In a move that has sent shockwaves through the pious precincts of Accra, Ghana’s anti-LGBTQ+ bill, that magnificent monument to legislative bigotry, now finds itself teetering on the precipice of presidential scrutiny. President Nana Akufo-Addo, a man who has thus far managed to triangulate his way through every moral minefield with the grace of a concussed gazelle, has finally been cornered into a decision that will define his legacy. Or at least his next election cycle.
The bill, which would criminalise not just same-sex relations but also any form of advocacy for LGBTQ+ rights, has been cheerfully endorsed by parliament, that august body of men whose collective understanding of human rights could be inscribed on the back of a postage stamp. They have called it a defence of ‘Ghanaian culture,’ a phrase that invariably translates to ‘we watched the Americans do it in the 1950s and thought it looked jolly good fun.’
But now the President must decide: sign the bill into law, thereby cementing his status as a champion of the moral majority, or veto it and risk being labelled a puppet of Western decadence. It is a dilemma that would test the political nous of Machiavelli himself. Fortunately, Akufo-Addo has the nous of a man who has spent far too long listening to his own speeches.
The bill’s supporters, led by a coalition of clerics and politicians whose hypocrisy is matched only by their fervour, argue that it is necessary to protect the nation’s children from the ‘gay agenda.’ One imagines this agenda involves a lot of monogrammed tote bags and immaculate interior design. But the real fear, the whispered dread in the corridors of power, is that the bill might actually be signed, and then what? The international community, those fickle patrons of human rights, might cut aid, impose sanctions, or, worse, write disapproving editorials in The Guardian.
The President, for his part, has been conspicuously silent, a tactic he learned from watching a cat watch a laser pointer. He has referred the bill to the Attorney General for ‘constitutional advice,’ a bureaucratic euphemism meaning ‘please find a way to kick this can down the road until everyone forgets about it.’ But the road is short in Accra, and the can is beginning to rattle.
Meanwhile, the LGBTQ+ community in Ghana, those brave souls who insist on existing despite the best efforts of their government, wait in a limbo that is part hope, part terror. They have seen this play before, in Uganda, in Nigeria, in any number of nations where the state has decided that love is a crime. They know that even if the President vetoes the bill, the parliament can override him with a two-thirds majority. They know that the bill is merely the tip of a very ugly iceberg.
But what is a journalist to do in the face of such absurdity? Pour a gin, neat, and write. For in the end, the only weapon against the tyranny of the banal is the bitter laughter of satire. And perhaps, just perhaps, the quiet courage of a President who decides that the arc of the moral universe is long, but it is not for sale.
For now, we wait. The gin is cold. The story is hot. And Ghana’s moral crusaders are about to discover that the pen, even if it is attached to a president, is mightier than the homophobic sword.
