Alhaji "Turncoat" Inusah Down And Out

Barely a year ago, the maverick politician, Alhaji Issaka Inusah, was in the news and all over the airwaves warning friends and foes of a strong political comeback. Today, February 14, 2003 in the year of our Lord, The ''Chronicle'' says the man who did an almost 360? political somersault on the eve of Election 2000 and promised Ghanaians a repeat of that feat very, very soon is politically down and out and without a clout.

In the last interview he had with this reporter in which he sounded that ludicrous notice, the eminent architect had observed that nothing had changed since John Agyekum Kufuor, Ghana’s President, took office. He was therefore warming up to deliver the political blows he was noted for, ostensibly to help tilt the political scales in favour of the opposition National Democratic Congress (NDC). But the message relayed all over the airwaves by the various FM stations had a boomerang effect.

A visit to the Alhaji’s house a week later by this reporter and a Choice FM man had drawn the ire of the Alhaji’s youngish wife.

''My husband is not going to grant any crazy reporter any crazy interview; I took him to the NDC, and I will be the one to take my Alhaji back to the New Patriotic Party (NPP).''

Charging at us with fire in her eyes, she screamed: ''Which of you was here the other day to conduct that silly interview with my husband? I will skin that person alive, if I get him.''

I froze stiff, like a slave in a dungeon.

''Madam, we just want a chat with him in our studios at Choice FM'', my colleague appealed.

''Gentlemen, I say get out of here before I do anything nasty.''

We had to make a beeline to civilization.

With that experience fresh in my mind, I entered the beautiful residence of the architect-turned-politician where I was met by two women; one black and bulbous and the other fair-skinned and cute. They were doing their late morning’s Islamic ritual.

Assured that the maverick was ''up there in his office,'' I quickly climbed upstairs with high hopes of getting a scoop, especially since the madam was not around.

Up there, I saw the Alhaji alone and looking absentmindedly into the empty space through one of the windows of a spacious office used by his apprentices.

The last time I was there, he was behind his computer cheerfully playing a game of some sort with his boys busily sketching architectural designs. Not only were the boys missing this time around, but also the place was dirty and dusty, and evidently in a state of neglect.

The Alhaji turned round with a start, but soon regained his composure and gave me the necessary compliments.

''Hey you, so long.''

''Yes sir, I happened to be passing along your lane, and decided to say hello… and to find out if you want to make a statement…''

He smiled, but it was a plastic one.

''No… Oh no,'' he faltered. ''I have no statement to make.''

''Fuel prices up by a hundred per cent.

You were pals with Kufuor and Rawlings.

You made news; you enjoyed the glare and glamour of public life, followed by TV crews; and you say, ‘no comment’ when it mattered most? I asked within me.

Looking him straight in the eyes, I bade him goodbye and descended towards the main gate only to notice that the usually busy business centre run by the madam of the house downstairs had also folded up. On its front glass was a notice that indicated that it was up for lease.

A local gossip told this reporter that the extroverted madam, unable to take the pressure from reporters, like the one from Choice FM ''had gone her somewhere'' in frustration, leaving the poor old Alhaji to ''sort himself out'' with the prying reporters.

The Alhaji is down and out. The man whose voice and words pumped fire and fear into the electorate refuses to talk.