Features
Tears behind the shades
The sun rose heavy over Accra, but today, no one feared its glare.
At the funeral grounds, black uniforms stood beside black dresses, a crowd bound in silence.
And everywhere dark sunglasses.
Not for fashion.
Not for the sun.
They were shields — thin glass and plastic guarding eyes that could no longer guard themselves.
On the morning of August 6, 2025, Ghana woke to the kind of news that drains the colour from the day.
A Ghana Air Force helicopter — carrying some of the nation’s most devoted public servants — had gone down.
On board were the Defence Minister, Dr Edward Omane Boamah, the Environment, Science and Technology Minister, Dr Mohammed Murtala, the Deputy National Chairman of the ruling NDC, Mr. Samuel Aboagye, Deputy National Security Coordinator, Dr Alhaji Muniru, Deputy Director General NADMO, Squadron Leader, Peter Anala, Flying Officer Ampadu, and Sergeant Addo Mensah.
Their mission was urgent and patriotic.
They were heading to Obuasi to attend a high-level function aimed at curbing ‘Galamsey’ — the illegal mining that eats away at the land and poisons the rivers.
It was a journey about the nation’s future, its soil, its water, its dignity.
The weather was poor, the skies dim with haze, but there was no storm, only the kind of quiet danger that hides in low clouds. Somewhere between the capital and Obuasi, the helicopter went off the radar. Calls went unanswered. Efforts to reach the crew failed.
Hours later, search teams found what the country dreaded.
In the thick forest, the aircraft lay scattered in pieces.
There had been fire.
The passengers had been burnt beyond recognition, their remains strewn among twisted metal and shattered rotor blades.
A mission interrupted not by politics, but by fate.
Today, those lives lay under flags — red, gold, and green, each one breathing faintly in the wind, as though reluctant to say goodbye.
In the front row, a widow clutched her husband’s medal as though it could keep him from slipping away entirely.
Her lips moved silently; a prayer, a promise, or maybe both. Beside her, a little boy in a suit too large leaned forward and whispered,
“Is Daddy inside?”
No one answered.
A few seats away, a young officer lowered his head, hearing not the speeches but the echo of his squadron leader’s laugh, the one that could turn the longest night into something bearable.
The tributes came; words of honour, of duty, of sacrifice.
But the shades told another truth.
Behind them, eyes brimmed with tears, each one a story, each one a wound.
Some fell silently. Others fought to stay hidden, caught between pride and unbearable loss.
Then the bugle sounded its last note.
The coffins began their descent, the thud of soil against wood hitting harder than any speech.
And then came the wind.
It rose sudden and sharp, lifting dust into the air.
Hands reached up instinctively, sunglasses lifted from faces.
And just like that, the shields fell.
The truth was laid bare:
Eyes red and raw.
Faces unmasked.
Tears, free at last, catching the sunlight until they shone like tiny mirrors of the nation’s grief.
When the crowd began to leave, the shades went back on.
But glass cannot hide what the heart carries.
Even behind the darkest lenses, sorrow lives on.
And in every mirrored reflection, if you looked closely enough,
You could still see it
A country mourning together,
Its flood of tears behind the shades
By Cynthia Lekagme Maalisuo