The air in Daboya had always carried the faint scent of charcoal smoke and the lively murmur of daily life, but on that fateful day, it was thick with a different kind of haze—the acrid stench of burning trust and simmering resentment. What began as a desperate attempt to quell a burgeoning crisis soon devolved into my own personal trial, a harrowing journey through the heart of a community consumed by misinformation and the chilling ease with which truth can be twisted into a weapon. It was in this crucible of chaos and betrayal that I found myself confronted with an unyielding choice, a line in the sand drawn not by circumstance but by conviction:
"This far, but no farther. This is the line I will not cross. Faced with the stark choice between principles and power, I choose principles. Between values and intimidation, I choose values. I stand for my own rights and, by extension, the rights of all men. Lies will find no purchase here; my voice will not be silenced, and I will speak my truth, always. Let them try to intimidate me for holding fast to what I believe—they will find no surrender. My values are my fortress, and within them, I stand unyielding."
An Attempted Rescue, Slightly Askew:
My mission, should I choose to accept it—and really, did I have a choice?—was to play the valiant peacemaker. I was arriving just in time to shield a regional police commander from the rather aggressive youth of our territory in Daboya. He, of course, was merely attempting to sprinkle a little law and order on our delightful chaos, having just returned from a particularly lively "battleground" some eighty kilometers deep within our very own expansive territory. What the youth didn't quite grasp, in their understandable fervour, was that the commander was actually performing a rather heroic ambulance service, rushing three of their own wounded compatriots to safety. A slight miscommunication, one might say.
Alas, timing, as they say, is everything, and mine was impeccable—for disaster. The local welcoming committee had already rolled out the red carpet of mayhem, having just finished beating and scattering the Daboya District police station and the men, and destroying the District police command itself. The regional commander's entourage was scattered like confetti at a particularly rowdy wedding, and the main thoroughfare had transformed into an impromptu barricade of righteous indignation. One could almost hear the collective sigh of relief from the commander's driver, whose lightning-fast reflexes clearly saved his boss from an unscheduled necktie party.
Then, in a stroke of genius, or perhaps sheer stupidity, my vehicle made its grand entrance. Naturally, the sight of my car, clearly a beacon of calm and rationality, instantly triggered the youth's finer instincts. They, with the precision of a well-rehearsed flash mob, immediately redirected their considerable energies toward us. It appears I had mistakenly assumed they were simply blocking the road; in fact, they were merely waiting for a more exciting target. My driver, bless his cotton socks, proved to be less of a chauffeur and more of a stuntman, executing a masterful ballet of evasive maneuvers that safely extracted me from the enthusiastic embrace of the crowd. Pity, really; I was almost looking forward to seeing what kind of peace offerings they had in mind for me.
The Morning After:
The curtain fell on our theatrical chaos that night, only to rise again on an unexpected, if entirely predictable, act: mass arrests. One could hardly blame the Inspector General of Police (IGP), Ghana, for not taking kindly to the good people of Daboya's recent display of... enthusiasm. After all, a district police command isn't just for show, and beating up officers tends to ruffle a few feathers, particularly those at the top.
So, with the swift efficiency of a well-oiled machine—or perhaps a very determined cleanup crew—the IGP mobilized. Suddenly, our sleepy town was graced with the presence of several long buses, brimming with officers whose expressions suggested they were not here for a friendly visit. Their mission, it became clear, was simple yet thorough: if you possessed the distinguishing characteristic of being male and residing in Daboya, you were cordially invited to an all-expenses-paid trip to parts unknown. The morning, it seemed, was dedicated to ensuring that no man was left behind... bars.
The Fugitive:
While the less fortunate men of Daboya were enjoying their impromptu guided tour to the regional capital, Tamale, I was experiencing a rather more rustic form of hospitality. My new accommodations consisted of a remote farm, nestled deep within the bush, where the only amenities were dirt and a pervasive sense of dread. For two blissful nights, I called this five-star establishment home, serenaded by the symphony of crickets and the persistent hum of my own anxieties.
My fears, it turned out, were a bipartisan affair. On one hand, there was the looming threat of the police, no doubt eager to add another name to their guest list for the Tamale Express. On the other, and perhaps more ironically, was the chilling possibility of an attack from my own kinsmen. It seemed that in Daboya, even self-preservation came with a side of familial betrayal.
Meanwhile, the nearly one hundred gentlemen rounded up during the morning's enthusiastic sweep were, by all accounts, efficiently processed and shipped off to Tamale, the Northern Region capital. One can only imagine the lively conversations on those buses, packed with men suddenly united by their shared predicament and a newfound appreciation for the regional transport system.
