“We All Must Work in Accra and Under Air Conditioning; Nobody Should Be Called Grassroots and Foot Soldier”

—By Francis Appiah

They say “when the roots rot, the tree cannot stand.” But somehow, in our beloved NDC, some people want to swing from the tree like monkeys enjoying bananas, while others are buried deep in the soil, suffocating under the weight of promises and party songs.

Let’s speak plainly: This thing called “grassroots”, who invented it? And why do the roots of the grass always suffer while the grass up top grows green and proud? When last did the top grass ask the root, “Are you okay down there?” Oh, but remember, “the hen that scratches the ground for food does not forget the foot that dug the soil.”

Our party claims to be social democratic. That’s a sweet thing to hear on a political platform. But social democracy cannot survive on hunger and WhatsApp good morning stickers alone. When elections come, everyone becomes “comrade,” but after victory, some comrades become conference room champions, while others are left to guard party offices with empty stomachs and one pair of worn-out trousers.

Why is it that only some get to wear suits in Accra, bask under air conditioning, and drive V8s, while others are called foot soldiers, as if our destiny is to march barefoot forever? The same people you now call “foot soldiers” are the ones who shouted till their voices cracked, ran from police, donated from their last GHC10, and slept on benches in the name of mobilization.

But now? Their calls are ignored. Left on blue ticks like ghosted exes. Even grass gets water. But your so-called “grassroots”? They are drying up like Monday bank accounts.

Let’s reflect:

Grassroots are not grass.

They are the roots of the grass.

And no matter how green the grass looks on top, it’s the roots that do the work — struggling in the dirt, breaking through rocks, hunting nutrients so the top can shine.

And yet… the roots remain dirty while the grass gets the praise.

We can’t all get green letters from party executives — we understand. But whose responsibility is it to water the roots? Whose job is it to check the soil, nourish the base, and keep the grassroots alive and strong?

A party that neglects its roots is like a farmer who eats his own seeds — tomorrow, there will be nothing to harvest. Let those who feel they’ve reached the greener side because they got letters, positions, and protocol passes remember: the roots are watching. And they are getting wiser.

One day, the roots may just refuse to feed the grass.

So as for this foot soldier title — we resign. We all must work in Accra and under air conditioning too.

And now to end it sweet and strong, hear this rhyme by Francis Appiah:

You drank from our sweat, now sipping your tea,

But forget not the roots that made you a tree.

When your calls don’t get answered, don’t be surprised,

The roots you ignored have now become wise.

So lift us up, don’t keep us down,

We wore your party like a royal crown.

No more foot soldiers, no more stress,

We all want jobs—and air-conditioned desks!