we clothe and feed is wrong?’

‘You’re dead wrong’ he repeated himself, ‘take it from me. You may think you are right but this rightness is premised on ignorance. You maybe comparing us with what you’ve seen in the United States, in Europe and elsewhere. Others see policing on television and in films and watch officers competently conduct investigations and chase bad guys to their hideouts…’

‘Is that too much to ask of you? Didn’t those officers in America and those other places you mentioned go to the same training programs as you did…?’

The Superintendent smiled amicably causing me to misread his smile till he explained himself.

‘I know you are fired up but don’t waste your time in the court on this. By the way, you never mentioned you were studying law at any time to me?’

‘I didn’t study law; I am just concerned for the two children as I am for myself. Their father was my best pal…’

‘Do I know him?’

‘I don’t know if you do, his name was Dr. Pabi…’

‘I know him; you sent him once with a parcel to me when you were in school.’

‘That’s him. George that’s the man; he was a fine gentleman. His life was snuffed off prematurely for no reason at all except a neglected system.’

George remained silent and I had worked myself to anger and therefore needed to cool down. When George resumed he spoke carefully and I guess with frustration.

‘I share your pain Kwame, but if you’d listen to me do not waste your time in the courts on this…’

 ‘Because nothing will change is that what you mean?’

‘Because to sanitize the roads as you put it, is to pluck a single leaf from a multifaceted problem- tree called Ghana. I have not heard anyone talk about it, not now or previously, so if you go to court you’d end up putting money in someone’s pocket-a wasted effort.’

‘We’ve got to start somewhere. We have to use all available means to make noise and picket the powers that be; we have to shout till someone listens…’

‘If you insist on that line of action then you must know the problems before you tackle them…’

‘My reason for coming to see you.’

‘Good, I thought you wanted to be part of the “Belly noise makers” who seek bread and butter by making ugly noises on road safety pretending to be advocates or experts in the field…’

‘I thought we have a whole commission for road safety sponsored by the taxpayer and huge donor inflows?’ I prompted him with the facts.

‘And what has been the impact?  Let me not work myself hoarse over this.

Listen Kwame, the service has problems, insurmountable problems; but no one wants to talk about them because the service has never been free from the politicians. Major among them is policy inertia; a vacuum left untouched to breed all the security problems of which road violence is just a single one. I am not interested in talking about national security that does not bother me; my concern is the human security.

‘We think alike George I was just thinking about thought the constitutional arrangement which created the police council and the vice president might…’

‘Nope, it’s more than that…’

‘And it’s not the lack of logistical support and the inadequate manpower and all the crap I hear and read about in the papers?’

‘Those are all jazz and cymbals for the public’s dancing pleasure; at best, they serve as scratches on a giant problem of a disorganized society.  As your people say; “it’s like casting a pebble at an elephant’s hip – no effect”. ‘ He shrugged his shoulders to illustrate and went on. ‘The politics of it is never touched.’

 ‘George, your PR machines are always in town; on radio and on television defending you, even if feebly, on such matters as “the police cannot be everywhere” citing logistics and manpower as constraints…?

‘Because that’s what the public wants to hear.’

‘Such disingenuous excuses and explaining away problems are the preserve of politicians; not the police?’

‘That’s exactly what I am saying; we are singing the songs of politicians to keep our uniforms on and to leave the disorganization in perpetuity. ‘

‘Speak English to me George; I am not getting what you mean and I want to know. I want to begin to shout, I want to make uglier noises than the “belly shouters but I must understand.’

 ‘Have you asked why since Nkrumah left no government has made any attempt to document the citizens and residents of this country?’

‘That cannot be true; governments have done that on many occasions. I have seen not less than three censuses including the recent one…’

‘Those are bogus exercises and waste of our time and resources. If not, why would the electoral commission face so many problems with the voters register? Why so much suspicion that the register has so many ghost names?  Let’s not go into that emotive issue right now. The simple fact is the people of this country are not documented…’

‘What do you mean? I have a passport and a driver’s license as many Ghanaians do? Others have National IDs, NHIS, and Voters ID etc…?’

‘Then why are you sleeping behind bars?’

‘Because of police inefficiencies…’

‘Nope, the IDs you mentioned are mere cards; they serve no purpose to the police in providing the human security we’re talking about.’

I adjusted in my seat and instantly remembered the beer before me. I took the glass and sipped slowly.

