A LETTER TO THE BROTHERS MAHAMA.

Dear brothers JM and Ibrahim,

In a world intoxicated by power and dazzled by wealth, where titles inflate egos and money erects walls between mortals and their origins, your lives arrive like a quiet rebuke—soft-spoken, unassuming, and yet thunderously instructive.

Power, we are told, changes people. Wealth, we observe daily, disfigures character. Yet here you stand—one entrusted with the highest political authority of the land, the other commanding vast economic resources—still walking gently on the same soil that shaped you, still greeting without hauteur, still listening without impatience, still laughing without performance. If this is a crime, then indeed you are criminally humble.

John Dramani Mahama, you have worn the heavy robes of state, felt the loneliness of command, endured the merciless glare of public judgment. And yet, you remain accessible, human, recognisably one of us. No cultivated distance. No artificial aloofness. Your humility does not announce itself; it simply shows up—at funerals, at community gatherings, in quiet conversations where power could easily have spoken louder than empathy..

Ibrahim Mahama, your wealth is legendary, but your posture is disarming. In a society where money often demands worship, you move as though it were merely a tool, not a throne. You build, you employ, you support—often without fanfare, sometimes without attribution. Your generosity does not seek applause; it seeks impact. You remind us that riches are not a licence for arrogance but an opportunity for service.

What shocks us—pleasantly and persistently—is not merely that you are humble, but that you remain so consistently. Not selectively. Not strategically. Not when cameras are present. But instinctively. As if humility were not an act, but a habit.

You teach a lesson many “mortals” desperately need: that greatness is not diminished by simplicity; that authority does not require cruelty; that wealth need not advertise itself to be real. You demonstrate that one can rise high without floating away from humanity. That one can have much and still kneel to greet elders. That one can command loyalty without demanding reverence.

In your quiet ways, you restore dignity to leadership and decency to success. You remind a cynical nation that power can coexist with grace, and money can live comfortably with conscience. You do not shout these lessons; you live them. And that is why they endure.

May those intoxicated by small titles study you.
May those drunk on sudden wealth observe you.
May those who believe humility is weakness be forever unsettled by your strength.

You continue to positively shock us—not by excess, but by restraint; not by noise, but by normalcy; not by self-importance, but by self-awareness. And for that, you remain enduring lessons walking among us.

With respect, admiration, and a raised rebellious eyebrow to false grandeur,

The Honourrebel Siriguboy