Once upon a time in Ghana

If you’ve ever wondered why your “Breaking News” feels suspiciously unbroken — or why juicy stories die quietly over buffet rice — here’s your reminder: the watchdog sometimes wags for whoever holds the fattest bone.

Read. Share. And next time you hear “Developing Story…” — check who paid for the silence first.

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CHAPTER 48:

MEDIA BRIBES — SILENCE FOR SALE

In the Republic of Uncommon Sense, the fourth estate is not just a watchdog — sometimes, it’s a well-fed puppy with a soft bark and an open mouth for the right brown envelope. Here, bad news can be buried deeper than a ghost project, so long as the envelope is heavy and the handshake is discreet.

The ritual starts in the newsroom. A bold young reporter stumbles on a juicy scandal — a missing fund, a ghost road, a cousin’s cousin siphoning millions through a fake contract. The editor smiles: “Good job! Tighten it up, get more facts.”

But before the headline hits the press, a text message buzzes. A quiet dinner is arranged. The “concerned party” appears — polite suit, polite grin, polite envelope.

The discussion dances around “errors in your angle” and “national security implications.” By dessert, the reporter’s scoop has been scooped into silence.

Sometimes, the bribe is not cash alone — it’s a cushy “consultancy gig,” a sudden trip abroad for a “workshop,” a brown envelope hidden under a folder after an “exclusive interview.” The envelope never asks awkward questions.

If the reporter refuses? They might watch their airtime quietly shrink, their byline vanish, their desk reassigned to soft stories about ribbon cuttings and birthday greetings for Honourable’s dog. News must pay the bills — and a stubborn truth-teller is bad for business when brown envelopes are good for rent.

Meanwhile, the public still tunes in, clutching their radios and scrolling news websites for “Breaking:…” They hear sanitized versions: big words, small truths, no names. The real scandal crawls back underground while headlines talk about “alleged discrepancies” and “ongoing investigations” that never find the light of day.

PR officers know this game too well. They host big men at press soirees, feed the press with buffet rice, soft drinks, and silent threats: play along, get your share. Push too hard? The ad budget vanishes, the next press conference forgets to invite you.

Sometimes, the bribe is subtle. A simple promise: “Run this for us — your station will get the exclusive next time.” Exclusive means: your mic records only what the sponsor wants to be heard, nothing more.

Meanwhile, the true stories live in hushed barbershop gossip, WhatsApp forwards, and sly satire columns that risk libel suits but survive on coded proverbs.

The real journalists? Some fight on with tiny platforms and tight budgets — mocked as troublemakers while the well-fed press lounges at gala dinners sponsored by the same big men they claim to scrutinize.

Once in a while, an exposé does slip through the cracks. A leaked tape, a rogue whistleblower, a brave soul who won’t be bought. The Republic gasps for a week, hashtags bloom, the scandal trends — but then the envelope machinery kicks in: hush money here, PR spin there, and by next month the same station runs an advert praising the same big man’s “visionary leadership.”

And we, the public, pretend shock: “The media has sold out!” But tomorrow, we’ll tune in again, shout our opinions at the radio, and forget that half the truths we crave are lounging in an envelope under someone’s lunch plate.

So next time you hear “Developing Story…” whisper a proverb for your sanity: “A drum that eats gifts will never beat the truth.”

In the land of Uncommon Sense, the press is free — until the envelope arrives.

Satirically yours,