Ghana’s ambitious bid to rewrite the rules of its democracy is finally taking shape. In Accra’s Parliament House and far beyond, a spirited campaign will soon be under way to update the 1992 Constitution – a document both celebrated for ushering in stability and criticized for entrenching old political habits. Years of intense consultations, cross-party bargaining, and civic agitation has culminated in a suite of reform proposals touching every branch of government. From the Presidency and Parliament to the judiciary, security forces, and local governance, nothing is off-limits. The process has been messy and momentum has waxed and waned, but the forces driving change have only grown stronger. Will 2026 be the year Ghana finally remakes its democratic charter? The answer lies in how the nation balances evolving civic expectations with institutional resistance, and political pragmatism with constitutional idealism.
A Long-Awaited Overhaul
On a humid January morning, a crowd gathers outside Black Star Square holding placards that read “Fix the Constitution Now!” They are young and old, drawn together by a shared sense that Ghana’s Fourth Republic – now three decades old – needs renewal. The current Constitution, hurriedly crafted in 1992 after years of military rule, was designed to safeguard against abuses by over-entrenching certain provisions. Presidential term limits, multi-party democracy, and fundamental freedoms were treated as sacred cows insulated from easy amendment. That caution served Ghana well through peaceful turnovers of power, but it also made even beneficial changes extraordinarily difficult. Previous attempts at reform, notably a 2010 constitutional review commission, produced hundreds of recommendations that largely languished. As a new generation grew impatient with persistent problems – winner-takes-all politics, unaccountable officials, centralization of power – public pressure for change hit a boiling point.
It was against this backdrop that the government empaneled a new Constitutional Review Committee. Over the past year it crisscrossed the country collecting thousands of submissions, determined that no single party or personality would hijack the agenda. “No recommendation would be made that gives any particular person or political party an unfair advantage,” the Committee vowed. The resulting reform package is sweeping. It seeks nothing less than to “move Ghana from electoral democracy to developmental democracy” – shifting the focus from zero-sum electioneering toward accountable governance that delivers for citizens. It is an effort steeped in optimism about what Ghana’s democracy can become, yet tempered by realism about the mistakes of the past. Every proposal bears the fingerprints of hard trade-offs and lessons learned from prior failures.
Power and the Presidency
At the heart of the reform movement is a bid to rebalance what many call Ghana’s “imperial presidency.” The 1992 Constitution vested sweeping appointive powers in the executive and bound the legislature tightly to the president’s coattails. After decades of patronage-driven politics, a chorus of voices – from opposition figures to civil society – has clamored to refocus the presidency on leadership rather than largesse. The new proposals respond in kind. They boldly call for extracting the President from Parliament: no longer would Members of Parliament double as Ministers of State. By barring MPs from ministerial appointments and even blocking them from resigning their seat mid-term to take such a post, the reform aims to end the built-in incentive for legislators to kowtow to the executive for plum positions. This separation of powers is a lofty ideal – one observers say could empower Parliament to hold the President to account – but it faces pragmatic hurdles. Both major parties have grown accustomed to the president’s Cabinet including MPs (which effectively guarantees a parliamentary majority), and convincing them to relinquish that leverage will require a strong bipartisan pact.
Other presidency reforms signal a careful blend of continuity and change. The sacrosanct two-term limit for presidents remains untouched – no Ugandan-style or Ivorian-style third term agenda here. “We find no need to extend the two-term limitation,” the Committee flatly states, reassuring a public that cherishes the principle of “eight years and out.” Instead, the tweak is to lengthen each term from four to five years. This redefinition of term length, if adopted, would give Ghanaian leaders a decade at most to leave their mark, addressing complaints that a four-year cycle barely gives time to implement policies before election fever returns. Yet it raises its own tension: will a five-year term enhance long-term planning or simply delay the moment voters can eject a failing leader? Ghanaians seem willing to take that gamble, given the perpetual stop-go of development projects under the current cycle.
Symbolism runs high in the presidency reforms. The President would lose the extravagant perk of tax-free status – a clear nod to egalitarian sentiment that no officeholder should be above the basic obligations of citizenship. Presidential salaries and benefits, along with those of other top officials, would be set by an Independent Emoluments Commission rather than by politicians themselves, potentially curbing the notorious “ex gratia” awards that have angered the public. Even the President’s post-office immunities would shrink: future ex-Presidents could be sued for personal actions any time after leaving office and even prosecuted within four years of stepping down for crimes committed outside official duties. These measures reflect an evolving civic expectation that leaders be treated as servants of the people, not untouchable royalty.
