There are many ways a boy learns about power. Some encounter it in books; others hear it whispered in the stories of elders. But at Mfantsipim, in the year 1989, we lived it—raw, unfiltered, and dangerously real.
The school’s mock parliament, conceived as a simple academic exercise, ended up mirroring the deeper currents of Ghana’s political history—military takeovers, interim governments, suspicions of coups, and the uneasy balance between authority and civilian rule. What we thought would be a simulation became, in effect, a lived experience of governance in miniature.
It began innocently enough: a structured attempt to teach us the workings of democracy and statecraft. Roles were assigned, processes outlined, and timelines agreed upon. Yet, as is often the case when power is introduced into eager hands, the exercise quickly outgrew its script.
The cadet corps took charge.
Almost overnight, they assumed control of the school. Their commander became Head of State with striking ease. Addy Morton, cast as Chief Justice, swore in Swele under an air of solemn authority that felt, in that moment, entirely real. We were no longer just students—we were citizens of a newly imagined republic.
As for me, I had no ambitions in governance. As a junior boy, I worked in the sports prefects’ room—High Tension—on the middle floor of Bartels/Sneath. The name was apt. Those early days remain dear to me, shaped by affable seniors like Prefect George Asafo Adjaye and Seniors Gotha Washington, Anaman, Yusif, and Yakubu, who looked after us with a quiet generosity.
It was in that very space that Swele, the Head of State, was housed. By mere proximity, not intention, I—and other middle floor boys—found ourselves absorbed into the cadet structure, co-opted without ceremony into the workings of this interim regime.
The mandate was clear: organize elections within a week and transfer power to a civilian government. Straightforward in theory—but power, even borrowed, rarely behaves simply.
Suspicion soon crept in.
The cadet leadership, perhaps intoxicated by authority, began to perceive threats where none existed. Popular students were rounded up, accused of plotting a coup d’état. Their trial was swift, theatrical, and chilling in its certainty. Guilty verdicts were delivered without hesitation; sentences pronounced — death by firing squad.
But this was still school.
In place of bullets, there was kenkey.
The condemned were lined up in front of the Locoshua chopbox room and pelted with balls of kenkey. It was absurd, even humorous on the surface. Yet beneath the laughter lay discomfort—a quiet awareness that even symbolic injustice carries weight.
By the third day, the fragile order began to crack.
The turning point came in the dining hall during lunch. A group of Form Four boys, led by Zadok and Sabebe, launched a coup attempt.
Sabebe was the least expected figure—a first-class dadaba, gentle, quiet, and unassuming. He sat close to Swele, who stood holding the Staff of Office—a bodua, the symbol of his authority.
Then, in a moment that defied all expectations, Sabebe struck.
He lunged forward and snatched the bodua.
Time seemed to pause.
Then came chaos.
Swele reacted instantly, pouncing on him to reclaim authority. The dining hall erupted—shouts, confusion, bodies in motion. Zadok escaped through a window near the entrance, shattering the louvre blades in his flight.
The consequences were immediate and sobering.
Junior boys—Form Ones—were caught in the disorder. Some were injured, others visibly shaken. Among them was Dela Dovi Dotse. What had begun as play had crossed into something far more real.
And just like that, it ended.
Mr. Hope intervened. The mock parliament was suspended and quietly dissolved. Our republic collapsed as suddenly as it had emerged.
In hindsight, that week was more than youthful exuberance—it was a profound education.
We learned that power is seductive. It elevates, transforms, and often distorts. Ordinary individuals, once given authority, can quickly blur the line between leadership and control.
We saw how unchecked power breeds excess. Suspicion replaced justice; fear became a tool of governance. The mock trials and “executions,” though symbolic, revealed how fragile fairness becomes in the absence of due process.
We learned, too, that leadership demands restraint. True authority lies not in command alone, but in judgment, humility, and accountability.
Above all, we discovered the fragility of systems. Structures, however well-designed, collapse without trust and legitimacy. Order is not sustained by power—it is sustained by consent.
Our schoolyard drama reflected the broader trajectory of Ghana’s political past. The echoes were unmistakable—military regimes, transitional governments, and the long journey toward constitutional democracy.
The cadet leadership mirrored military rule: disciplined, decisive, yet prone to excess. The planned elections reflected national aspirations for democratic governance. The attempted coup illustrated the instability that arises when institutions are weak and power is contested.
Even Mr. Hope’s intervention symbolized restoration—the reassertion of order after chaos, much like a nation reclaiming its balance after turbulence.
We were, in essence, reenacting a national story—without fully realizing it.
As Mfantsipim celebrates 150 years of excellence, that episode from 1989 offers more than memory—it offers mandate.
We were never meant to be passive observers. The school has always stood for leadership, discipline, and service. If, as boys, we could so vividly replicate the complexities of governance, then as men, we are expected to rise far above them.
The next 150 years call for more.
They demand leaders anchored in integrity. Men who value dialogue over domination, justice over expediency, and service over self. Men who will strengthen institutions, uphold fairness, and inspire trust.
Our boyhood republic failed—but in its failure, it revealed enduring truths.
As sons of Mfantsipim, we are called to embody discipline without oppression, authority without arrogance, and power without abuse. We are to be custodians not only of tradition, but of progress.
For if that fleeting experiment revealed who we were, the years ahead will reveal who we choose to become.
And that choice, now as then, remains ours.
- Read also
- Mfantsipim School @ 150 and Creech’s Mfantsipim Diaries: My First Shock
- Mfantsipim School @ 150 and Creech’s Mfantsipim Diaries: My second shock
- Mfantsipim School @ 150 and Creech’s Mfantsipim Diaries: Shock Number Three
- Creech’s Mfantsipim Diaries. My final shock
The writer is Philip Creech-Jones of MOBA 1992 (Mfantsipim Old Boys Association).
