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In our country called Ghana, titles are handed out like flyers at a trotro station. It’s common, almost instinctive, to be called “Chairman”, “Boss”, “Chief”, “Officer”, or even “Captain” without ever earning the position, wearing the badge, or commanding a single ship.
These are not job descriptions; they're social greetings, honourifics gifted freely in the marketplace of Ghanaian interaction.
Usually, all it takes is eye contact, a nod, and maybe a firm handshake, and boom, you're “Chairman”. No questions asked.
This trend, subtly woven into our culture, is more than just playful banter; it’s a form of social lubrication.
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The title you receive might depend on your dressing, your swagger, your perceived age, or how someone’s spirit vibes with you at that moment.
In a society where guessing someone’s age could land you in trouble, and first names are often reserved for peers or close friends – certainly not elders – using these titles becomes the safest route to avoid embarrassment or, worse, disrespect.
The playful exchange of one-up titles, "No, you be the big chairman!" reflects Ghanaian politeness norms, where status is acknowledged but also immediately equalised to foster respect.
It’s a fascinating mixture of hierarchical acknowledgement and egalitarian behaviour very typical of how especially Ghanaian men communicate.
What started as casual street slang has now become a national code. Whether you're at a funeral, in the gym, or just walking by your neighbourhood kiosk, expect someone to hail you with a title you didn’t know you had.
It’s respectful, it's relatable, and it keeps you guessing whether you look more like a “Bossu” or a “Don”. And here’s the kicker: nobody knows anyone’s real name.
Take me, for instance. Just a few days ago, it dawned on me that for over three years, I had been calling my gym mates “Champ”, “Boss”, and “Chairman”. Not once did I ask for their actual names.
It wasn’t until we had to exchange contacts that reality struck: I had to assign names to these men in my phonebook, and all I had was a chorus of nicknames.
When it comes to greeting rituals, Ghanaians, especially the men, have mastered the art of title tennis.
Call someone “Boss”, and he’ll instantly deflect with, “No, no, you’re the bigger boss!” Say “Chairman”, and you’ll get a, “I dey under you, Captain!” It becomes a hierarchy tug-of-war where no one wants to claim seniority, and each wants to out-humble the other.
These back-and-forths are not just amusing; they're meaningful. They reflect mutual respect, a refusal to pull rank, and a light-hearted way to establish equality in conversation.
And somehow, despite the fact that no real information is exchanged, a friendship is born. It's beautiful chaos.
Interestingly, this mode of communication aligns with linguist Deborah Tannen’s research: men typically engage in “report talk” focused on status and hierarchy, while women lean towards “rapport talk”, prioritising connection and empathy.
In Ghana, these styles blur. Men establish hierarchy with nicknames, then immediately flatten it with humility, creating both respect and camaraderie.
The ladies, of course, aren’t left out. They're usually met with a softer, sometimes flirtatious tone – "Sweetheart", "Dear", "Empress" – again, titles not tied to reality but to mood, admiration, or mischief.
So the next time someone in Ghana calls you “President”, “Landlord”, or even “Director of Enjoyment Affairs”, don’t correct them.
It’s not a mistake; it’s a warm handshake in words, an icebreaker dressed in imaginary authority.
Because in Ghana, you don’t need to know someone’s name to know their worth. You just need the right title and a strong handshake.
By Samuel Awuni