Ghana faces a defining moment. The proposal to rename Kotoka International Airport has once again ignited passionate debates.

On one side, proponents see it as a vital step toward purging symbols of coups and instability, arguing that honoring Lieutenant-General Emmanuel Kwasi Kotoka—a key architect of the 1966 overthrow—undermines our democratic ethos. On the other, critics decry the move as needless revisionism, warning that it risks erasing complex historical layers and diverting attention from pressing economic woes. These contrasting views, while valid in highlighting the tension between progress and preservation, miss a deeper opportunity: any renaming effort that sidesteps Osagyefo Dr. Kwame Nkrumah is not just shortsighted but fundamentally half-baked.

Ghana stands at a pivotal moment in its post-colonial journey, one where Nkrumah’s visionary ideals of pan-African unity, self-reliance, and continental renaissance are not relics of the past but blueprints for the future. Consider the “Year of Return” in 2019 and its extension into “Beyond the Return”—initiatives that have drawn thousands of African descendants back to our shores, fostering economic ties, cultural reconnection, and a renewed sense of African pride.

Nkrumah’s clarion call for a united Africa, free from neo-colonial shackles, resonates profoundly with this renaissance. His foresight in championing the Organization of African Unity (now the African Union) aligns seamlessly with today’s push for intra-African trade via the AfCFTA and the global reckoning with historical injustices like the transatlantic slave trade. Renaming the airport after Kotoka’s coup victim—Ghana’s founding president—would not merely correct a historical anomaly, it would signal to the world that Ghana is reclaiming its narrative in an era where African agency is ascendant.

There is no better symbolism for diasporan returnees arriving in Ghana — where their ancestors, centuries prior were sold into slavery — than arriving to reclaim their heritage at Kwame Nkrumah International Airport.

The reluctance to center Nkrumah exposes a national habit of incompleteness, a pattern etched into our landscape. Look no further than the Kwame Nkrumah Mausoleum in Accra: a grand tribute to the Osagyefo, yet one that feels unfinished. In fact, my reading on the design, which resembles a broken pyramid, is meant to reflect both Nkrumah’s unfinished Pan-African vision and Ghana’s continuing journey after him.

I am not an expert in symbols and symbolsim, but I feel deeply that that symbolism is self-defeating. Spiritually, it may suggest we will never get anything completed; we will always be in a perpetual cycle of starting things and never completing. I digress. Back to the airport renaming.

Renaming the airport “Kwame Nkrumah International Airport” would be a bold act of completion, transforming our gateway to the world into a monument of triumph rather than division. It would honor the man who built the original airfield as part of his ambitious development agenda, ensuring that every arriving visitor encounters Ghana through the lens of its liberator, not its disruptors. Sometimes, it feels like we are only ones (I mean Ghanaians) belittling Nkrumah’s influence and impact on the African continent. But if only we could throw away our political lenses, his grandeur and vision would be visible to all of us.

A bold decision like changing the name of a country’s main international airport demands careful consultation to avoid partisan pitfalls, but let’s not let fear of controversy perpetuate half-measures. Ghana deserves a symbol that inspires unity and ambition, not one mired in the dark shadows of 1966. Kotoka did Ghana no good by masterminding Nkrumah’s overthrow. Let’s not split hairs about that. If Nkrumah had flaws at all, on hindsight, he was the best for Ghana and the Black race.

By embracing Nkrumah fully in this timely renaming agenda, we don’t just rename an airport—we complete a chapter, fortifying our role in Africa’s awakening. The time is now: let’s finish what we started!

Something seismic has just happened in Burkina Faso—and Africa, and the world, should be paying close attention.

With the stroke of a decree approved by the council of ministers, the military-led government of President Ibrahim Traoré has dissolved all political parties and scrapped the legal framework governing their existence. Party offices, assets, structures—gone. Transferred to the state. Politics, as Burkina Faso has known it for decades, has been put on pause.

This is not administrative housekeeping.
This is a fundamental rewrite of the political order.

The government’s justification is blunt: political parties, it says, have become engines of division, corruption, and elite self-interest. Too many parties, too little nation-building. Too much competition for power, too little service to the people. The solution, in Traoré’s view, is unity before politics—a state rebuilt first, elections later.

It is a message that resonates far beyond Ouagadougou.

Across Africa, fatigue with multiparty democracy is real. For millions, democracy has meant elections without electricity, constitutions without jobs, and politicians who rotate offices while poverty stays put. Against that backdrop, some are asking an uncomfortable question: If democracy has not delivered, why defend it so fiercely?

But history demands honesty—and honesty complicates the applause.