Getting there, however, demands navigating the minefield of political pragmatism. Every president elected under the current system – whether from the New Patriotic Party (NPP) or the National Democratic Congress (NDC) – has found the broad executive powers useful once in office. Will a sitting President champion changes that clip the wings of the presidency? Tellingly, both major parties have at times promised such reforms in opposition, only to demur in government. The hope in 2026 is that unprecedented public pressure, channeled through campaigns like the youth-led #FixTheCountry movement, has altered the calculus. With voters openly challenging what they call “business-as-usual” politics, a smart incumbent might see more to gain by embracing reform as a legacy achievement than by stalling it.
Parliament: From Rubber Stamp to People’s Forum
If the presidency has long loomed large, Parliament has often been derided as a rubber stamp – hobbled by ruling-party dominance, lack of resources, and the sheer lure of the executive branch. The reform package aims to transform Parliament into a more assertive, people-centered institution. One proposal literally stops the growth of the legislature in its tracks: capping the number of constituencies at the current 276 seats to halt the decadal ballooning of MPs. For a country whose Parliament expanded from 200 seats in 1992 to 275 today, this cap is not just about saving costs; it is a statement that representation should be about quality, not quantity. By pairing it with instructions for the Electoral Commission to redraw boundaries more equitably and prevent grossly uneven constituency sizes, the reform tackles a subtle weakness of Ghana’s democracy – malapportionment that overweights some communities and underrepresents others.
Behind these technical fixes lies a deeper shift in civic expectations. Ghanaians are demanding that MPs earn their keep. Proposed amendments would compel MPs to hold non-partisan town hall meetings with constituents at least once every recess – effectively writing into the Constitution a duty for lawmakers to regularly face the people who elected them. New conflict-of-interest rules would prohibit MPs from moonlighting on the boards of public corporations or acting as lawyers in cases against the state. Taken together, these changes push MPs to prioritize their role as lawmakers and constituency representatives over personal business interests or partisan jockeying for executive favor.
Notably, Parliament’s own rules of procedure come in for an overhaul, reflecting lessons from past abuses. No longer would critical bills be rushed through overnight using the “certificate of urgency” without due scrutiny: the reforms mandate a strict definition of what counts as urgent (true emergencies like natural disasters or security crises) and require bipartisan approval before fast-tracking any bill. They even insist on some minimum public consultation period even for urgent bills. Likewise, constitutional amendment bills – once nearly smuggled through via secret ballots – would now require open, recorded votes in Parliament, so citizens can hold their representatives accountable for how they would rewrite the nation’s charter. And in a move cheered by civil society, MPs (or groups of MPs) would finally be empowered to introduce Private Member’s Bills on their own initiative, ending the virtual monopoly the executive once had over legislation. This renaissance of the legislature is designed to fix an institutional weakness that has long skewed Ghana’s checks and balances.
Still, one might ask: will Parliament truly vote for changes that, in some cases, curtail its own comforts? Consider the proposal to scrap the generous end-of-term ex gratia gratuity and replace it with a contributory pension scheme for legislators. The current arrangement of hefty lump-sum payments every four years has sparked public outrage – each outgoing Parliament seems to award itself a richer send-off than the last – yet MPs have fiercely defended it as fair compensation for their service. To see MPs legislate away their golden parachute would mark a triumph of constitutional idealism over self-interest. Early signs are encouraging: opposition and ruling party backbenchers alike have publicly acknowledged that the perception of self-enrichment is eroding trust in Parliament. In an election year, neither side wants to be seen as obstructing reforms that a majority of voters support in principle. The real test will come when these broad ideas translate into specific constitutional amendment bills on the floor – an environment where partisan calculations can suddenly resurface. The reforms’ drafters deliberately tried to build in cross-party appeal, framing many changes (like the five-year parliamentary term to match the president’s term[23]) as even-handed improvements to governance rather than wins for one party or another. The coming debates will reveal whether Ghana’s politicians can seize this reformist moment or retreat into the familiar trenches of majority vs. minority rivalry.