The passports you talk about are belittled and frowned upon by the embassies here in Accra. You know why? Because each time a Ghanaian is refused a visa the next the day individual comes again with a new passport; new date of birth, new name, new parents etc. This is the reason why the embassies insult you and I by taking our monies and not serving us.  It doesn’t end there, the  Driver’s license are bogus and good for nothing,  the controversial voter’s ID is only useful at election periods and I hear some people even have multiple, the scandalous national ID card is a total waste of donor and tax money. The inoperable NHIS cards and all that crap do not help your security. Foreigners entering our borders are able to secure passports with ease, why? Because we have no data on our citizens and no data on foreigners; anybody at all with ebony skin can flash a Ghanaian passport in your face and claim citizenship not because he or she qualifies but because with ease he can walk to any births and deaths office to collect a birth certificate.’

‘So then why do you guys ask drivers for their license if you think they are bogus?’  

‘For the general routine not for its utility, I have stopped long ago because the addresses on them are untraceable; you get such nonsense house numbers as:  Plot 209/22/D83. Did you see the video on television about officers taking bribes at check -points this morning?’

‘Yes I was going to come that.’

‘Don’t blame them Kwame; the vacuum created by the system allows us to be the law enforcer, the judge and the prison officer at the same time. “A one man law” to himself…’

‘In what sense?’

‘Look at it this way, if an officer asks a driver to produce his license and the driver says it’s at home. The law obliges the driver to produce it within twenty-four hours and so he’s technically at liberty to go- free. But the officer knows the driver wouldn’t come back and there is no way for him to trace and sanction him with “house number plot B bullshit” assuming he goes ahead to DVLA to secure such address.

What does he have to do? Does he leave him to go free or help himself? This question when left to any less principled human being would select the latter unless this individual is afraid of something - sanctions. In this scenario, the man to arrest is the offender. In our country, those who get sanctioned are scapegoats; not the rule of law; it’s never been a systemic or organic function.

‘You paint a hopeless situation George?’

‘It’s not my brush on the canvass. These are the facts; until we sit down and say the decay stops here; we are going to have every Kwame, Yaw and Yaa to be documented in this country each house and shack identified and properly documented with all occupants, until anyone with my physical address is able to trace me easily, that drivers are able to understand the mapping of the city and read them easily we have to forget any meaningful human security. I do not see how an officer could come to your aide when you are under attack; with mango trees and banku woman’s junction as directions…’

‘Or Waakye seller joint!’ I interrupted him referring to his address he gave me.

‘Yes, and Waakye seller’s place as directions; you see how difficult it was for you to get to my house? Now how do you expect any officer who has never been here before to come to my aide in the middle of the night when the Waakye woman is comfortably reposed on her bed?

You see the reason no court in the land can force the police to magically operate?

You and I have to continue to live behind bars and walk beneath barbwires at home or we’ll get ourselves killed for nothing.

The little fella I am sorry would have to continue to walk blindfolded, there is very little anyone can do for him right now. Not even rigging every inch of our highways and streets with cameras can help. The speeding drivers who cause such mayhem would continue with impunity till a recalcitrant officer helps himself…’

‘I am not giving up George, would you like to help?’

‘In what ways?’

‘I don’t know but we can begin to campaign to have everyone documented, every citizen, every resident, the casual visitor who drops in an hour in country should be known by an organic system?’

‘I wouldn’t mind hanging my boots and uniform if we can achieve something like that for our country.’

‘Good, I will come back to you but first I have to check on those issuing the useless IDs, I’m going to talk to births and deaths, the immigration, passport officers and the national ID card guys before we begin shouting, I guess I don’t need a lawyer right now…’

‘That’s what I said.’ George responded triumphantly. 

Dear reader, if you know any a country on God’s earth where the citizens are undocumented I would love to hear from you.  Send me a line at

kwame.agyapong1@gmail.com

Stay tuned.

I Want To Sue The Government

‘‘Heeeelp!’’

Dusk was gradually taking away the day as the darkness busily dropped her curtains to bid the declining Saturday farewell. It was time to end my walk. Unexpectedly, I heard a shrill cry behind me. I turned there was no one in sight. I took a careful look the second time; still, I could not find anybody. I resumed my walk towards home carelessly; after all I was in Accra; one of the safest cities in the world even if chaotic. I walked few paces on. Suddenly, I felt two hands grab me from behind. I fought to release myself but my efforts were too feeble to compete with the two powerful hands. My feet dangled in the air but I struggled on to fight back. It was useless.

