"TWO GHANAIANS. TWO CRIMES. TWO JUSTICES.”

 

"TWO GHANAIANS. TWO CRIMES. TWO JUSTICES.”

Why our legal system must serve the many, not just the few.

I’m Honeybrowne Okaakyire, and as a teacher and blogger, I’ve long felt the tension between what we teach about justice and what many Ghanaians experience. Recently a social-media post caught my attention: on one side, an 18-year-old single mother jailed for allegedly stealing Milo and cloth, facing the loss of her inherited house because she cannot pay the required fine of ₵9,600. On the other side, a former deputy at the National Security Agency who allegedly posed as service personnel and stole millions — charged for stealing, yet walking free on bail. The post declares: “Politicians steal millions – they walk free. The poor steal to survive – they go to jail. This isn’t justice. It’s class protection.”

That depiction resonates deeply not just as a meme, but as a mirror of our society. Because beneath the headlines are questions: Is our law applied equally? Do the poor bear the brunt while the powerful escape? Does the lofty language of our Constitution match everyday reality?

The promise of equality under our law

Our founding legal document, the Constitution of the Republic of Ghana 1992 makes bold commitments. The Preamble declares that the people adopt this Constitution to secure “the blessings of liberty, equality of opportunity and prosperity.” 

Chapter 1 confirms:

“The Sovereignty of Ghana resides in the people of Ghana … this Constitution shall be the supreme law of Ghana and any other law found to be inconsistent … shall, to the extent of the inconsistency, be void.” 

Then there is Article 17:

 “All persons shall be equal before the law. A person shall not be discriminated against on the grounds of gender, race, colour, ethnic origin, religion, creed or social or economic status.” 

And Article 12(1) reinforces that:

 “Every person in Ghana … shall be entitled to the fundamental human rights and freedoms of the individual contained in this Chapter.” 

In simple terms: Ghana’s law says no one is above it; everyone must be treated equally; no one should be discriminated against because of social or economic status.

When equal rights meet unequal realities

Yet, as the social media post highlights, the reality often feels different. Consider the two contrasting cases:

A young single mother, still a teenager, accused of shop-theft, caught in a survival struggle, charged and jailed; her inherited house threatened because she cannot pay the fine.

A well-placed former official accused of major theft, walking free on bail, enjoying privileges while the case drags on.

Why do we shrug and not challenge the gap? Because the law may say “equality” but our lived experience often says “some are more equal than others”.

This isn’t merely anecdotal, it reflects structural issues: access to bail, quality of legal defence, speed of trial, ability to pay fines, visibility of the accused, and societal status. The poor often face delays, harsh sentencing, pre-trial detention; the wealthy invoke influence, delay, bail, legal sophistication.

As one legal commentary puts it: “Access to justice… requires the access to be adequate, effective and meaningful.”  Yet for many, justice is delayed, denied, or disparate.

Class protection by another name

When people steal because they’re hungry, because an economic system has failed them, because they inherited nothing, we say “crime”. And yet when the powerful loot millions, we call it “politics”, “business”, “corruption” and often it drags on. The message to the average Ghanaian is: “You can’t steal because you’ll go to jail; but if you’re in the club, you’ve got time.”

This is precisely what the social media poster means by “class protection”. A system that punishes survival theft harshly, but delays or exempts grand theft because of social status is not justice, it is protection of one class by the law, while another class bears the burden.

When the law is equally written but unequally enforced and felt, then trust in institutions erodes. When citizens see that one person is jailed for a loaf of bread, while the powerful roam free despite far greater theft, the message is clear: the law is not blind,  it is selective.

The human cost of selective justice

For the young mother, the consequences go beyond jail time. Losing a house inherited. Having a criminal record. The stigma. The impact on her child. The message to her community: you are expendable. You slip through the cracks.

For society at large, the cost is deep. When justice is perceived as unequal, the rule of law weakens. The law becomes a tool of oppression rather than protection. Citizens begin to take matters into their own hands: distrust of courts, vigilante justice, hopelessness. Trust in our institutions — the police, the courts, the prosecution, is undermined.

And when huge thefts go unresolved, the message to everyone: public office is a pathway to impunity, not service. That undermines democracy and moral life. As a teacher, I worry: what example do we present to our children? That the law serves the powerful? Or that it protects the powerless?

Why the Constitution demands more than words

The Constitution is more than a decorative document. It is meant to be enforceable. Article 2(1)(a) and (b) state that any person who alleges an enactment or act inconsistent with the Constitution “may bring an action in the Supreme Court for a declaration to that effect.” 

The supremacy of the Constitution means every law, policy and action must align with the rights it grants. 

Thus, when we see differential treatment based on economic status, we are seeing a departure from the principle of equality before the law. The law does not cease to bind the powerful; it must apply equally — or it fails.

What must we do?

As I reflect, I believe several things must happen:

1. Equal access to justice: For the young woman and for every Ghanaian, bail must be fair; legal representation accessible; trial delays minimized. The rule of law demands that justice delayed is justice denied.

2. Accountability for the powerful: When high-level theft is alleged, swift investigations, timely prosecutions, visible outcomes matter. Impunity erodes trust.

3. Transparent and proportional penalties: The law must be applied proportionately — stealing to survive vs. stealing millions are not morally equivalent. While theft is theft, society must discern scale, motive, context.

4. Public education and moral leadership: We as teachers, bloggers, community leaders must highlight these inequalities, teach students about their rights, and demand better.

5. Institutional reform: Courts, prosecution services, police, anti-corruption bodies must be empowered, resourced, and insulated from political interference. A strong, independent judiciary is central. 

6. Societal reflection: We must ask: what kind of society do we want? Do we accept “two Ghanaians. Two crimes. Two justices.”, or do we demand one Ghana, one law, one justice?

In my classroom

As I stand before my students, I ask them: What does justice mean? How do you feel when you hear of a person going to jail for a loaf of bread, and another evading trial for stealing millions? Are those outcomes fair? What message does it send?

I tell them: The law is supposed to protect you;  your right to live, to work, to own property, to expect fairness. The Constitution of the Republic of Ghana 1992 is clear: every person is equal before the law, no one discriminated against because of economic status. 

But rights unexercised, laws unenforced, institutions weak and those rights become hollow words. And when the disadvantaged bear the cost while the advantaged enjoy privilege, the moral fabric tears.

Conclusion: A call to our better selves

I close this reflection not with despair but with hope. Because Ghana has the tools: a constitution that proclaims equality; institutions built to safeguard rights; a citizenry that cares. What we lack is consistent will, at individual, institutional and societal levels to live by the promise of this Constitution.

When the next young mother in hardship sees that the law will protect her, not just the wealthy; when the next high-level official sees that the law will hold him accountable as easily as it does the poor,  then we will be closer to a Ghana where justice isn’t a slogan, but a lived reality.

“Two Ghanaians. Two crimes. Two justices.” That must not be our legacy. Let it instead be: one Ghana. One law. One justice. And let that justice rise for the hungry, the powerful, the young mother, the ex-official and for all.