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OF SCIENCE AND ‘AFRICAN ELECTRONICS’
Chemistry is one of the most rewarding sciences in the world, in the sense that it can yield visible and sometimes spectacular results from simple experiments.
For instance, when the colour blue changes to red or green after a chemical has been added to it, or when en explosion occurs under water after certain chemical agents have been brought together one is I pressed, whether one believes in science or not.
That being the case, how can a teacher of chemistry refuse to believe that vaccination works in humans and other animals? Is the concept of immunity from disease a hoax?
I ask because the late President of Tanzania, Mr John Magufuli, not only denied the existence of Covid-19 but at the same time (rather illogically) he prescribed the breathing of steam as well as other “traditional” methods, for curing the (non-existent) disease!
But – wonder of wonders – Magufuli, according to Wikipedia, “earned a bachelor of science in education degree, majoring in chemistry and mathematics as teaching subjects, from the University of Dar-es-Salaam in 1988. He also earned his masters, and doctorate degrees in chemistry from the University of Dar-es-Salaam in 1994 and 2009, respectively.”
After graduating, he became a secondary school teacher. The question is: was he tutoring his students in subjects he did not believe in? Or did he think tat there was a “dichotomy” of reality in the world – one which produced accurate results in scientific experiments and another reality in which the only laws that operated were those laid down by the God in whom he fervently believed as a Catholic?
For he was quoted as saying that Covid-19 was “a devil, [which] cannot survive in the body of Christ… It will burn instantly!” Was he, in saying this, denying the validity of the concept of science, mastery of which had earned him his degrees?
The contradictions that filled Mr Magufuli’s mind are, of course, vibrantly present in many other Africans. I became aware of this very early in my own life.
My mother’s sister was a life-long Methodist. She would come and wake us all up very early in the morning and drag us to “morning service” (anᴐpasɔre)!
Now, I loved the Fanti songs that the Methodists sang, with all those beautiful unwritten improvisations that the women singers invented to add to the actual hymns. But I resented being torn from my dreams at such an early hour! I had no choice, of course, but to tag along.
One year, however (when I was about five) my young mind was thrown into a whirl when I heard, to my astonishment, that despite her obvious devotion to God and Jesus, this aunt of mine had travelled all the way from Asiakwa to Nkwantanang (in the Kwahu District: first, by truck to Bosuso; next, by train to Nkawkaw; then up the dangerous hills to Mpraeso and finally, to Nkwantanang) to go and “eat kola-nuts” and become a cult member of the Tigare fetish!
She went to the fetish because she wanted to have a child and her prayers in the Methodist Church were apparently not producing the goods – despite all those early morning devotions.
I learnt in later life that many so-called Christians in fact try to “insure” themselves against evil times by also paying their respects to several deities passed to them by their elderly family members, who believed in several deities at the same time.
There was, for instance, an old woman who was the priestess of a sacred River in our town called Twafoɔ. This old lady got presented with a lot of fowls from people who wanted to thank the River for all sorts of favours they had obtained from it.
Indeed, when the Second World War ended in 1945 and the men from our town who had gone to fight in Burma came back, one of them brought an amazing story about the River. He told our townspeople that the army truck he was driving had one day been hit by a bomb and blown into a deep valley. It caught fire after he’d been thrown out of it. He lay in a field unconscious.
But as the fire came nearer and nearer to him, he heard faintly, “from very far away”, a bush-cat calling him by name: “Kwaku Petro! Kwaku Petro! Get up!”
The cat wouldn’t stop calling his name until its cries got nearer and nearer to him. Finally, the cat’s cries became so loud that he woke up. He was able to drag himself away just as the whole truck blew up with a huge bang!
The noise brought some ambulance men to the site, and they laid him on a stretcher and carried him to hospital. “See these scars on my hands!” he showed the townspeople.
“It was River Twafoɔ who came and saved my life!” Kwaku Petro explained. He bought a sheep and slaughtered it, draining the sheep’s blood into the River’s water until the water was drenched red. He also poured libation into the water with a bottle of Schnapps.
How did he know it was the River that had saved his life? Silly question. How often do bush-cats talk and call someone by the name?
But by far the most amusing story in this country about juju – or “African electronics” as some smart-alec friends of mine call it – occurred during the days of the Supreme Military Council (SMC) in the early 1970s. A chap was caught and put on trial for attempting to overthrow the government of the SMC by recruiting the Army Commander of the regime to carry out a coup.
