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By Richmond Adu-Poku
In the smoky backroom of a small studio tucked behind a chop bar in Achimota, a young artist bows his head before stepping into the booth. Not for breath control. For prayer.
The mic is hot. The engineer’s fingers hover above the record button. But the artist doesn’t speak just yet. He clutches a beaded bracelet tightly around his wrist — the same one he wears to every show, every interview, every shoot — and mumbles a quiet incantation.
He’s not just about to record a song.
He’s stepping into a battlefield.
Because in Ghana, music isn’t just art — it’s war. A spiritual war. Where talent can take you far, but never far enough. Not without… assistance. The kind that doesn’t come from label deals or lucky breaks, but from bottles and calabashes, from white garments, cowrie shells, and whispered names spoken only at midnight.
Welcome to the unseen undercurrent of Ghana’s music scene — where juju, prophets, and divine “connections” hold as much weight as beats, branding, and Billboard dreams.
The Song Beneath the Song
To understand this hidden layer, you must understand Ghana itself — a place where the spiritual and the secular cohabitate like cousins forced to share a single-room apartment. On one side, the ancestral drumming of the Ewe and Ashanti — sacred rhythms that call the spirits. On the other, the pounding bass of afrobeats and trap, rattling Accra’s car speakers and club walls. Both powerful. Both respected. Both spiritual.
In this culture, music is never just music. It is communication — with the gods, with ancestors, with the energies that govern this realm and the next.
It’s why some believe a catchy hook can be more than a creative breakthrough. It might be a spiritual download. A gift. Or, depending on who you ask, a stolen fire.
People talk.
They say certain hits carry more than rhythm — they carry spirits.
“Small Juju Dey Inside”
Ask around — really ask — and you’ll hear the phrase whispered everywhere: “Small juju dey inside.”
It’s said with caution, with awe, and sometimes, with envy. That viral hit that came out of nowhere? Juju. That sudden collapse of a promising career? Juju. That silky-voiced singer who woke up hoarse before a headline show? Definitely juju.
Ghana’s music industry, while glammed up on the outside, often runs on a cocktail of talent, hustle, fear, and… faith. And when talent and hustle don’t quite get the job done, faith — of the traditional or metaphysical kind — steps in.
Some artists are rumoured to visit mallams before releasing an EP. Others reportedly fast for days or bury symbolic items beneath their studio floors. One Kumasi-based rapper allegedly paid a spiritualist in goats, gin, and GH₵3,000 to “clear his path.” His debut track hit a million streams. Coincidence? Maybe. But not everyone is convinced.
There’s also the infamous story of a gospel artist whose former prophet publicly accused her of spiritually “burying” a competitor. According to him, the ritual involved red candles, graveyard sand, and the competitor’s stage name etched into a white egg. The ritualist later claimed it took three nights of fasting and a counter-sacrifice of a white fowl to reverse the curse.
Outlandish? Of course. But in Ghana, superstition doesn’t wait for evidence. It just needs a beat to dance on — and a WhatsApp group to spread.
Prophecies, Plots & the Performance of Death
And then comes December — prophecy season.
While the rest of the world prepares for holidays, Ghanaian musicians brace for what can only be described as spiritual PR warfare. Each year, self-styled prophets log onto Facebook, their eyes rolling, voices trembling, to deliver their annual sermon of doom: “A popular musician will die in 2026… unless he comes to see me.”
Cue chaos.
Fans panic. Management teams scramble. Artistes deny. And behind the scenes, it’s said some even pay to be removed from the prophecy. Because, in this system, silence can be deadly — and attention can be a curse.
Not all the prophecies are empty. Some names mentioned have, in fact, passed on — from illness, accidents, or “mysterious” circumstances. Whether these tragedies are causally linked to the prophecies or not, the fear they spark is real. Real enough to push some musicians into buying “protection packages” from both pastors and priests.
Fame with a Side of Fear
In Ghana, success doesn’t just come with praise — it comes with paranoia.
One hit? Congratulations. Two? You’re gifted. Three? “Hmm… who’s behind you?” And they don’t mean your manager.
Many Ghanaians find it hard to accept that success can be natural. It must be powered — by something, someone. And if they can’t see the hard work, they’ll assume spiritual assistance. Good or bad.
Take a break to battle burnout? “He’s been attacked spiritually.” Change your sound? “She’s lost her spiritual direction.” Lose your shine? “Someone has dimmed it.”
It’s never just a career decision. It’s always spiritual warfare.
Some artists admit to being afraid. Afraid of sabotaged drinks at industry events. Afraid of being cursed for rejecting a feature. Afraid of photographers who might use their images for dark rituals. In this space, the lines between professional rivalry and spiritual hostility are disturbingly thin.
The Crown, the Cross & the Price of the Spotlight
To be famous in Ghana is to carry two things: a crown — and a cross.
The crown sparkles in your interviews, endorsement deals, and sold-out shows. The cross weighs heavily in the whispers, the warnings, and the constant spiritual surveillance. Your every move is decoded. Your jewelry is inspected for occult symbols. Your lyrics are analysed like prophetic scriptures. Your silence? Proof you’ve been “snatched.”
And yet — they keep rising.
Through gossip, through fear, through superstition and suspicion, Ghanaian musicians continue to shine. They write through curses. They dance through dread. They turn shadows into soundtracks. Because perhaps the real mysticism is not in the juju, or the prophets, or the rituals — but in the resilience it takes to create art in an environment that constantly doubts its origins.
So the next time you hear a Ghanaian banger that makes the continent shake — don’t just credit the studio, the sound engineer, or the strategy.
Pause, and ask yourself:
What spirits had to be silenced so this song could sing?
And then press play anyway.
Because here in Ghana, even the ghosts dance.
