When the Guitar Wept and Ghana Lost Her Voice: A Satirical Dirge for Daddy Lumba

When the Guitar Wept and Ghana Lost Her Voice: A Satirical Dirge for Daddy Lumba

In the beginning was the voice. And the voice was honey, and the honey was highlife.

Then came the day the guitar wept—six strings sobbing in E-flat minor—as if every chord Daddy Lumba ever played decided to retire without pension. The airwaves crackled. Hair salons stood still. And somewhere in Mampong, an old cassette tape rolled itself back in protest.

Ghana, we have a situation.

Daddy Lumba, the original Don Juan of the dancefloor, the Apostle of Amakye Dede-esque gospel flirtations, the man who invented akokɔ sa nkɔmɔ (chicken-talk-style seduction), is gone. Not to death, no—but to something far worse: musical silence.

For years, he sang what pastors dared not preach. He wore leather pants before it was legal in Ashanti households. He told married women to run—not walk—to their past lovers. Now, he’s left the studio, and we’re stuck with heartbreak songs from men who haven’t suffered enough.

We tried to summon him on Facebook Live. Nothing. Not even a cough from a hidden cigar.

People gathered in wigs and shades. One woman wore a red bandana with the words “Lumba 4 Eva” stitched with hot glue. Someone poured Alomo Bitters into a speaker in mourning. A man attempted a moonwalk in church. It was chaos. It was fitting.

Because Daddy Lumba was never just a man. He was a mood. A mischief. A melody with sideburns. His voice could mend marriages—and simultaneously destroy engagements. His lyrics aged like palm wine, sweet and dangerous.

Some say he’s in hiding, meditating on a comeback. Others believe he’s chilling with Kojo Antwi in a soundproof cloud. Wherever he is, one thing is certain: when Lumba doesn’t sing, Ghana doesn’t breathe right.

So we write this dirge not to bury him, but to awaken him.

Arise, Lumba! Pick thy wig and white boots! Let thy fingers fondle fretboards once more. Ghana needs saving—from love gone cold, from new musicians who rhyme “baby” with “lady” 27 times.

Until then, we wait. We mourn. We press play on "Theresa Abebrese" and whisper into the void:

“Lumba, are you there? Or is your guitar still crying?”