Rethinking Elections and Political Parties
Perhaps the most ambitious – and contentious – proposals are those targeting the electoral system and party politics. Ghana’s elections are vigorous and generally free, but they have grown “cash-and-carry” expensive and occasionally violent, with tightly centralized parties and winner-take-all stakes. The reform blueprint confronts these issues head-on. It floats the possibility of introducing proportional representation elements to Parliament to broaden inclusion. Although it stops short of mandating a new electoral system, it urges an independent study into adopting some form of PR in Ghana’s presidential system – a hint that the days of smaller parties being entirely shut out of Parliament could be numbered. This is a nod to evolving civic expectations that women, youth, and minority voices should have a bigger platform in lawmaking, even if they cannot win single-member constituencies easily. Proportional representation has long been a darling of political idealists in Ghana, though viewed warily by the big two parties who benefit from first-past-the-post. By punting the decision to a future expert commission, the reformers show pragmatism: they seek consensus on studying PR rather than fighting over its immediate adoption.
More concrete is the plan to shine sunlight on the murky world of campaign finance and party funding. A new independent Registrar of Political Parties and Campaigns (provisionally named the IRRPC) would take over from the Electoral Commission the responsibility of registering and regulating parties. This body, conceived with the same constitutional independence as the EC itself, would have teeth: it could monitor and enforce party finance laws, sanction parties that violate rules, and even “proscribe specified anti-democratic activities” like vigilante militia groups or vote-buying sprees. For a country that has seen intra-party “macho men” and monetized primaries become fixtures of its politics, such an agency could be a game-changer. The IRRPC would also oversee a proposed Democracy Fund to support parties’ policy development and civic education work – an incentive for parties to focus on ideas over patronage. Crucially, Parliament is tasked to pass laws limiting campaign spending, capping the length of official campaigns (e.g. no more than 3–4 months of campaigning before an election), and mandating transparency in all political donations and expenditures. If implemented, Ghana could see an end to the currently endless, costly electioneering cycle and the rampant abuse of incumbency – for example, using state resources for partisan rallies – that has crept into practice.
These election-related reforms speak to institutional weaknesses that everyone knows but few have tackled: the spiraling cost of politics has priced out many qualified, honest people and strengthened the hand of moneyed interests. By regulating campaign finance, the proposals pit constitutional idealism directly against the entrenched interests of political financiers and big spenders. It is telling that both the NDC and NPP have at times decried the influence of money (especially when in opposition), yet neither has acted decisively when in power. Whether they can agree now on binding rules – say, to limit how much a party can charge for a candidacy or how much a candidate can spend on advertising – will depend on mutual trust. Each side fears unilateral disarmament. Here again, the reformers attempted a balancing act: rules would bind all parties equally and be enforced by an independent arbiter, not by one party wielding power over another. And measures like requiring that party primary elections be opened up to all party members rather than a select few delegates reflect pressure from party grassroots themselves, who feel kingmakers and money barons have too much sway. Should these changes pass, the symbolism would be profound – Ghana would be asserting that democracy is not just about the freedom to campaign, but the fairness and integrity of the campaign itself.
Meanwhile, the Electoral Commission – guardian of Ghana’s voting process – is slated for reform to bolster its independence and efficiency. In a move that raised some eyebrows, the proposals shrink the EC’s governing board from seven members to three (a Chair and two deputies). The rationale is that the four additional part-time commissioners have been an anomaly, introducing unnecessary political patronage into what should be a professional body. More critically, how those top three are appointed would change drastically. Under the new scheme, a reformed Council of State would lead an open recruitment and nominate a candidate for EC Chair or Deputy, with the President only formalizing the appointment after parliamentary approval. This inversion of the current process (where the President handpicks EC members with minimal consultation) is aimed at restoring public confidence in the referee of elections. Each commissioner would serve a single 10-year term and face a strict removal process insulated from politics. Recent years have seen fierce partisan suspicion of EC appointments – the opposition tends to view the incumbent President’s appointees as biased – so a more neutral appointment mechanism could secure buy-in from all sides. Yet one cannot ignore that implementing this would require the assent of a sitting President to give up direct control over one of his or her most prized patronage privileges. It may take significant cross-party guarantees (perhaps even a deal timed to come into effect after the next election) to overcome the inherent distrust. The silver lining: both major parties have been out of power before and know the sting of mistrusting the EC. That shared experience could provide the rare common ground needed to entrench a fairer system for choosing election commissioners.
Justice and the Courts: Independence or Isolation?