It was amidst this serene, albeit anxious, bush retreat that my phone, a relic of civilization, decided to announce its presence with an unexpected "click." A message from a friend in Damongo. Opening it, I found an audio file, a digital whisper from the outside world. I pressed play, expecting perhaps a survival tip, or news of the arrests.
Instead, a voice crackled through the speaker—the unmistakable timbre of a long-time adversary. "I am Mahama Shaibu, Assemblyman of Daboya West," the disembodied voice declared, in Gonja with the dramatic flair of a man narrating his own heroic escape from some imagined grand conspiracy. "I am running into the bush away from the police who have come into Daboya on the invitation of Alhaji Mahama Sakan, our former Member of Parliament, and the ..............They gave names of people, including I [Mahama Shaibu], that Daboya boys are radicals and must be disciplined. They gave my name that I must be arrested. Presently as I am talking, I am in the bush." One could here him panting as he was running while recording that malicious audio.
Well, wasn't that just a delightful revelation from the bush-running orator? He was, of course, referring to me, the author currently enjoying my own five-star bush accommodations, and to a rather prominent family of politicians, including their distinguished father, the................. (a powerful traditional leader in the Gonja Kingdom). This accusation was, to put it mildly, less than accurate. It was, in fact, a masterclass in malicious fiction, a truly Olympic-level leap of logic.
Consider the alleged chief conspirator, the.............., a man whose stature alone commanded respect, and whose travel schedule that day involved defying gravity rather than orchestrating police raids. He was, at that precise moment, soaring somewhere over the Atlantic, undoubtedly preoccupied with the pressing matters of in-flight meals and complimentary peanuts, utterly oblivious to the quaint little drama unfolding back home in our territory. One truly had to wonder if Mahama Shaibu believed the .............. possessed some sort of high-altitude psychic power, capable of remote-controlling the IGP's buses from 30,000 feet.
As for his sons, the purported co-conspirators, their knowledge of the Daboya shenanigans was precisely zero. Their political affiliations lay elsewhere, leaving them blissfully unburdened by our particular brand of territorial drama. To suggest they were secretly pulling strings, inviting police to "discipline" anyone, was akin to accusing a goldfish of masterminding a bank heist. They belonged about as much in this local fracas as a ballet dancer belongs in a rugby scrum. The sheer audacity of Mahama Shaibu's desperate, self-serving fabrication was almost admirable, a testament to how quickly a cornered rat can invent an elaborate, entirely baseless villain for its predicament.
The Architect of the Lie:
Mahama Shaibu was not merely the Assemblyman of the Daboya West Electoral Area of the North Gonja District Assembly; he was an individual who had found it fashionable to denigrate elders and revered Chiefs alike. He had consistently made audios insulting Chiefs and, with alarming regularity, issued warnings such as: "We shall fight you .......... and all your royalists."
I had, on two separate occasions, taken the time to speak with Mahama Shaibu's mother, urging her to caution him to cease such baseless insults against people of substance. Yet, he would not listen. His disdain for traditional authority and established order seemed to be a deeply ingrained pattern.
The final straw, the incident that truly solidified his animosity towards me, concerned a delicate family matter. He was accommodating someone's wife in his house for his uncle's son. Two other Chiefs and I from the Wasipe Palace called him and asked him to release the woman to her parents, to allow for proper arbitration so that the woman could return to her husband. He and his uncle's son refused until the woman became impregnated by the uncle's son. The uncle's son blantly told us that "I have ceased her".
As an elder and someone committed to upholding the right traditions, I insisted that the proper thing must be done according to custom and religion.
Mahama Shaibu took offence at that and found several schemes to retaliate against my insistence on due process. To test me, he once even came and requested the use of a depot from me to run his football games and a betting operation. This was a facility I had already earmarked for a school, a community initiative. These escalating grievances, coupled with his pre-existing pattern of disrespect, ultimately led to his outbursts on three different occasions, culminating in this outrageous and malicious scheme against me and other respected figures.
Memuna Yakubu, the woman who would later play a pivotal role in spreading his fabrications, had been an unknown figure in our community until these recent events brought her into the spotlight. Her chieftain title, escapes my memory, adding to the perplexing nature of her sudden and aggressive involvement.
The Plot Thickens:
My initial reaction to Mahama Shaibu's bizarre audio drama was to simply downplay it. Knowing full well it was a desperate fabrication, I dismissed it as the rantings of a cornered man. Little did I grasp the sinister truth: this wasn't mere personal malice. This was a carefully orchestrated ploy by a shadowy group, designed to curry favor with the powers that be. Their true aim? To incite the wrath of the people of Daboya and, even more dangerously, the traditional authorities, against myself and the other prominent individuals so casually implicated. The motive, as it so often is in such intricate dances of deception, boiled down to the basest of human emotions: envy, jealousy, and sheer, unadulterated hate.
