The Irony is Delicious:The Dog and Cat Meat Matter

Dear Nyaaba,

There is a new moral epidemic in town. It arrives not with drums but with hashtags. It does not debate; it denounces. It has discovered, with sudden anthropological fervor, that somewhere in the savannahs and forest belts of Ghana, some communities eat dog meat. And cat meat. And, brace yourself, do so without apology.

In our present circumstances, I am wondering why we are expending time and energy questioning people’s choice of protein or what people deem a delicacy, in short, why we are outraged at certain tastes, even almost criminalizing same.

Nyaaba, let us begin with a modest proposition: culture is not just a museum piece. It is not just a regal fugu at Damba. It is not just a resplendent kente on Independence Day, nor is it the “questionable’ folklore paraded for tourists. Culture is the totality of a people’s lived experience—language, ritual, cosmology, humor, taboos, and yes, cuisine. To amputate cuisine from culture is to reduce culture to costume.

Across the vast mosaic of Ghana’s ethnic groups, dietary practices have evolved from ecology, necessity, and tradition. What the river provides, what the forest yields, what the savannah sustains—these become food. Over time, food becomes memory. Memory becomes identity. And identity becomes culture.

Yet now we are being told that certain meats are “uncivilized,” “barbaric,” “backward.” The irony is delicious. Those who recoil at dog meat with theatrical horror will, without blinking, devour pork, though the pig is widely regarded as intelligent. They will tuck into beef, despite the cow’s soulful eyes. They will feast on lamb, the biblical symbol of innocence. But the moral line, we are assured, runs precisely at the kennel door.

This is not ethics. It is sentimentality disguised as universal principle.

Let us be honest: the campaign to criminalize or stigmatize the consumption of dog and cat meat in parts of Ghana is less about animal welfare and more about cultural hierarchy. It is an attempt—subtle or otherwise—to rank cuisines on a civilizational ladder, with Western tastes conveniently perched at the summit.

But culture is not graded on a Michelin scale of moral superiority.
If animal welfare is the concern, then let the debate be about humane treatment, sanitary conditions, and public health—issues that apply equally to chicken coops, cattle kraals, and fish markets. Let us not pretend that compassion suddenly blossoms only when the animal has a name and a collar.

What we are witnessing is a familiar phenomenon: the importation of ethics without context. A kind of moral globalization where the palate of Paris or New York becomes the conscience of Navrongo, Nandom, Adaklu or Kpeve. We are invited—no, instructed—to feel shame for tastes that predate colonial borders and predate Instagram outrage.

And here lies the deeper question: Who decides what is edible? Religion? Geography? Colonial history? Global fashion? If a people, over centuries, have incorporated certain meats into their festivals, communal gatherings, and rites of passage, by what authority does an external sensibility declare it illegitimate?

One suspects that the same energy will not be deployed against foie gras or factory farming in industrial nations. It is easier to scold the village than to confront the supermarket.

Culture, expansively understood, includes the stories told around the pito pot, the proverbs wielded around the fire, the communal bonds forged in shared meals. To sneer at a people’s cuisine is to sneer at their history.

This is not an argument for coercion or for insensitivity to changing sensibilities. Cultures evolve. Tastes change. Individuals may abstain. Communities may reform practices. But such change must emerge organically, through dialogue and internal reflection—not through moral imperialism dressed in humanitarian costume.

Let those who do not eat dog or cat refrain, with dignity. Let those whose traditions include such dishes do so with relish. But let us resist the temptation to criminalize culture because it offends imported sensibilities.
We have endured enough cultural annexations.
Today it is cuisine. Tomorrow it will be language. The day after, perhaps, our rites, our names, our very metaphysics.
No, thank you.
We will debate, we will refine, we will evolve—but we shall not abdicate our heritage wholesale. A nation that cannot define its own palate will soon find it cannot define its own principles.
And that, dear reformers, would be the truly dodgy dish.

Rootedly yours,
The Honourrebel Siriguboy