One of the most intricate reform areas – and one that epitomizes the tension between idealism and pragmatism – is the judiciary. Ghana’s judiciary has prided itself on professionalism, but not always on independence. The executive’s shadow looms in judicial appointments and administration, and recent controversies (such as divided opinions over election petition rulings) have dented public trust. The 2026 reform blueprint goes to great lengths to “restore trust in the institutions of accountability,” judiciary included. For starters, it seeks to recalibrate the appointment of judges, especially at the highest levels, to be more transparent and merit-based. No longer would Supreme Court justices be essentially handpicked by the President in consultation behind closed doors. Instead, when a Supreme Court vacancy arises, the Judicial Council must advertise the position and, in conjunction with a special committee of the Council of State, recommend two qualified candidates to the President. The President would then nominate one for parliamentary approval by simple majority. Similar processes are outlined for the Court of Appeal (with the Judicial Council leading the search and Parliament confirming nominees), while High Court judges would continue to be appointed on the advice of the Judicial Council but without legislative involvement. These procedures aim to insulate judicial appointments from pure political patronage and ensure a baseline of experience – for example, a Supreme Court justice must have at least 15 years at the Bar or on the appellate bench and an unblemished disciplinary record.
For the coveted position of Chief Justice, the reforms envision an even more rigorous selection. Upon a CJ’s retirement, the Judicial Council would publicly call for applications and vet candidates, the Council of State would conduct interviews and forward a shortlist of two or three ranked names, and the President could only nominate from that shortlist, again subject to parliamentary approval. In effect, Ghana’s most powerful judge would emerge from a competitive, multi-institutional vetting rather than the exclusive choice of the Head of State. This change speaks directly to the evolving expectation that justice must not only be done but be seen to be done by an impartial judiciary. Ghanaians remember past eras when the perception of bench-packing or partisan favoritism threatened the courts’ legitimacy. By capping the Supreme Court’s size at 15 justices (Chief Justice plus 14), the proposals also prevent any future government from simply creating new vacancies to fill with loyalists. These measures embody constitutional idealism: a judiciary above politics, chosen on merit and secure in tenure.
However, they also raise a delicate question – will Ghana’s political class willingly surrender its influence over the courts? The President and Parliament today have considerable sway in shaping the judiciary; curtailing that means asking politicians to trust a process that might one day frustrate their own interests. It might happen if both sides perceive the reforms as a mutual insurance policy for fair play (after all, each party could be out of power at some point and would benefit from neutral judges). Indeed, the package’s authors were clearly mindful of balance: they paired constraints on the President’s appointment power with new checks on the Chief Justice’s internal powers, signaling that no single actor should dominate the judicial realm.
Under the reforms, the Chief Justice would no longer sit astride every level of court. The Constitution would be amended to remove the CJ as a nominal member of the Court of Appeal and High Court, limiting that office to presiding over the Supreme Court. Furthermore, the Supreme Court itself would be split into two permanent divisions – one to hear constitutional cases and the other for appeals – with the Justices pre-assigned annually to each division. This innovative change aims to curb the CJ’s current prerogative of empaneling judges for each case, a practice critics argue can be abused to tilt outcomes. By publishing a fixed roster of which judges handle which cases (barring exceptional changes approved by the Judicial Council), the Court would bolster transparency and predictability in its proceedings. Additionally, new administrative heads are proposed for the Court of Appeal and for High Courts in each region (a President of the Court of Appeal and regional Supervising High Court Judges) to decentralize management away from the Chief Justice’s sole control. These reforms reveal an acute awareness of institutional weaknesses – specifically, the over-concentration of judicial administration in one office. By diffusing authority, they hope to prevent any single person from informally steering justice behind the scenes.
Alongside these structural fixes come tenure and removal provisions designed to fortify judicial independence. A Chief Justice would henceforth be limited to a single 10-year term (or age 70, whichever comes first). This means no more perpetual Chief Justices serving into their late 70s; it guarantees periodic renewal at the top and avoids scenarios where a government could inherit a CJ appointed two regimes ago. Yet a CJ who hits the 10-year cap early (say, appointed relatively young) could stay on as a regular Supreme Court Justice until retirement age, an incentive to attract younger, energetic candidates without prematurely ending their judicial careers. All other superior court judges would keep their tenure till the mandatory retirement ages (70 for appellate judges, 65 for High Court). Crucially, the grounds for removing any judge are clarified and unified – encompassing incapacity, gross misconduct, incompetence, or serious ethical breaches – and the process is moved firmly into a quasi-judicial, non-partisan domain. If a citizen or stakeholder files a removal petition against a Justice, it goes to the Council of State, which must make an initial merit assessment within a week. Should the case have prima facie merit, an independent tribunal of five is appointed, drawing members from varied institutions (retired judges, nominees of the President, Parliament, Public Services Commission, and National House of Chiefs). The President’s role is reduced essentially to formally suspending the judge during inquiry and acting on the tribunal’s recommendation at the end. By routing judicial discipline through a multi-body process with due process guarantees – rather than leaving it to presidential initiative as largely the case now – the reforms strive to safeguard judges from politically motivated ousters while still holding them accountable for misconduct.