Their orchestration, I soon discovered, was alarmingly effective. The audio, a masterpiece of villainous propaganda, didn't just spread; it went viral. It tore through the entire Gonja Kingdom with the speed of a bushfire, then leaped across borders, reaching every corner of the world where I had the misfortune (or fortune, depending on the day) of having relatives and friends.
So there I was, still enjoying my rustic abode with the hospitable Iddisa Dagbambanaa and his neighbor Abu, when my bush-phone, rather inconveniently, began its incessant symphony. Calls poured in, not just from concerned Ghanaians, but from bewildered and agitated contacts across continents. It seemed my tranquil escape had inadvertently transformed into an international crisis management center, all thanks to a meticulously crafted lie.
The Welcome Home (of Sorts):
After two nights of unparalleled rustic luxury, my bush retreat had run its course. The allure of dirt beds and potential kinsmen-related ambushes paled in comparison to the burgeoning drama back in Daboya. So, abandoning my temporary five-star accommodations, I bravely returned to what passed for civilization. And what a welcome I received!
No sooner had I dusted off the last speck of existential dread from my clothes than I found myself, by some twist of fate, on the revered platform of the Wasipe Chiefs. This, it turned out, was the chosen stage for the next act of our grand, unfolding farce. There, Memuna Yakubu, clearly a connoisseur of performance art, decided to deliver her star turn.
With the confidence of someone who had just discovered incontrovertible evidence written in the stars, she loudly declared that she had personally encountered none other than myself and the illustrious Chief himself at the CID headquarters in Tamale. Our alleged purpose? To diligently compile a list of names for future arrests. One had to admire the sheer audacity of the lie, particularly considering the revered Chief accused jointly with me had, just days prior, been enjoying the blissful ignorance of transatlantic air travel, presumably too busy contemplating duty-free cologne to be orchestrating police roundups. This, I quickly realized, was merely the overture to an even grander operatic catastrophe.
But as if that wasn't enough to secure her place in the annals of Daboya's dramatic history, Memuna Yakubu then proceeded to really lean into her role. She literally hauled herself, hands on head, to the Overlord, a gesture usually reserved for moments of profound grief or truly scandalous revelations, and wailed that I had, at some undisclosed point, "promised to give him trouble throughout his life."
And just like that, the pot boiled over. The Overlord, a man who, let us recall, had previously entrusted me with the delicate task of mediating with our enthusiastic youth to prevent the regional police commander from being lynched, now seemed to possess the collective fury of a thousand offended ancestors. He launched into a tirade of unpleasantries, as if he had been merely biding his time, patiently awaiting this very moment to unleash a pre-prepared sermon of condemnation. His shocking U-turn was not just surprising; it was a whiplash-inducing reversal, leaving one to ponder if the air in Daboya had become particularly thick with conveniently selective amnesia.
A Deep Concern for Eroding Values:
Amidst this personal maelstrom, a profound concern resonated within me, a concern that echoes in the hearts of many. I observed a fading beacon in our society, where the pursuit of knowledge and truth seemed overshadowed by personal gain, fleeting desires, and a misguided sense of loyalty. It is indeed a somber thought that values and principles, the very bedrock of our community, appeared to be eroding under the weight of such impulses.
I lamented the willingness of some to utter the unspeakable, seemingly without a thought for the consequences, or for the ultimate reckoning we all believe awaits us. The idea that "every man shall account for their deeds on the day of resurrection," and that this day is "not far," is a powerful reminder of the moral compass we are called to uphold.
This challenge was not merely an intellectual one; it struck at the very core of our shared humanity and the future we wish to build. When individuals prioritize self-interest and transient gratification over integrity and truth, the fabric of trust frays, and the collective good suffers. My experience in Daboya served as a vital, painful call to reflection. It urged us to remember the enduring importance of our values, to consider the long-term impact of our actions and words, and to recognize that true loyalty lies not in blind adherence, but in upholding what is right and just.
The Cost of a Grievous Lie:
The deep sense of injustice regarding the accusations leveled against me was palpable. It became clear that Mahama Shaibu, Memuna Yakubu, and their associates were responsible for spreading a "grievous lie" that had caused significant harm. The failure to verify information before spreading it was a critical issue. People had sheepishly swallowed the words and acted upon them without critical thought, a lamentable outcome that spoke to the dangers of misinformation, especially in close-knit communities.
