You stand in a crowded office, clutching your documents, replaying the weeks it took to get there. You have borrowed money for transport, taken time off work, and explained to your family that this one permit, this one decision, could change everything.
Finally, your name is called.
The official glances at your file and speaks without looking at you.
Your application has been denied!
You hesitate. You gather the courage to ask why. The answer comes quickly, almost rehearsed: It’s at our discretion. And just like that, the conversation ends.
For many Ghanaians, moments like this are so common that they no longer shock. They are absorbed into daily life, excused as part of how the system works. Yet behind that quiet acceptance lies a troubling truth: what feels ordinary is often unconstitutional.
Beneath the surface of everyday governance, the 1992 Constitution offers a powerful but overlooked protection, one that directly challenges the culture of unexplained authority. Article 296 does not celebrate discretion; it disciplines it. It insists that public power must always be tied to reason, fairness, and accountability. In effect, it rejects the notion that an official can act simply because they have the power to do so.
This becomes clearer when we understand what discretion really means. In law, discretion is not a blank cheque. It is not permission to act on impulse or personal preference. It exists because life is complex, and not every situation can be governed by rigid rules. Officials must sometimes choose between options, weigh competing factors, and adapt to circumstances.
But that flexibility comes with a cost: it must be justified.
Discretion, in this sense, is not a personal asset. It is a public trust. It belongs not to the individual in office, but to the office itself and ultimately to the people.
And yet, in practice, this idea is often overshadowed by a deeply rooted culture of deference to authority. The so-called Big Man syndrome quietly shapes expectations, encouraging the belief that power, once acquired, carries its own legitimacy. Decisions are made, not explained. Outcomes are enforced, not justified.
The Constitution speaks directly against this mindset. It requires that every exercise of discretion be reasonable, consistent, and grounded in law. A decision influenced by personal favour, political alignment, or quiet biases is not merely unfair; it is unlawful.
This tension becomes visible in the small details of everyday governance. It is evident when one trader is fined while another in the same position is ignored. It appears when one building is demolished overnight, while an identical structure next door remains untouched. It is felt when applications that look the same produce completely different outcomes.
These are not harmless inconsistencies. They are warning signs of arbitrariness.
The law in Ghana is settled on this point: similar cases must be treated similarly unless there is a clear and justified reason for a difference. Consistency is not a courtesy extended by the state; it is a legal obligation imposed on it. When that consistency breaks down without explanation, discretion begins to slide into abuse.
The consequences become even more serious when decisions reach beyond inconvenience and begin to shape lives in profound ways. Nowhere is this more evident than in our educational institutions, where a single administrative decision can alter a person’s future.
A student’s expulsion, a lecturer’s suspension, these are not minor administrative acts. They carry lasting consequences for reputation, opportunity, and dignity. And because of this, the law demands more.
It demands that individuals be heard. It requires that decisions be explained. It insists that authorities act transparently, especially where the stakes are high.
Without these safeguards, discipline loses its legitimacy. It becomes something harsher, something more dangerous, unchecked power cloaked in procedure.
If this level of scrutiny is essential in schools, it becomes even more urgent in sectors where decisions can determine whether businesses survive or collapse. Regulatory bodies hold immense influence over economic life, issuing licences, imposing sanctions, and deciding who is allowed to operate.
Such power cannot rest on silence.
The principle of proportionality becomes critical here. Simply put, an authority’s response must match the gravity of the situation. A minor error cannot justify a devastating consequence. A fixable mistake cannot warrant the destruction of a livelihood.
More importantly, every decision must be explainable. Why this action? Why now? Why this person?
Where these questions go unanswered, legitimacy begins to erode.
Yet, perhaps the most important and empowering aspect of Article 296 lies in what it means for ordinary citizens. Many people believe that challenging authority requires dramatic proof: a recorded bribe, a documented conspiracy, a clear act of corruption.
But often, the problem is not hidden misconduct. It is something far simpler: the absence of reason.
A decision can be unconstitutional because it offers no explanation. Because it treats similar cases differently. Because it ignores established procedures. Because it denies a person the opportunity to be heard. Sometimes, it is as simple and as powerful as that.
In other words, you do not need to prove corruption to question power. You only need to ask whether it makes sense.
And this is where Article 296 quietly reshapes the balance between citizen and state. It reminds us that power is not self-justifying. It must constantly answer to reason.
The courts in Ghana have affirmed this principle time and again: discretion operates within the Constitution, not above it. Silence, often mistaken for authority, is in fact a failure of accountability.
So, the next time you find yourself standing in that office, holding your breath as a decision is handed down, remember this:
You are not asking for a favour when you ask for reasons.
You are not being difficult when you demand fairness.
You are asserting a constitutional right.
Because in Ghana, no decision that changes a life should ever rest on the fragile foundation of ‘because I said so’.