Let me just say this first: if you’ve never lived in Ghana and dealt with ECG, you haven’t truly suffered. I’m not trying to scare you. I’m just saying, ECG will humble you. They don’t care about your life plans, your romantic dates, your job interview, or your wedding. If ECG says “no light,” then it is “no light.” Period.
Now, this story happened on one very hot Thursday. The kind of hot that makes you question your existence. I was home alone, shirtless, sitting in front of my fan like it was the only thing keeping me alive.
That fan and I had a bond. I called it “Shakira” because it used to shake, shake, shake but never truly break down. So there I was, lying on my bed, enjoying the breeze from Shakira and planning how to avoid work emails until next week.
Suddenly... boom.
Silence.
No fan.
No fridge humming.
No TV.
Just the sound of my dreams melting.
The power was gone. ECG had done it again.
At first, I thought it was a joke. I clapped twice, thinking maybe Shakira was just playing dead.
Nothing.
I walked out of my room, looked around, and saw the red light blinking on my prepaid meter like it was laughing at me.
“Low credit.”
LOW CREDIT?! I had loaded GHS 50 just two days ago. I wasn’t running a nightclub, so where did it go?
Panicking, I opened the fridge. My chicken was starting to look confused. The ice block was now just block with no ice. My milk had entered a stage of doubt. Even the tomatoes were sweating.
I rushed to my drawer, looking for the ECG card like it was a golden ticket. Found it. Dusty. Chewed on the corner from when I thought it was chocolate. Don't ask.
I wore my slippers and sprinted outside to the nearest ECG vendor.
Now, if you know ECG vendors, then you know they operate like magicians. They’re there when you don’t need them, and gone when you do.
Me: “Auntie, please I want to buy credit.”
Vendor (chewing groundnuts): “Ah, the system is down.”
The words hit me like a slap from a spiritual father. System down? Madam, I’m dying. My fan is dead. My fridge is dying. My soul is melting.
I begged.
She pointed to the sky like she was waiting for Manna from ECG heaven.
I went to Vendor Number Two. Closed.
Vendor Three. “We only sell to people with meter numbers starting with 03.”
Mine started with 01. Of course.
Then I remembered something — ECG mobile app! Yes! Modern technology!
I ran home like an Olympic athlete who had just seen Jollof rice at the finish line. I opened the app. Logged in.
Error: Please update your app.
I screamed so loud the neighbor’s dog barked in support.
I updated the app. Took me five minutes because, of course, MTN too was playing games.
App finally opened. I entered my meter number, selected GHS 50, tapped “Pay Now.”
Transaction failed.
I tried again.
Transaction failed.
I screamed louder.
I tapped the button like a mad man playing Candy Crush.
Transaction successful!
Finally! Sweet, sweet ECG credit.
I waited. And waited. And waited.
No SMS. No code. No light.
Now I was losing my mind. The fridge was now just a box. Shakira was dead. My phone battery was on 3%, and I had no power bank. I was officially in the Stone Age.
And just when I thought things couldn't get worse… it started to rain.
Normally, rain is good.
But not Ghana rain.
Ghana rain comes with lightning, thunder, and more light-off.
I sat there in the dark, watching my ceiling like it owed me money. I wrapped myself in a wrapper like a disappointed auntie and started sweating in new places I didn’t know had sweat glands.
Then, around 11:32 PM, a miracle happened.
Bzzzzzz...
The fan came back to life.
I stood up and started dancing like someone who just passed exams they didn’t write.
Shakira was shaking with pride.
I went to the fridge. The chicken was frozen again.
The tomatoes had found purpose.
I laughed like a mad man.
And just as I settled in to enjoy the light…
Boom.
Darkness.
Complete, total, savage darkness.
ECG had shown me pepper again.
And that, my friends, is how I knew — truly, deeply — that ECG is not just a company.
It’s an experience.
It’s a spiritual test.
It’s a Ghanaian rite of passage.
But guess what?
I survived.
Barely.
The next morning, I woke up looking like someone who had fought with ten mosquitoes and lost. My eyes were red. My phone was dead. My dignity was somewhere between my mattress and my mosquito net.
I decided that I couldn’t live like this. No way. I had to confront ECG.
I put on my most serious clothes — you know, the ones that say “I pay tax, even though I don’t.” I printed my last receipt, carried my ECG card, and marched to the nearest ECG office like I was going to war.
The ECG office, my friends, is a place where hope goes to drink tea and cry.
There was already a line. Long. Long like church offering queue when the pastor says “God will bless cheerful givers.” Some people were holding printed screenshots. Some were carrying wires. One man had brought a whole meter.
A WHOLE METER.
I joined the line.
After two hours, I got to the front. I smiled at the lady behind the glass. She didn’t smile back. Her spirit had left her body. ECG had broken her too.
Me: “Good morning, madam.”
Her (still no smile): “Meter number.”
I gave it to her.
She typed slowly, like the keyboard was biting her fingers.
Then she looked up. “You have light.”