The chap apparently resided in Nigeria, where he had made a lot of money by dealing in crude oil. When he had convinced himself that indeed the Army Commander would like to succeed his head of state as “Number One”, he brought the Army Commander a huge sum of money and said the Commander should take it to a particular jujuman in Northern Ghana, so that the jujuman would “fortify him” and make him impervious to fear., during the coup operation.
But the coup-inciter had somehow not been able to fortify his own self, and so, was picked up on the instructions of the Army Commander during their final tête-à-tête!
At his trial, the then Attorney-General, a very humorous lawyer called E N Moore, made great play upon the superstitious elements in the coup plot. People laughed a lot when they were asked by their friends, upon undertaking some mission or other, “Have you taken the trouble to get fortified yet”?
In the midst of the trial, I attended a cocktail party given by the Government at the Castle, Osu. Whilst going round greeting people, I came across Mr E N Moore.
“Cameron, how have you been?” he queried.
Quick as a flash, I replied: “Unfortified, but still going strong!”
Mr Moore exploded into such loud laughter that people everywhere turned round to look at the two of us. I very swiftly slipped out of his company, leaving him to explain why he had laughed so loudly.
BY CAMERON DUODU
Walk into any supermarket in Accra, Kumasi, or Tamale today, and you will see the modern Ghanaian diet packaged as ‘progress.’ You will see breakfast cereals with cartoon mascots, fruit drinks that are mostly sugar and colour, and snacks promising energy and happiness in bright fonts.
Even products loaded with salt and unhealthy fats often wear a health halo labeled as fortified or natural, while the real nutritional risk is hidden in tiny print on the back. This is not just a consumer inconvenience; it is a public health blind spot. Ghana is living through a silent surge of non-communicable diseases (NCDs) like hypertension, diabetes, and stroke.
These conditions quietly drain household income and steal productive years. According to the Ghana Health Service (GHS) and World Health Organisation (WHO) estimates, NCDs are now responsible for nearly 45 per cent of all deaths in Ghana.
We cannot build a healthy nation on a food environment designed to confuse people at the point of purchase. Ghana must mandate simple front-of-pack warning labels (FOPWL) on high-sugar, high-salt, and high-fat packaged foods because consumers deserve truth at a glance, and industry must be pushed to reformulate.
Why Back-of-Pack Labels Are Not Enough
In theory, consumers can read nutrition panels. In reality, most Ghanaians shop under pressure, limited time, rising prices, and children tugging at their sleeves. The back label is a relic that requires a high cognitive load to interpret—essentially, the seller knows what is inside, but the buyer cannot easily tell.
This ‘information asymmetry’ is not fair. It is not consumer choice when the information needed to choose well is deliberately difficult to find.
Simple warning labels like the black octagons used in the Chilean Model act as a ‘stop-and-think’ nudge. They do not ban products but they simply tell the truth so people can decide.
Reshaping Our Food Environment
A generation ago, Ghana’s meals were mostly home-prepared, like kenkey and banku with soups and stews. Today, ultra-processed foods have become the norm, especially in urban areas. Children are growing up with sugary drinks and salty snacks as everyday items, not occasional treats.
If Ghana is serious about prevention, we must act where decisions are made—thus, the shelf. Warning labels protect parents from sugar traps and pressure the market to improve. When warning labels are mandatory, manufacturers start to compete to make healthier recipes to avoid the stigma of the label.
Addressing the Pushback
Industry will argue that labels create fear or that education alone is enough. However, health education is slow; labels work immediately. While the informal street food sector is a challenge, regulating pre-packaged goods is the practical starting point because the supply chain is traceable. We cannot wait until the whole system is perfect; we must start where action is feasible.
A 2026 Implementation Roadmap for Ghana
To move from talk to action, Ghana needs this 5-step plan:
- Issue mandatory regulation: The Ministry of Health, Food and Drug Authority (FDA), and Ghana Standards Authority (GSA) must define the label format and nutrient thresholds for all pre-packaged foods.
- Simple, bold symbols: Use plain language and clear symbols, such as “HIGH IN SUGAR,” designed for busy families, not experts.
- Transparent thresholds: Adopt technically defensible standards adapted to the Ghanaian diet.
- Transition and enforce: Provide a 12–18 month period for manufacturers to reformulate, followed by firm enforcement at ports and retail centers.
- National literacy campaign: The Ghana Health Service must pair labels with public messages explaining why high salt or sugar increases disease risk.
Conclusion: Truth Is Not a Luxury
Prevention is cheaper than treatment. A warning label costs little compared to the price of dialysis, stroke rehabilitation, or lifelong diabetes complications. A black octagon on a box of biscuits is more than a label; it is a shield for the health of all Ghanaians. It is time to put the truth where we can see it, right on the front.
