0
0 
Once upon a Friday afternoon not so long ago—in the land of loud radios and louder scandals—Nhyira FM’s Obra show blew the lid off a societal pot that had been simmering quietly with moral confusion and paternity conundrums.
Ohemaa Benewaa, newly anointed as the Friday host of the Obra show on Nhyira FM, stepped up like a High Priestess of Common Sense, wielding the Golden Microphone as her staff. And lo, the revelations flowed—raw and unfiltered—like alcoholic beverages at a Ghanaian funeral.
Ladies and gentlemen, brace yourselves: a new social phenomenon has landed in Ghana, and no—it’s not another betting app or a political promise.
It’s the rise of the Multiplying Baby Daddies Syndrome (MBDS), a mysterious affliction where a single unborn child comes pre-packaged with a roster of potential fathers, as if applying for a government job.
According to the Obra report, 80%—yes, eight-zero percent—of family cases in the first quarter of the year revolved around paternity disputes.
Gone are the days when a woman knew her midwife better than her man.
Today, young ladies, with wombs more active than WhatsApp groups, are reportedly engaging in new romantic escapades while already pregnant.
Yes, dear reader, while the foetus is still composing lullabies, mama is writing new love letters.
Let’s zoom in on Ejisu, the sacred land that once gave Ghana Yaa Asantewaa—the warrior queen who dared to defy the empire with gunpowder and guts. Now, generations later, the battlefield has shifted—from muskets and resistance to maternity wards and DNA results.
Esi Nyamekye’s 16-year-old daughter, with the innocence of a broken promise, pointed to one gentleman as the proud father of her child.
DNA, being the party pooper it is, dismissed him with scientific precision.
Undeterred, our young lady rattled off three more candidates—each presumably praying, “Lord, let this cup pass over me.”
Ejisu, once a symbol of resistance, now plays host to resistance of responsibility.
Next stop: Kasoa, the city where drama sleeps with its eyes open.
Justina Bafar, having left her husband while carrying twins, found love again in the arms of a man with the heart of a dove and the critical thinking of a potato.
He accepted the unborn twins like a patriotic Ghanaian accepts dumsor—without question.
Alas, the twins turned out to be his only by affection, not by chromosomes.
When the biological test results dropped, so did his jaw.
Meanwhile, the ex-husband she tried crawling back to has since put his heart under a padlock—and the key? Lost somewhere in the Sea of Regret.
But wait, it gets holier. In Nahinso, a 15-year-old girl claimed virginity, cried rape and named a local pastor as the father. The DNA test cleared him. The girl, determined not to be caught fatherless, named another man. He, too, was cleared.
At this point, the Virgin Birth narrative was being rewritten—complete with DNA footnotes and a public apology to the Book of Matthew.
Panelists on the show spoke with fire and brimstone (though thankfully, no one turned into salt). Big Mama—our unofficial national conscience—pointed fingers at poverty, absentee parenting, and homes where discipline is as absent as ECG power in a rainstorm.
She also warned: “Poverty is no excuse; after all, many poor people have raised children who didn’t need a courtroom to find their fathers.”
Evangelist Degraft Addae, wielding both Bible and bone-shaking disappointment, reminded the youth that Ghanaian tradition frowns upon a pregnant woman taking lovers like election candidates—sampling each one before choosing who’ll help push.
Even the audience couldn’t stay quiet.
A child rights advocate phoned in and nearly broke the switchboard:
“Where are the parents? Where are the values? Where is the moral compass? This isn’t a decline, it’s a free fall!”
And there lies the matter.
In a society once steeped in communal responsibility, where aunties doubled as moral wardens and uncles as human polygraphs, we’ve now embraced DNA as our village elder.
A child doesn’t know their father unless it’s printed in black and white—preferably on a hospital letterhead.
What happened, Ghana?
Have we replaced parental guidance with TikTok challenges? Have we allowed economic hardship to rewrite the script of decency? Are we so entertained by scandal that we forget to be scandalised?
The Obra show has held up a mirror—not just to these young girls and their tangled love stories—but to all of us. Our reflections aren’t looking too holy.
As Ohemaa Benewaa closed her show with a heavy heart and a heavier question, she asked: “If your girlfriend or wife got pregnant and named three other men—what would you do?”
Well, for starters, one might reach for holy water—or a lawyer.
But beyond that, the answer must go deeper. We must interrogate the failing social structures: broken homes, absent parenting, overwhelmed schools, silent churches, and a culture that laughs at the very morals it once swore by.
Until we restore values—not just shout about them—we’ll raise children who think morality is outdated, virginity is negotiable, and DNA is a lottery.
And so, we close with this proverb from the elders: “If the roots rot, the leaves will gossip about the wind.”
Ghana, our roots are decaying. And the children? They are the leaves—fluttering in confusion, searching for direction in a storm of neglect.
Let us water our roots again—before the whole tree falls.