Africa also knows this story well. The suspension of political parties has often been the opening chapter in longer, darker books: prolonged military rule, shrinking civic space, silenced dissent, and leaders who promise transition but grow comfortable with control. Coups, too, have a long and disappointing record. They rarely end as advertised.

And yet—this is where Burkina Faso unsettles easy conclusions.

Traoré is not governing like yesterday’s coup leaders. His administration has moved aggressively on national sovereignty: reclaiming control over resources, rejecting external political tutelage, pushing self-reliance, and speaking a language of dignity that resonates deeply with a generation raised on the failures of dependency. Crucially, many Burkinabè appear to be backing him—not out of fear, but belief.

This is what makes the moment dangerous and fascinating.

Is dissolving all political parties the first step toward authoritarian consolidation?
Or is it an audacious—if risky—attempt to reset a political system that many believe was never truly democratic to begin with?

From Accra to Addis Ababa, from Paris to Washington, observers will rush to label this move. But Burkina Faso is not a textbook case; it is a country at war with insurgency, burdened by history, and searching—desperately—for a model that works for itself.

Still, power without pluralism is power unchecked. And no matter how popular a leader may be today, the absence of political competition tomorrow raises a simple, enduring question: who watches the watcher?

Burkina Faso now stands at a fork in the road. One path leads to a genuine, time-bound reconstruction of the state, followed by a return to accountable civilian rule—stronger, leaner, and more rooted in the people. The other leads to a familiar African tragedy: revolutionary rhetoric giving way to permanent exception.

Which path Traoré chooses will define not just his legacy, but Burkina Faso’s place in Africa’s political future.

This is not a moment for blind praise or reflexive condemnation. It is a moment for vigilance, debate, and clear-eyed realism.

A reset may be necessary.
But history warns: when politics disappears, it rarely stays gone quietly.

The question now is not whether Burkina Faso has changed.
It has.

The question is whether this change will liberate the state—or outgrow the consent of its people.

President Donald Trump’s casual dismissal of a sharp drop in the US dollar may play well to a domestic political gallery, but it should worry the rest of the world.

When the leader of the world’s largest economy signals comfort—even approval—with a weakening currency, markets listen. And they react.

On Tuesday, January 27, 2026, the US dollar recorded its steepest single-day fall since last year’s tariff-driven market turmoil, dropping as much as 1.2 percent. Asked whether he was concerned, Trump waved it off.

“The dollar’s doing great,” he said, pointing instead to business activity and trade. Investors, however, heard something else entirely: a green light to keep selling.

This matters because the dollar is not just another national currency. It is the backbone of the global financial system, involved in nearly 90 percent of all foreign exchange transactions worldwide. Its dominance underpins global trade, commodity pricing, sovereign debt markets, and central bank reserves. When confidence in the dollar weakens, the shockwaves travel far beyond US borders.

Trump’s remarks did not occur in a vacuum. The dollar has been under pressure for months, weighed down by policy uncertainty, renewed tariff threats, and persistent political pressure on the US Federal Reserve. Add to that the administration’s unpredictable foreign policy signals—from aggressive trade posturing to controversial geopolitical ambitions—and investors are increasingly questioning the long-term stability of US economic stewardship.

For emerging and developing economies, including Ghana, the implications are complex. On one hand, a weaker dollar can ease the burden of dollar-denominated debt and reduce the cost of imports priced in US currency. On the other, sharp or disorderly dollar declines can trigger global market volatility, disrupt capital flows, and unsettle export competitiveness. Financial instability rarely respects borders.

There is also a deeper concern: credibility. Reserve currencies rely as much on trust as on economic size. When political leaders appear indifferent to currency stability—or worse, view depreciation as a strategic tool—they risk undermining that trust. History shows that once confidence erodes, it is difficult to restore.

Trump’s relaxed tone may reflect a belief that a cheaper dollar boosts US exports and domestic manufacturing. But global finance is not a zero-sum game played on soundbites. Sudden or sustained dollar weakness can ripple through stocks, bonds, credit markets, and commodities, amplifying risks at a time when the global economy is already navigating fragile recoveries, geopolitical tension, and high debt levels.

For policymakers outside the United States, the lesson is clear: diversify risk, strengthen regional trade, and reduce overdependence on any single currency system. For investors, vigilance is essential. And for Washington, a reminder is overdue—the privilege of issuing the world’s dominant currency comes with responsibilities, not just political convenience.

The dollar’s slide may not yet signal the end of its dominance. But complacency from the White House is hardly reassuring. When the anchor of global finance starts to drift, the world cannot afford a captain who shrugs.