It is a narrative as old as time—or at least as old as globalization. Foreign companies arrive on African shores, extract wealth, and leave behind a trail of economic disparity and environmental degradation. In Ghana, this story is painfully familiar. From the glittering promises of mining towns to the pixelated screens of satellite television, the pattern repeats: we pay more, get less, and watch as others reap the benefits. But as much as we decry this exploitation, a difficult truth lingers beneath the surface—one we are often reluctant to confront. Are we, as Ghanaians, partly to blame for how these companies treat us? Our collective apathy, our indifference to national interest, and our lack of goodwill toward one another create the very conditions that allow exploitation to thrive. It is time we stop pointing fingers outward and start looking inward.
Consider DSTV, a satellite television provider that has become a staple in many Ghanaian homes. On the surface, it is a symbol of modernity and global connectivity. Yet, beneath the glossy advertisements lies a stark inequality. Ghanaian subscribers pay some of the highest fees on the continent—$82.40 for the Premium package—while their counterparts in Nigeria enjoy the same service for just $29.00. The disparity is not merely financial; it is also cultural. “Big Brother,” once a pan-African reality show, has morphed into “Big Brother Naija,” with Nigerian content dominating the airwaves. Meanwhile, Ghanaian viewers, despite paying nearly three times as much, are left with programming that increasingly sidelines their own stories and voices.
This imbalance is not an accident. It reflects where DSTV chooses to invest its resources. Nigeria, with its larger market and more vocal consumer base, receives the lion’s share of attention and investment. Ghana, by contrast, is treated as an afterthought. But why do we accept this? Why do we continue to subscribe, to pay more for less, without demanding better? The answer lies partly in our own complacency. We grumble privately but rarely organize collectively to challenge the status quo. In doing so, we signal to companies like DSTV that we are willing to accept second-class treatment.
The story of exploitation is even more poignant in Ghana’s mining sector. Towns like Akwatia, once proudly known as “diamond towns,” now stand as monuments to broken promises. In the mid-20th century, Akwatia was a hub of prosperity, its streets bustling with the activity of diamond mining. Today, it is a shadow of its former self. The mines have been depleted, the wealth extracted, and the people left with little more than red roofing sheets and poverty. Foreign companies came, took what they wanted, and left behind environmental scars and economic ruin.
This is not an isolated case. Across Ghana, mining communities tell similar tales of fleeting prosperity followed by long-term neglect. The question is not just why these companies behave this way—it is why we allow it. Why do we not hold them accountable for the promises they make or the damage they leave behind? Part of the answer lies in our fractured sense of national interest. Too often, local leaders and officials prioritize short-term gains over long-term sustainability, accepting piecemeal benefits while ignoring the broader impact on the community. And as a society, we fail to unite in demanding better terms, better protections, and better futures for our resource-rich regions.
But perhaps the most insidious enabler of exploitation is our own attitude toward one another. There is a pervasive culture of apathy in Ghana that undermines our collective strength. We see it in the way we undervalue our own labor and talent. I have heard countless stories of foreign companies arriving in Ghana with the intention of paying fair wages, only to be advised by local HR consultants to pay less—because “that’s the status quo.” Instead of raising standards, we lower the bar for ourselves. This is not just a business practice; it is a reflection of a deeper malaise. When we do not value each other, when we accept mediocrity as the norm, we send a clear message to foreign companies: you can get away with less here.
This lack of goodwill extends beyond the workplace. It permeates our social and political fabric. We are quick to celebrate individual success but slow to support collective action. We distrust one another, suspecting that any effort to organize for change will be undermined by corruption or self-interest. This cynicism becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, paralyzing us into inaction. And in our silence, foreign companies find a playground for exploitation.
Of course, it is easy to argue that the blame lies solely with the foreign companies or with our government for failing to regulate them effectively. These are valid points. Multinational corporations often wield disproportionate power, and our leaders have, at times, been complicit in sweetheart deals that favor foreign interests over national ones. But this perspective, while important, is incomplete. It absolves us, as citizens, of our own role in shaping the environment in which these companies operate.
Individual and collective attitudes matter. When we accept substandard treatment, when we fail to demand transparency and accountability, we create a culture of permissiveness. Foreign companies do not exploit us in a vacuum; they do so because they can, because we allow it. Our apathy is their license to operate with impunity.
It is time for a reckoning. We cannot continue to blame foreign companies for taking advantage of us while ignoring the ways in which we enable them. This is not about absolving them of responsibility; it is about reclaiming our own agency. We must confront our culture of apathy and start demanding better—collectively and consistently.
This begins with self-reflection. We must ask ourselves why we accept less than we deserve, why we undervalue our own worth, and why we fail to support one another in the pursuit of common goals. From there, we can build a new ethos—one that prioritizes national interest, solidarity, and the long-term well-being of our communities.
We must also hold our leaders accountable, insisting on policies that protect our resources, our labor, and our dignity. But this cannot happen without a shift in our own attitudes. We must believe that change is possible and that we have the power to demand it.
The price of apathy is too high. It is time to stop paying it.