This was not just a personal wrong; it was an affront to the entire Gonja people, one that demanded public acknowledgment and reconciliation. The act was unforgivable due to the harm it caused, particularly the accusation of informing the police, which can have severe repercussions in any community. Unchecked accusations truly have devastating consequences, and individuals and communities alike have a right to expect honesty and integrity from those who speak in their midst.
The Continuous Deceit:
My exasperation was palpable, and understandably so. It was truly infuriating when, on top of an initial false accusation, further fabrications were spun to deepen the injustice. The idea that I would actively seek to prevent justice by influencing a "chief state attorney"—especially one who wasn't even involved in the case—was a clear attempt to completely discredit me and solidify the false narrative.
This new layer of misinformation highlighted the malicious intent behind these rumors. It suggested a calculated effort not only to deflect blame from the original accusers but also to paint me as someone who would manipulate the legal system for personal vendetta. The fact that "even some respected persons fell into the trap of lying" was particularly disheartening. It showed how powerful and pervasive false narratives can become, even in the face of logic and truth. When influential individuals are swayed by unsubstantiated rumors, it lends them an undeserved legitimacy, making it even harder for the truth to prevail. This situation perfectly illustrated the destructive nature of unchecked gossip and deliberate falsehoods. It corrodes trust, damages reputations, and undermines the very principles of fairness and accountability.
Clearing My Name: A Direct Approach:
The accusation I faced was serious, and it was understandable that I felt the need to clear my name, especially when it involved something as sensitive as identifying individuals for arrest and potential obstruction of justice. My strategy was direct: use the District Police Commander, Regional Police Commander, and the IGP as witnesses to ascertain the truth.
My core defense hinged on a simple premise:
if I provided names to the IGP for arrest, then the IGP (and by extension, the regional and district commanders who would be involved in such an operation) would have knowledge of it. If they didn't, then the accusation was false.
The most effective way to counter this specific accusation was to demonstrate that no such list was provided by me, or received by the relevant authorities. For the IGP, as the ultimate recipient of such information, their testimony, or lack of acknowledgment of receiving names from me, would be highly authoritative. The Regional Commander would likely be informed or directly involved in any directive from the IGP concerning arrests in their region; their knowledge (or lack thereof) would be crucial. And the District Commander, at the operational level, directly involved in any arrests made in Daboya, would know if arrests were made based on information I provided.
When speaking about this, I emphasized the chain of command: that for such arrests to happen, information would typically flow through or be known by these high-ranking officers. I would point out the absence of evidence: if I had indeed provided names, there would be a record, or at least a recollection, within the police hierarchy. The absence of such a record or recollection would be strong evidence of my innocence. I would frame it as a challenge for proof to my accusers: "If I provided names, let the IGP, the Regional Commander, or the District Commander confirm it. Let them present the evidence of my involvement." While not directly disproving the accusation, I could subtly reinforce my own character by stating my belief in due process and my desire for truth, not mischief. My inclusion of "God is the supreme witness" added a profound moral and spiritual dimension to my declaration of innocence, indicating that I was not only asserting my innocence in the eyes of man but also before a higher authority.
In essence, my strategy was to turn the accusers' claim against them by demanding that they prove my involvement through the very authorities they claimed I interacted with. The silence or denial from those authorities would then serve as my strongest defense. This direct approach, backed by my clear conscience and the potential testimony (or lack thereof) from high-ranking police officials, could be very powerful in helping those seeking the truth to decipher it from lies.
The Unchallenged Stand:
For nearly three years, I endured these accusations in silence. This wasn't an act of defiance, but a steadfast belief in the eventual triumph of truth and a profound conviction that it would emerge on its own. I had nothing to hide, and my patience was a testament to that unshakeable certainty.
However, if remaining silent continued to obscure the facts or prolong this injustice, then I was prepared to speak out unequivocally. My pursuit of justice was not an act of defiance, but a resolute commitment to revealing the truth. My quiet resolve was now transforming into a powerful voice for what was right, and I would no longer allow these accusations to stand unchallenged. I called on Mahama Shaibu, the architect of this lie, to bring forth his evidence to support the accusations he made in his audio.
I still challenge Mahama Shaibu to bring to public domain any and every compelling evidence that what he said in his audio is the truth and nothing but the truth. If "you, Mahama Shaibu" are unable to prove your allegations made against me, then the public should know who you are. However, judgement day awaits us. We shall stand before God to answer for our deeds. That day, I swear by Allah who created me and in whose hand my life is, that you will be ashamed of this slander and there shall not be repentance.
I rest my case here.
Alhaji Abdalla Mahama Adam
[Gbenapewura Sungbore, I]
maamasakan2017@gmail.com.
Written 10th Day of June 2025.
The episodes narrated occurred sometime in April 2023.