To the average Ghanaian, these judicial reforms might sound arcane, but their symbolism is powerful. They say that even the highest judges should be selected and scrutinized in the open, that justice is not the private preserve of the elite. And notably, the package does not forget the material conditions for judicial independence: it amends the budgeting process to stop the President from unilaterally slashing the judiciary’s budget requests. Financial independence, as judges often remind, is the lifeblood of an autonomous judiciary. If Parliament adopts that amendment, the judiciary’s annual budget would reach the floor unaltered, letting legislators – in full public view – decide the courts’ funding, rather than quiet negotiations at the Presidency. Here again is that interplay of pragmatism and idealism: it recognizes that for lofty principles to mean something, mundane realities (like budgets) must align.
Security Forces Under Civilian Eyes
No constitutional review in Ghana can ignore the country’s history of coups and military interventions. Though the Fourth Republic has seen the military firmly under civilian rule, occasional incidents – soldiers policing civilian protests, or questions about the politicization of security agencies – remind Ghanaians that eternal vigilance is needed. The reform proposals accordingly seek to tighten constitutional safeguards around the security forces, reflecting an ideal of democratic control tempered by recent experiences. One striking recommendation is to consolidate all provisions on the armed forces, police, and related agencies into a single new chapter on Public Safety and Security. This is more than cosmetic; it would be anchored by a set of binding principles and values for security governance: affirming civilian supremacy, political neutrality of security services, respect for human rights, and proportional use of force. In short, the Constitution would explicitly instruct the military and police that their loyalty is to the Republic and the law, not to any faction or individual – a principle long assumed but rarely spelled out.
Beyond statements of principle, concrete measures aim to prevent misuse of the military in internal affairs. The proposals clarify that the Ghana Armed Forces exist primarily for national defense, and can only be deployed to aid civilian law enforcement in exceptional circumstances, and even then only at the formal request of the Police Council. Any such deployment must remain under police operational command, with parliamentary oversight, strict time limits, and adherence to the same rules that bind police officers. This is a direct response to concerns that have cropped up in recent years – for example, during election periods or lockdown enforcement, soldiers were occasionally seen performing policing roles, prompting public unease. The new constitutional language would make it unequivocal that soldiers on the streets are an absolute last resort. Simultaneously, it imposes a positive obligation on the state to equip and maintain the Police Service adequately so that civilian authorities can handle their security mandate without needing to call in the troops. In a way, it is an idealistic promise – better resourced police, less temptation to militarize domestic security – but one grounded in the pragmatic lesson that under-resourced police often lead governments to lean on the army, with all the dangers that entails.
The governance of the security services also comes under scrutiny. The Police Council, which oversees the service, currently includes a mix of presidential appointees and institutional representatives. The reform suggests tweaking its composition (and that of corresponding Regional Police Committees) by replacing the Ghana Bar Association’s representative with a senior lawyer chosen by the President or regional authorities. Ostensibly this is to inject relevant expertise, though some civil society voices have raised eyebrows that removing an independent Bar nominee might weaken oversight. Similar adjustments are proposed for the Prisons Service Council and regional committees. These changes are relatively minor in the grand scheme, but they underscore a theme: the government wants councils that manage security bodies to be both expert and insulated from overt partisanship (whether that goal is achieved by shifting who nominates a lawyer, of course, is debatable).
More significant is a proposal to guarantee the professional tenure of the Inspector-General of Police and other service chiefs. The IGP – the head of the police – would get a single fixed seven-year term, removable only for cause through an independent inquiry and with parliamentary approval. This is akin to security of tenure already enjoyed by some constitutional officeholders like the EC Chair. The rationale is clear: over the years, frequent changes of IGPs (often coinciding with changes of government) have fueled the perception that the police leadership is a revolving door influenced by politics. A fixed term would allow an IGP to serve across administrations, building professionalism without constantly looking over their shoulder for dismissal. Of course, a seven-year term could also outlast the appointing President, which might make current office-holders nervous. But the principle finds support among reform advocates who note that independent tenure has worked reasonably well for the Electoral Commission – and policing the country is no less sensitive a function.