Me: “I HAVE WHAT???”
Her: “There’s no problem with your meter. The light is on.”
I wanted to scream. “Madam, do I look like I’m glowing? Do I look like someone who slept with a fan last night?”
She blinked slowly. “Maybe you should check your main switch.”
I left the office, defeated. I got home, opened my meter box, and guess what?
The main switch had tripped.
Just like that.
My house had light.
It was not ECG.
It was me.
I had suffered for 24 hours, begged vendors, fought apps, danced in the dark — all because of one small switch.
I laughed.
I laughed so hard my neighbor knocked on the door to ask if I was okay.
Me: “I’m fine. I’m just… healing.”
But that’s not the end oh.
See, that same week, I was telling my grandma about the incident. And that’s when the story took another turn.
She listened carefully, nodded, and said, “Hmm. ECG showed you pepper?”
I said, “Yes, Grandma. Pepper mixed with ginger and small petrol.”
She said, “That is nothing. When we were young, we used real pepper to survive light-off.”
I blinked. “Real pepper?”
She smiled and pulled out her favorite phrase: “Let me tell you a story.”
Apparently, in 1962, when ECG was still NEPA’s cousin, there was a blackout during one of her cooking competitions. Yes, my grandma used to compete. Like MasterChef, but with more shouting and no prizes.
She had just started making abomu when the lights went off.
Did she stop cooking?
No.
Did she wait for ECG?
Also no.
She poured grounded pepper on the firewood to “encourage” the fire. The fire jumped up like it had heard its ex was getting married.
She finished cooking in the dark, using the light from the fire and the strength of her nose.
“But Grandma,” I asked, “didn’t the pepper make you cry?”
She smiled again. “It wasn’t just me. The whole compound cried. Even the chickens cried.”
That day, I understood something.
There are levels of pepper.
There is shito pepper.
There is waakye pepper.
There is heartbreak pepper.
And then… there is ECG pepper.
Now let me fast-forward to another day ECG showed me real pepper: my wedding day.
Yes. I married. Miraculously.
It was a simple wedding. Nothing flashy. Just me, my beautiful bride, 300 family members we didn’t invite, and a rented speaker from DJ Killbeats Jnr.
Everything was going well. The jollof was jollofing. The MC was hyping. The cake was standing.
Then, during our first dance, it happened.
PAH!
Darkness.
The music stopped. The fans died. The microphone screamed “eeeehhhkkkkkk” and died.
ECG had entered the chat.
People froze mid-sway. One auntie thought the rapture had come. A small boy screamed, “Mommy, I can’t see!”
I wanted to cry.
But my wife whispered, “Don’t worry, we move.”
And do you know what we did?
We danced in the dark.
With people flashing torchlights.
Someone brought out a lantern.
Another person used their phone with full brightness and 5% battery.
And that, my friend, was the most beautiful moment of the wedding.
Thanks to ECG.
They still owe me power though.
Two weeks after the wedding drama, I decided I had had enough. ECG had stressed me more than all my exes combined. I was ready to take action. Bold action. Revolutionary action.
So I did what every responsible Ghanaian does when they’re fed up:
I tweeted.
Yes, I went to Twitter (X, if you want to be modern), and I wrote:
“Dear ECG, if I wanted to live in darkness, I’d have moved to a cave. Even the cave people had fire. Please respect yourselves.”
I added the crying emoji. I tagged them. I added #BringBackOurLight #PepperExperience.
The tweet blew up.
Hundreds of people shared their stories in the comments:
One lady said her meat turned into soup in the fridge.
Another man said his baby called “Dada” for the first time just to ask for a fan.
A guy confessed he now bathes with a torchlight stuck to his forehead like a miner.
It was a whole ECG therapy session.
But guess what? ECG replied!
Yes oh! ECG has a Twitter handler. A human being was behind that handle. They replied:
“Kindly DM your meter number for assistance. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
I felt powerful. I felt heard. I felt... slightly important.
I sent my meter number.
They replied with one word:
“Noted.”
NOTED?!
After all my suffering?
But you know what? At least they replied. That’s progress. That’s love in ECG language.
That night, the lights came back.
And stayed.
For five hours.
Then they went again. But still — five hours is five hours. In ECG time, that’s like a full presidential term.
So yes, ECG has shown me pepper. Real pepper. Black pepper. Red pepper. Shito pepper. Even emotional pepper.
They’ve taught me patience, how to charge my phone like it’s gold, and how to cook rice using candle heat.
They’ve ruined birthdays, saved weddings, and tested my sanity.
But they’ve also united us. Because let’s be honest — there’s no bonding like sitting in the dark with your neighbor, sharing stories and sweating in harmony.
To everyone out there still dealing with ECG wahala — you are not alone. We are one people. One nation. Under candlelight. Indivisible. With frustration and blackout for all.
And if ECG ever tells you again that the “system is down,” just smile, grab some pepper, and tell them:
“You too, you will see pepper!”
THE END.
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