By Abigail Amoah Sarfo
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Natives of the Kenkey Kingdom were mad with joy. They were still recovering from the hangover of the kingdom’s loss of the African Cup when their spirits were rekindled. Their great warrior, Zoom Zoom, stormed Melbourne and made sure that every Australian refused food. And that was after he had drawn contour lines on the face of their idol, Jeff Fenech.
Not only did the terrible warrior transform Old Boy Jeff’s face into a contour map useful for geography lessons, but he also accomplished the feat of retaining the much-envied super-kenkeyweight title against all odds. The warrior had not been eating hot kenkey for nothing.
The Fight Against Fenech
When Jeff Fenech bit the dust in the eighth round, I was tempted to consider if Adanko Deka could not have faced him in any twelve-rounder, title or non-title bout. Adanko has improved tremendously, and soon he would be facing Pernell Whitaker.
Sincerely, I was pessimistic about Azumah’s man, who the last time took him through twelve grueling rounds of rough boxing. I expressed my fears to my colleague Christian Abbew, alias Gbonyo, who surprisingly had total confidence that the Australian brawler would fall, predictably in Round Five.
Gbonyo gave reasons for his contention, all of which I counteracted using the age factor. Fact is, I didn’t know that contrary to the laws of nature, Azumah was all the time growing younger.
When Fenech fell briefly in round one, I asked my brother whether it was the same Fenech that fought Azumah in Las Vegas. Sure, it was the same Fenech, all out to beat Azumah before his countrymen.
But the African Professor had no intention of making the Australian a hero. As he spun round the desperate Aussie, dancing and stinging out his jabs, it was not too long before I realized that the end was near.
The Eighth Round Showdown
Two minutes into the eighth round, the African ring-master proved to the whole world that he was a true son of Bukom. He himself was cornered, but like the tough nut he is, he managed to break free before overwhelming the panting Australian with several blows that made him crash headlong.
Moments after, the referee, expressing fatherly sympathy, stopped the fight to prevent an obituary. After the ordeal, Fenech’s fairly handsome face was full of newly constructed hills, valleys, ox-bow lakes—whatever. I noticed that his nose was very tired and had a miniature volcano sitting restlessly on it. Obviously, Jeff’s wife will have to nurse that nose back to its normal shape—but I’d advise her not to use iodine, otherwise her dear husband will wail like a banshee.
Reflections on Boxing
Because Mohammed Ali was the kind of boxer kids liked, many school-going kids often entertained the wish of becoming like him. I remember one day when I told my father I wanted to become a boxer, and he advised me to first complete my education to the highest level. Then, if I decided to become a boxer and was knocked out a couple of times, I’d fall back on my degrees and make a living.
Boxing used to be interesting when bouts were fought more with the mouth and tongue than with gloves. You had to brag well, psychologically belittling your opponent before beating him up physically. Mohammed Ali became a very successful pugilist because he also managed to become a poet. He often blew his horn across America, calling himself the “pretty boxer” and opponents like Joe Frazier “the gorilla.”
Ali made a living fighting hard fists like Joe Frazier, Ken Norton, Jerry Quarry, George Foreman, Leon Spinks, and Trevor Berbick. Twice he came back from retirement to fight just for money. It was Larry Holmes who finally pensioned him, and since then the great Ali has never been himself.
The Path Ahead for Azumah
When Azumah nailed Jeff Fenech on the cross and barked almost immediately that he was after the head of Pernell Whitaker, I was happy but concerned. I would have been happier if he had announced his resignation there and then—he would have been more of a hero. Beating Fenech in Australia is more newsworthy than facing Whitaker in the States.
With Whitaker, it might be a little difficult. The “Sweet Pea” is agile, has a crooked body like a snake with diarrhea, and stands awkwardly as a southpaw. He is known for having the fastest pair of fists and the rare ability to dodge punches no matter how close they may be.
Much as I do not doubt that Azumah can take his title, I also don’t want him to retire beaten. I want him to retire as a hero and live a fuller, healthy life.
As Azumah himself said after dishing Fenech, he is now a professor and has something to show for it. Like a true professor, I think it is time he resigned and took up training young talents who could draw inspiration from him and become like him in the future.
Closing Thoughts
I must say that although ageing boxers like Larry Holmes and George Foreman are making a name for themselves, boxing is not like the Civil Service, where you can even change your age and retire at 74. Zoom Zoom has delighted the hearts of the natives, and Sikaman will forever hold him in high esteem—but only when he retires as a hero.
This article was first published on Saturday, March 7, 1992.