Finally, one novel institution addresses a gap in accountability: an Independent Security Services Oversight Authority (ISSOA) is mooted to keep an eye on how security agencies interact with civilians. This civilian oversight body would include respected figures like retired judges, senior police and military veterans, human rights experts, and psychologists. Its mandate: to investigate abuses, ensure compliance with those lofty principles of neutrality and proportional force, and generally be an external watchdog above the fray of day-to-day chain of command. The idea stems from high-profile incidents of police brutality or excess force that have shaken public trust. By institutionalizing oversight, Ghana would join countries that have found creative ways to police the police. The symbolism here is potent – in a region where coups have tragically resurfaced in some neighbors, Ghana is signaling its intent to double-down on democratic control of the military and policing. It is a statement of faith that the barracks will remain firmly under the thumb of the Constitution.
“All Development is Local”: Decentralization at Last?
One of the boldest chapters of Ghana’s constitutional conversation is unfolding far from the capital, in district capitals and village squares. The mantra “All development is local” – once a mere slogan – is on the verge of becoming constitutional doctrine. For years, Ghanaians have debated how to empower local government. The country’s 16 regions and 261 Metropolitan, Municipal and District Assemblies (MMDAs) have limited autonomy; most crucially, their chief executives (MMDCEs) are appointed by the President, not elected by local people. This centralized structure has bred frustration. Communities often feel their DCE answers more to Accra than to them, and local development priorities get tangled in national politics. In 2019, a promised referendum to allow partisan election of MMDCEs was abruptly canceled after opposition withdrawal of support – a setback that left a bitter taste. The 2026 reforms seek to revive the dream of elective local government, but in a carefully phased, politically palatable way.
The Constitution would be amended to mandate that District Chief Executives are elected by the people of the district, ending the President’s power of appointment. This single change, if realized, would fundamentally alter power relations: no longer a top-down patronage reward, the DCE position would become a grassroots mandate. However, mindful of the botched referendum, the Committee has proposed a creative rollout. Not every district would start electing its DCE at once. Instead, an independent Devolution Commission would be established to guide the process and set criteria for which districts go first. The idea is that districts meeting certain benchmarks – for example, a population above a threshold or being a regional capital – would be designated “Voting Districts” where the DCE is elected from the get-go. The Commission might ensure that at least, say, 70% of Ghanaians live in these initial Voting Districts, so the majority feel an immediate benefit of local democracy, while smaller or less viable districts continue under the old system a bit longer. Over time, as conditions permit (population growth or administrative adjustments), more districts would “graduate” to electing their leaders. It’s a pragmatic compromise born of political realism – an attempt to assuage fears that some districts (especially those that are very small or factionally divided) might not yet cope well with partisan local contests, while still moving decisively toward the principle of local choice.
Crucially, the reformers also tackle the proliferation of new districts for political reasons. Ghana’s number of districts has exploded over the years, often critics say to satisfy local ethnic demands or ruling party electoral calculations. The new Independent Devolution Commission would not only oversee elections but also have a mandate to rationalize district creation and boundaries based on technical criteria, not pork-barrel politics. By amending Article 241 to entrench this Commission, the Constitution would effectively put a technocratic checkpoint on any future government’s desire to carve out a new district just to gain an MP or appease a chief. The Commission would set national standards for what makes a viable district (population size, economic base, etc.) and could recommend merging or re-demarcating jurisdictions to strengthen local governance. In a country where adding new administrative units has been a politically popular tactic, this represents constitutional idealism of a high order – trusting a neutral body to do what politicians haven’t always had the will to do. Whether the political class can swallow such a surrender of power will be a major measure of the reforms’ success. But ordinary Ghanaians, weary of ever-multiplying local bureaucracies that don’t deliver better services, have signaled support for a more rational approach.
The decentralization push also comes with strings attached – a recognition that local empowerment must go hand-in-hand with local responsibility. One proposal declares that if a district chooses to elect its DCE (a “Voting District”), then all salaries and allowances of that local government – from the DCE to assembly members – should be paid out of the district’s own internally generated funds. This striking condition enshrines a principle of self-reliance: communities that want the autonomy of electing leaders should also shoulder the fiscal burden of supporting their local administration, rather than relying on central handouts. Some community activists worry this could create a two-tier system where poorer districts, unable to raise enough revenue, are effectively told they can’t yet have full democracy. The reformers’ answer is that the Devolution Commission will help boost local revenue capacity everywhere – by assisting assemblies to improve property rate collection, for instance – so that eventually every district can stand on its own feet. It’s a classic example of merging idealism (local democratic control) with pragmatism (fiscal sustainability).