“Don’t just struggle get a plan to free yourself, goddamn it!” I remained calm briefly and then with all the energy I could gather tried to grabbed my assailant from behind. Incredibly, there was no one there, instead, my hands hit a wooden object; the noise reverberated in my ears-it was my wooden bed!

I woke from the dream and sat on my bed panting not from the sensation in my hands but from the struggle with my illusory assailant.

I checked the time on the wall; it was 1.30 in the morning. I didn’t want to sleep again, at least not immediately.

I switched on the television, bless BBC World Service and whoever mooted the idea, they were in my bedroom uninvited but I didn’t care; I needed company, a good company.

They arrived flashing the face of my favourite newsmaker- Hillary Clinton, America’s finest diplomat for a long time (My apologies to General Powell, I thought he was the best till the tricksters played him to use his reputable voice to give credence to their version of facts on Saddam’s weapons of mass destruction).

Hillary is, in my estimation the finest diplomat this past decade except Kofi…

‘Huh? Kofi Annan is from my country so what? Is he not the best among the best? Don’t bring yourself. ‘

As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, I attentively listened to the reporter who led the invasion into my bedroom and for the first time since I knew Hillary (only in news don’t mistake me for “a somebody”), she was yelling, as they say in her country.

The Republican gentleman was trying ruthlessly to dig for dirt in her sterling career by pushing her to admit failure in the Benghazi debacle.

I am sure he had forgotten that the woman hates being pushed around, particularly, when it’s done so crudely.

“What difference does it make at this point?”  She screamed and went on to describe the pain she had to endure as she watched with President Obama and the families of dead diplomats concealed in caskets about to be buried into nothingness.

It moved me to prick my own mortality. Quickly, I shrugged it off; it wasn’t a pleasant subject to contemplate. The news item changed, I was back to the nightmarish dream; I tried to make sense of it.

Dreams are pictures of waking thoughts- nothing mysterious. I remembered my first lesson in school.

Nothing registered as a probable pointer for the coming day. I slept again thanks to a boring documentary my friends from BBC introduced.

And oh what a contrast! But it was good; it put me to sleep. I was rudely woken when I heard a knock on my door. It was 07.30.

Who the hell is that, disturbing at this time?

It was my housekeeper. She expected me to scream for breaking the norm and I was ready to do just that till I was disarmed by the presence of a young woman of about 17 years behind her and a young boy whose age I could not determine. He looked haggard and bore a sad countenance.  

For a moment the animal instinct in me urged me to scream at them regardless, but the pleading eyes of the youngsters helped me fight my demons.

 “Never judge anyone till he’s heard.” I heard my dead old man’s voice hidden in the recess of my memory admonish.

‘Please come with me.’ I told the youngsters differentially and led the way to my study where I usually take visitors. 

I saw on the young woman’s face pure determination steeled in her will, for what; I could not tell.  Her face was familiar and yet I could not tell who she was.

‘Do you want something to drink?’ I asked them and regretted when they shook their heads to say no. I should just have offered them the drinks.

‘So how can I help you?’  I asked kindly employing my choirboy manners. (I couldn’t remember the last time I had used it)

‘You can’t make us out eh?’ The young woman said with some sadness in her voice. I squinted as if that was a magic spell to help me to remember.

‘My name is Adjoa Sefa, my father was Dr. Enoch Sefa.’

I got up from my seat at once as if I had been shot and for a long moment I could not respond to the children. I resumed my seat and exhaled loudly.  My brain refused to configure. I was to blame if anything had happened to the two children before me. Their father was my best friend, a brother and a confidant. We were mates in school in a far away country. He returned home and I stayed on dreaming in someone’s country. We however kept in touch till suddenly, I heard the most horrid story of my life.

My friend and his wife were visiting their daughter, Adjoa, (the young woman before me) in school on a Saturday. In the drive, a truck from the opposite direction suddenly took over their lane smashing their car. My friend managed to drive the smashed car away from the truck. Unfortunately, the car clogged on the edge of a cliff; waiting to roll over.

He nevertheless managed to open the door behind for his son to get out. His wife at the time was unconscious at the passenger seat precariously threatened, as any attempt by my friend to get out would tip the car over into the valley.

Carefully, he opened his side of the doors hoping to get out and help his wife. The car did tip over and rolled several times before it landed far away in the abyss and immediately triggered fire.

The fire augmented by gasoline incinerated my friend and his wife to ashes as the little boy watched his parents helplessly burn to cinders.

