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The Erosion of Institutional Integrity in Ghana’s Parliament
What unfolded during a recent budget presentation was not merely an isolated incident of misbehavior; it was a glaring symptom of a legislature that has fundamentally lost its sense of institutional purpose. The spectacle was evident for all to see: a member seated directly behind the Finance Minister engaging in a running commentary as if the chamber were a public transport station, late arrivals creating a commotion, and Members of Parliament audibly laughing and chatting while the nation’s fiscal direction was being articulated. This is not indicative of a young democracy grappling with growing pains; rather, it suggests an institution that has ceased to take itself seriously.
The broader context underscores this concern. Ghana’s Parliament typically convenes for a relatively short legislative calendar, roughly 80 to 100 days per year—a figure on the lower end even among African legislatures. Despite this light schedule, attendance during critical addresses often falls short of full capacity, and disciplinary actions for misconduct are virtually non-existent. Over the thirty years of the Fourth Republic, Parliament has invoked its most severe disciplinary sanction, suspension, only a handful of times. This contrasts sharply with the British House of Commons, where dozens of MPs have faced naming, suspension, or removal from the chamber for breaches far milder than what has become the norm in Ghana. This disparity is not cultural; it is distinctly institutional.
An uncomfortable truth must also be addressed: the Speaker of Parliament, Alban Bagbin, has not consistently elevated standards. His leadership frequently veers towards theatricality, injecting spectacle rather than anchoring seriousness. His apparent fixation on attire, wardrobe experimentation, and public emphasis on sartorial expression has transformed the Speakership into a personalized performance. Consequently, the chamber increasingly mirrors this looseness; its rituals begin to resemble a stage performance rather than the solemn proceedings of a legislative body. When MPs adopt fashion choices more suitable for social outings than for governance, they are, in essence, responding to cues from the very top.
Illustrative incidents include the 2021 heated sitting where MPs broke into spontaneous group singing within the chamber, publicly rationalized as tradition. Yet, no functioning legislature on record—neither South Africa’s National Assembly, nor Kenya’s Parliament, nor the British Commons—permits spontaneous choral performances during parliamentary business. This is not culture; it is rudeness, a ritualization of unseriousness. That same evening saw two MPs engage in a physical altercation over the Speaker’s chair. These are not isolated events; they are interconnected pieces of a larger, troubling narrative.
A Tale of Two Standards: Discipline for Youth, Leniency for Lawmakers
What makes this institutional misalignment particularly painful is the rigorous enforcement of standards elsewhere in Ghana. Over 900,000 students across the country attend secondary schools under stringent codes of discipline. Haircut policies are enforced daily. Students at esteemed institutions like Achimota School, PRESEC, Wesley Girls, and countless others have faced sanctions for uniform violations or grooming infractions. UPSA students were recently publicly admonished for inappropriate dressing, with the university emphasizing that “professionalism begins with comportment and appearance.” In many of these educational institutions, lateness results in detention, and talking during assembly can lead to punishment. Children, in essence, inhabit a universe governed by clear rules. Meanwhile, the adults tasked with writing national laws inhabit a chamber where rules appear to bend to convenience, costume, mood, and personal whim.
This dichotomy represents the most corrosive aspect of the problem. A society’s governing class cannot credibly demand discipline from its youth while simultaneously modeling indiscipline at the highest levels. Norms inevitably flow downward. When Parliament fails to discipline itself, it inadvertently licenses broader public disorder and a collective disregard for rules.
Against this backdrop, Finance Minister Cassiel Ato Forson’s presentation style during the budget address was a rare instance of normal statecraft: business-formal attire, a quiet and respectful presence, and an acknowledgement of the solemnity of the occasion. This should be the baseline expectation. Instead, it stood out precisely because the surrounding environment had sunk so far beneath the threshold of professional conduct.
Consider the empirical implications of this breakdown. Countries with strong legislative discipline tend to exhibit more stable fiscal performance. The OECD has repeatedly documented that parliaments operating with coherent rules, predictable procedures, and high behavioral standards are associated with better budget scrutiny and lower variance between projected and actual expenditures. Ghana, in stark contrast, has experienced persistent expenditure overruns, averaging between 2 and 3 percent of GDP annually over the past decade. While one cannot draw a simple causal arrow, the correlation should deeply concern anyone invested in sound governance. A legislature incapable of maintaining order within its own ranks cannot effectively maintain oversight. When oversight collapses, waste inevitably rises.
The deeper indictment is structural. Parliament is designed to be the anchor of democratic culture. Instead, it has become a case study in how institutional decay manifests: first in symbols, then in behavior, and ultimately in tangible outcomes. When the Speaker presents the chamber as an arena for personal flair, MPs respond in kind. When MPs sing, banter, wander, and laugh through national business, they signal that governance is secondary to performance. And when schoolchildren demonstrate better decorum than national lawmakers, the republic has tragically inverted its own moral hierarchy.
The people’s house deserves seriousness. It merits leadership that comprehends that attire is not entertainment, that ritual is not improvisation, and that a national budget presentation is not a casual gathering. What was witnessed was not merely embarrassing; it was diagnostic. A legislature that cannot respect its own work cannot, in turn, command the respect of the nation. Until Parliament genuinely restores its standards—real standards, not merely symbolic posturing—Ghana will continue to bear the institutional cost of a political class that has forgotten the profound meaning of the roles it holds.