Additionally, the reforms impose term limits at the local level mirroring the presidency: a DCE may serve at most two five-year terms (consecutive or not). This guards against the emergence of entrenched local political barons and ensures periodic leadership renewal in districts, many of which are effectively one-party dominant at local elections. There’s also a suite of provisions aimed at strengthening accountability: guidelines to better integrate traditional authorities into formal local structures (without dragging chiefs directly into partisan politics, which remains forbidden) and stricter controls on how the central government can use or withhold the District Assemblies Common Fund. For example, no longer could a chunk of a district’s development funds be pre-allocated by central authorities or funneled to MPs as was sometimes done – the reforms explicitly ban spending any district’s Common Fund allocation on its behalf by the central government, or allocating portions of it to MPs’ projects. All these pieces reflect a core evolving expectation among Ghanaians: local governance should mean local power – power to choose leaders, set priorities, and control resources, with central government playing a supportive rather than domineering role.
Toward a Just and Equitable Society
Beyond the headline-grabbing institutional changes, the reform process has delved into questions of social justice and fundamental rights – areas that reveal how Ghanaian civic values are changing in the 21st century. The Constitution’s Chapter on Directive Principles has long proclaimed lofty aims of equality and inclusion, but many have remained aspirational. The new proposals would inject teeth and modern sensibilities into these provisions, especially regarding gender equality and privacy rights in the digital age.
For Ghanaian women, the reforms could mark a constitutional turning point. Although the 1992 Constitution guaranteed equality and even directed that women be afforded special care in childbirth, it largely treated gender equity as a social goal rather than a justiciable reality. The amendments on the table would update Article 27 – the women’s rights clause – to remove outdated language about women’s “traditional” role as child caregivers and replace it with a gender-neutral notion of shared parental responsibility. More importantly, Article 27 would explicitly guarantee women’s equal personal autonomy, bodily integrity, and full participation in political, public and economic life. It would impose a clear duty on the State to combat all forms of gender-based violence – domestic abuse, sexual assault, harmful traditional practices like child marriage or FGM, and workplace harassment – and not just as lip service, but as an “enforceable constitutional obligation”. These changes are a direct reflection of evolving civic expectations: Ghanaian women’s groups and younger generations have been vocal that equality must mean more than formal rhetoric, especially in light of persistent issues like high rates of domestic violence and low numbers of women in public office.
To back up those commitments, the reforms also tackle the means to achieve equality. Article 17’s non-discrimination clause would be tweaked to give an explicit constitutional green light to affirmative action programs. In effect, it would clarify that measures to promote substantive gender equality (in political representation, education, jobs, etc.) are not only permitted but encouraged, even if they depart from a strict “formal equality” approach. This paves the way for a long-delayed Affirmative Action law to introduce, for instance, quotas or preferences for women and other underrepresented groups without fear of being struck down as unconstitutional. Similarly, Article 35(6), which currently urges regional and gender balance in appointments, would be elevated from a guiding principle to a binding rule. The draft even writes in a concrete quota: no more than two-thirds of the members of any public decision-making body should be of the same gender. This “one-third rule” for women’s inclusion could apply to everything from ministerial cabinets and corporate boards to independent commissions, dramatically changing the face of governance. Such a provision is ambitious – some might say idealistic – in a society where women currently hold just 14% of parliamentary seats and similarly low shares in other spheres. But it signals a recognition that without firm requirements, progress can remain painfully slow. By placing it in the Constitution, reformers are betting that public sentiment has evolved to support proactive steps for gender equity, even if the political class has dragged its feet on passing an Affirmative Action Bill for over a decade.
Another realm of justice being updated is the right to privacy, especially digital privacy. In 1992, the concept of data protection or online surveillance was remote; by 2026, with tens of millions of mobile phones in Ghana and biometric databases from voter registrations to national IDs, it’s an everyday concern. Accordingly, the reforms would overhaul Article 18 (privacy rights) to explicitly protect informational privacy and personal data. Every person would have the right to control the collection, use, and sharing of their personal data, and the Constitution would recognize privacy in modern forms – covering emails, metadata, biometric data, financial records and the like. The amendment goes further, barring mass surveillance, data profiling, or digital tracking unless it meets strict tests of legality, necessity, and proportionality and is under independent oversight. It even states that privacy violations can be committed by private companies, not just government, making the right horizontally enforceable against telecom firms, internet providers or anyone handling personal data[108]. In an era where Ghanaians have debated the balance between security and privacy – for example, over SIM card registration rules or CCTV monitoring – this is a decisive tilt toward civil liberties. And notably, the draft ties privacy intimately to other freedoms: if surveillance or data collection has a chilling effect on free speech, association or protest, it shall be deemed an infringement of privacy and of those substantive rights. This layered protection reflects an idealistic view that the digital sphere should not become a backdoor for oppression. Yet it also stems from pragmatic observation: as more civic activity moves online, safeguarding digital privacy is safeguarding democracy itself.