I heard the story much later on my return and searched for his children everywhere I couldn’t locate them till this morning.

‘How did you know who I am?’ It was a stupid question to ask.

Adjoa did not answer, instead, she went into a small handbag to produce a note or a wish letter if you will, and gave it to me.

It was a hand written note by her father addressed to her mother with my coordinates in foreign land and directions of where to find me in Accra in the event that something tragic happened to him. There was an old photograph of my friend and I stapled to the note. I looked at the photograph silently and had to bite hard to silence emotions.

‘How long have you had this note?’ I asked her.

‘Last night.’

‘I don’t understand who gave it to you?’

‘I was looking for something else; a lawyer’s information and came across this.’

‘What do you need a lawyer for?’

‘To sue the government.’  She said simply and innocently.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘She repeated herself this time with emphasis and squared me up, eyeball to eyeball.

I thought I should let the issue rest for a while and so changed the subject.

‘Your house is empty, I have been there several times, there’s hardly anybody in there?’

‘My aunty put the house up for rent.’

‘So where is home right now for you?’

‘We live with her in Labadi.’

‘Does she know where you are right now?’

‘No, she doesn’t have to know.’

I nodded and paused. Several questions flooded my mind. It was obvious she was not happy in the Aunty’s home or probably a dispute with her aunty about something.

Thread carefully, I told myself.

Fortunately, I have vacant rooms available in my house and a housekeeper to take care of us all. My sense of guilt was beginning to atone. I said nothing about what I was thinking to them.

Before I go into that I have to make them feel at home. I called the housekeeper to set breakfast for us. I knew she wasn’t prepared for that; I hardly eat breakfast on Sunday mornings. I changed the topic from domestic quibbles to a dance in the courtroom with wolfs.

 ‘Now tell me, why you want to sue the government?’

‘It’s because of him,’ she pointed to her brother, ‘he’s unable to use the road to school unless I blindfold him whenever we travel the road.’

‘How… I mean why?’

‘He thinks he’s going to be crashed; he screams at the least excitement.’ She explained.

‘He needs a doctor, a psychiatrist; he’s traumatised that’s why.’ I said with authority.

‘I know, he’s been to see two of them. He gets well after a period of treatment only to relapse when we meet any scary driving, particularly, during the morning and evening rush hours.’

‘I see, but don’t they have boarding facility in the school?’

‘It was the school that asked me to come for him because he screams unbearably in the night.’ Adjoa offered with pain.

I was quiet and the reason for it was simple, I suffer no Post Traumatic Stress Disorder – PTSD as my young friend before me, but on several occasions I questioned my sanity for returning to my country whenever I drove on the road.

It’s so very intimidating to drive in Accra; there are no rules or regulations, there are no laws governing civil motoring, it’s simply the law of the jungle- survival of the fittest.

Don’t get me wrong; we have all the rules and regulations and laws in our statutes as it is in any developed country on the planet. The difference here is, no one enforces the laws and any law that is not enforced is no law at all as far as I am concerned.

Law, as I understand it rests on its efficiency to regulate behaviour in societies, not in our country- religion regulates us.

‘You don’t need to get into such a fight with the government. It costs a lot of money to start with and also I don’t see how you’re going to win such a battle. I will speak with your aunty you can come and live with me here. I will find means to send him to school if it means driving him in the morning…”

‘And in the evening too?’

‘We will see how we handle that…’ I responded to tell her I was aware of the obligations.

‘How about when you travel…?’ She interrupted me before I could finish and went on. ‘When you’re no longer available and I am also not present? We nearly died last week when he screamed in a taxi because another car was coming towards us dangerously. It confused our taxi driver who momentarily lost control of his car. My brother can’t remain at home forever neither does he have to die because of a non-performing system. It’s the government’s responsibility to provide him with security!’  

She charmed me with her intelligence and insight and she was right; what would happen to the young boy when any of us was not present to assist him?

My mind swiftly registered a rerun of David and Goliath and I was caught in the centre of the yet to be inaugurated battle.

But first, I need to understand what’s going on with law enforcement before I speak to a lawyer. I have a police officer friend; he has 18 years of experience in the service. He’s currently a Chief Superintendent at the Motor Traffic Unit (MTU) of the police service; if anyone can help me he’s the man.

Wish me luck as I go to seek for Heeelp to assist a mighty 17-year-old orphan to sue a humble Ghanaian government.

Stay tuned.