Whenever a 17-year-old boy rides past on a motorbike, the dust that follows the exhaust fumes speaks to bigger questions about policy regulation, statistics of young deaths, and our lack of outrage at things that have remained outrageous since the Gold Coast.

We don’t need any more statistics or campaign slogans; we know we have the sickness already. What we need is the cure.

Another 18-year-old boy was crushed by a truck and he died instantly.

A first child. An only boy. He was supposed to be heading to the United States of America this weekend.

He had his flight ticket in his pocket and luggage already packed.

Fate came on a motorbike. For two weeks, his mother had been keeping him close.

No hangouts with friends. She just wanted him safe until he boarded that flight.

Mothers sometimes sense danger in ways logic cannot explain.

Painful reckoning

Suddenly, a motorbike screeched into their Santa Maria house.

A friend surged in to pick him up for the last jolly ride before he leaves for the USA.

His mother warned him not to go but a boy’s youthful urges cannot be tamed by motherly forebodings. Ghanaians understand the traditional logic behind a last meeting as a parting gift.

From Santa Maria, the two boys, 17 and 18 years old, started with short corner runs, then navigated to the heart of Accra to compete with heavy trucks in busy centres of town, before sprinting onto the Tema Highway. A fated journey on a machine never designed to shield teenage boys from an expressway collision.

The trip to Tema Community 4 was fine. It is often the return that changes the story. Somewhere along the long stretch, the boys ran into a truck which had parked on the shoulders of the motorway.

The passenger died instantly–along with his American dreams and his mother’s hopes.

The rider, his friend, survived, physically unharmed, only a few scratches on his thighs.

The American Dream ended on a Ghanaian road. It began with one ride, the last ride.

It forces a painful reckoning: How did we get here? Haven’t we been here before?

Should 17 year olds be riding on commercial roads in the first place?

Okada has not always been part of Ghana’s mainstream transport culture.

Years ago, they were rare and informal. Under Ghana’s Road Traffic Regulations, motorcycles were not permitted to carry fare-paying passengers commercially.

Yet as unemployment rose and transport gaps widened, motorbikes quietly sneaked in.

The word okada gained popularity across West Africa, largely in Nigeria, where motorcycle taxis became widespread decades ago.

In East Africa, they call it boda-boda. In Ghana, what began as an exception slowly became normal.

Okada politics

At first, Ghana seemed to resist the Okada quick-fix.

It looked risky and felt illegal. But when trotro is scarce and taxis become expensive, convenience wins the argument.

Passengers saved time while young boys found income. Today, fast-food delivery companies have promoted the riding culture to a legal necessity and a social imperative. When you have a flight to catch and Accra’s traffic seems like a cul de sac, Okada will meander through valleys to beat time.

So, we watched the number of motorcycles grow. Politicians got interested in the poetry that regulated the Okada conversation and soon joined the prose, which didn’t seem to go anywhere.

They proposed ideas to make it better, safer and more rewarding. We were not sure whether they were talking about policy, politics or jobs.

Over the years, the number of registered motorcycles in Ghana has risen dramatically.

Unregistered ownership may have exceeded tolerable proportions.

With that growth came rising accidents. The death statistics are scary.

Hospitals report severe head and neck injuries after every okada accident.

Thousands of cases have resulted in amputations over time.

These are not statistics; they are real bodies, real homes and real futures cut short.

We see them everyday on our roads. Sometimes we wonder whether they are not too young to ride those machines on their own.

Do they have licenses or some kind of juvenile permits to ride? They wear no helmets.

No padded riding gear. No safety shoes, sometimes flipflops (charley wote). They come in twos, sometimes, three on one bike.

Young boys racing on highways like their video games, weaving between trucks and pedestrians with skills and playful stunts on public roads.

When rules become optional and caution becomes weakness, convenience turns into tragedy.

Okada only, please

In the okada business, safety precautions feel like an inconvenience, instead of protection.

Discussions about regulation and licensing continue.

Our campaigns have pushed for structured regulation with training and safety requirements, emphasizing helmet use, which research shows can reduce the risk of death significantly.

But campaigns cannot replace attitude or enforcement.

The painful truth is that okada itself is not the enemy. They might not easily fit into our labour classifications of what may qualify as a job, but there are huge incomes behind every ride.

Across Africa, motorcycle taxis carry millions every day. They move economies.

They feed families. In peri-urban Accra, there is such a thing as places no car can ply except okada.

For those communities, a ride home without a helmet does not sound like a breach of safety.

To them, overspeeding does not present the risk policy wonks see when they are deciding on precautions for riders.

They have the phone numbers of their okada friends. Convenience means calling one of them to meet at a ‘coded’ location to drop them right in front of their door.

Last week, while Ghana mourned the tragic loss of Ing Charles Amissah who lost his life when his motorcycle was hit by a careless driver, the family of the 17 year old had gathered in Santa Maria to plan his funeral, instead of planning his journey to America.

His mother’s tearful cautions remain a painful soundbite to anybody flagging down the next okada for a ride. Insist on a helmet and mind the rules.

Tissues Of The Issues

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