Of course, writing rights into the Constitution doesn’t automatically make them real. Critics point out that Ghana has had many fine constitutional guarantees (for instance, economic and social rights in the Directive Principles) that have not translated into tangible change due to lack of enforcement. The reformers seem aware of this credibility gap. In areas like gender violence and data protection, they couple constitutional clauses with “consequential legislative duties” – effectively instructing Parliament to pass specific laws by a deadline. For instance, a new Public Ethics Act must be passed to flesh out a comprehensive Code of Conduct for officials, and a Personal Data Protection Act may be mandated to enforce the new privacy rights. These requirements are attempts to bridge the pragmatism-idealism divide: high principles are enshrined, but the grind of implementation is also anticipated. It’s an open question whether future Parliaments will heed those mandates, but at least citizens would have the constitutional hook to demand action if they don’t.
A New Chapter or Another False Start?
As 2026 dawns, Ghana stands at a constitutional crossroads. The reform proposals spanning the presidency, parliament, elections, judiciary, security, decentralization, and social rights represent one of the most comprehensive self-examinations any African democracy has attempted in recent memory. They are a testament to Ghana’s maturing civic culture – the product of vigorous public debate, expert input, and a measure of soul-searching about the flaws that hold the nation back. The political process driving these reforms has been, fittingly, as important as the content. It has forced uncomfortable conversations across party lines and between leaders and citizens. For perhaps the first time since 1992, Ghanaians are collectively asking: what must we change about our democracy to make it work better for all?
Yet the final act of this drama is still to be written. The optimistic view is that the stars have aligned: popular pressure is high, neither major party can afford to appear anti-reform, and the memories of previous failed attempts weigh heavily. There is a palpable sense of “now or never.” Notably, a number of the reform proposals require entrenched constitutional provisions to be amended – meaning they would need approval in a national referendum with at least 40% turnout and 75% “Yes” votes, a steep hurdle that in 2019 proved insurmountable. But unlike 2019, when the process was top-down and partisan trust was low, the 2025–26 review has been more inclusive and the agenda far broader, offering something for everyone. If political leaders can package the amendments into a few blockbuster referendum questions – say, one on governance (executive-legislature reforms), one on decentralization, one on judiciary and accountability – and rally together for a “Yes” campaign, success is within reach. The symbolism of achieving constitutional reform through consensus would itself be a powerful rejuvenation of Ghana’s democracy, sending a message across Africa that dialogue and compromise can deliver change where cynical polarization fails.
The pessimistic view cannot be discounted, however. Powerful interests are at stake. Some MPs privately grumble about losing perks; some ministers chafe at the idea of giving up influence over contracts or appointments; some judges bristle at outsiders reshaping court procedures. And even if Parliament passes the amendments, a referendum introduces uncertainty – will citizens show up to vote on complex constitutional issues amid possible apathy or distrust? Previous ones have faltered due to low turnout. Moreover, Ghana’s economic challenges (recent debt crises and IMF interventions) may divert political attention and public enthusiasm away from constitutional questions, however important. There is also the specter of partisan calculation: if one party senses that reforms might advantage their rival (for example, if in opposition they fear a sitting government will control the implementation), they could withdraw support at the eleventh hour, as happened in 2019 with the local elections referendum.
Will 2026 truly be the year of constitutional reform or just another chapter in a long saga of unfulfilled constitutional promises? A veteran observer quips that Ghana has “a 1992 Constitution operating in a 2020s world.” The pressures of that mismatch are evident – youth activism surging via Twitter, anti-corruption campaigns naming and shaming officials, local communities demanding a say – all straining against old constitutional guardrails. What is different now is that the political establishment, at least in words, has acknowledged these pressures. As one reform committee member noted, “The people’s expectations have evolved, and we ignore them at our peril.” The coming months will test whether Ghana’s leaders can translate that awareness into action. If they succeed, the reward is not merely a revised Constitution, but a renewed social contract – one that could help Ghana fulfill its promise as a stable, accountable democracy that delivers for its citizens. If they fail, the disappointment will be deep, but the very process has awakened a new civic consciousness that may not take “no” for an answer. In either case, Ghana’s democratic journey is entering a pivotal phase, and 2026 will be remembered as the year the nation stood at the crossroads and decided which way to turn.
Mind the GAP 
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