When I was in the car coming to the hospital, I was lamenting. It's no more a pothole, it's a manhole.
In Ga East, Ghana, a road meant to carry the sick toward healing has become an obstacle to survival itself. Member of Parliament Elikplim Akurugu, standing at the gates of Ga East Municipal Hospital on Mother's Day, gave voice to a quiet emergency: that broken asphalt between a community and its hospital is not merely an inconvenience but a sentence — one that has already claimed lives lost in transit. Her appeal reminds us that infrastructure is never neutral; it is either a bridge toward human dignity or a barrier against it.
- Ambulances carrying critically ill patients crawl through road conditions so severe the MP no longer calls them potholes — she calls them manholes.
- Emergency patients have died before reaching the hospital, their final moments consumed by a broken road rather than by medical care.
- Akurugu has already engaged the Roads Minister and contractor Oswell Construction directly, yet the road has continued to deteriorate rather than improve.
- Frustrated by the gap between government assignment and actual action, she escalated to a public emotional appeal during a Mother's Day hospital visit.
- The situation now rests on whether public pressure can accelerate what formal accountability channels have so far failed to deliver.
On Mother's Day, Dome Kwabenya MP Elikplim Akurugu arrived at Ga East Municipal Hospital not only to celebrate mothers but to confront a crisis she could no longer set aside. The road leading to the facility had degraded so severely that she stopped calling its craters potholes — the word, she felt, no longer captured the danger. She used "manhole" instead, and the distinction was not rhetorical. It was a measure of genuine alarm.
The consequences are not abstract. Ambulances carrying emergency patients slow to a crawl on the broken surface, and Akurugu described cases where critically ill people died before reaching the hospital doors — their final minutes spent in transit rather than in care. The mathematics are unforgiving: emergency medicine depends on speed, and this road steals it.
Akurugu has not been passive. She engaged the Roads Minister, who confirmed that Oswell Construction had been awarded the repair contract. She contacted the contractor directly. Yet the road has only worsened. Her public appeal, made during the hospital visit, reflected the exhaustion of someone who has worked within the system and watched it stall. "When I was in the car coming to the hospital, I was lamenting," she said.
She was deliberate in refusing to frame the issue as political. "This is not political, it is about humans," she said. "You never know who your relative could be." The warning was quiet but pointed: the person stranded on that road could belong to anyone. The question that now hangs over Ga East is whether a public appeal on Mother's Day will move the machinery of government faster than every formal channel before it has managed to do.
Elikplim Akurugu, the Member of Parliament for Dome Kwabenya, stood at Ga East Municipal Hospital on Mother's Day with a plea that had moved beyond the usual parliamentary courtesy. The road leading to the facility had become so damaged that she described it no longer as a pothole but as a manhole—a distinction that carried the weight of genuine alarm. She was there to celebrate mothers, but she could not ignore what the deteriorating asphalt meant for the people who needed the hospital most.
The road's condition creates a specific and urgent problem: ambulances carrying emergency patients move slowly, sometimes painfully slowly, through the broken surface. Akurugu spoke of cases where patients in critical condition died before reaching the hospital doors, their final minutes spent bouncing through potholes instead of receiving care. This is not an abstract infrastructure complaint. It is a direct threat to survival.
The MP has already moved beyond rhetoric. She has visited the Roads Minister, who told her that Oswell Construction had been awarded the contract to repair the road. She has also contacted the contractor directly about the worsening conditions. Yet the road remains broken. Akurugu's appeal, made during her hospital visit, carried an emotional urgency that reflected her frustration with the gap between assignment and action. "When I was in the car coming to the hospital, I was lamenting," she said, describing her own recent drive to the facility.
She framed the issue deliberately outside the language of partisan politics. This is not about which party controls government or which faction controls the municipality. It is about the basic fact that people in the Ga East area rely on this hospital for urgent healthcare, and the road that connects them to it is failing. "This is not political, it is about humans," she stated. "You never know who your relative could be." The statement carries an implicit warning: the person stuck in traffic on that broken road could be anyone's mother, anyone's child, anyone's spouse.
The specific mechanics of the problem are clear. Emergency transport depends on speed. A road in poor condition slows that transport. Patients in critical condition cannot afford delay. The mathematics of the situation are brutal. Yet the road remains unrepaired despite being assigned to a contractor, despite the Roads Minister's acknowledgment of the project, despite the MP's direct engagement with both officials and the construction company.
Akurugu's appeal represents a moment where the usual channels of government accountability appear to have stalled. She has done what an MP is supposed to do: identify a problem, engage the relevant minister, contact the contractor, and advocate for her constituents. The road has not improved. So she made a public appeal during a Mother's Day visit, speaking directly to the Roads Minister and the contractor, asking them to act with urgency. The question now is whether that public pressure will move the machinery of government faster than the usual processes have managed to do.
Notable Quotes
When there are a lot of people in emergency, before they get to the hospital, they are even dead.— Elikplim Akurugu, Dome Kwabenya MP
This is not political, it is about humans. You never know who your relative could be.— Elikplim Akurugu, Dome Kwabenya MP
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why did the MP choose Mother's Day specifically to make this appeal?
She was already at the hospital to celebrate mothers, but the broken road made it impossible to ignore. She couldn't celebrate healthcare access while the road that delivers people to care was falling apart. The timing wasn't calculated—it was honest.
Has the contractor actually started work, or is the project just stalled?
The source doesn't say. We know the contract was awarded to Oswell Construction, and the MP has contacted them about the deteriorating conditions. That suggests the work either hasn't begun or has progressed very slowly. The road is getting worse, not better.
What makes this different from other infrastructure complaints in Ghana?
The direct human cost. This isn't about convenience or economic efficiency. People are dying because ambulances can't move fast enough on a broken road. That's not a policy debate—it's a life-or-death problem.
Why would the MP describe it as a manhole rather than just saying it's very bad?
Because she's trying to make people understand the scale. A pothole is something you expect on a bad road. A manhole suggests the damage has gone so deep that it's become a genuine hazard, not just an inconvenience. It's the difference between a problem and a crisis.
What happens if the road doesn't get fixed soon?
More delays. More emergency patients arriving too late. The hospital itself is functional, but the infrastructure that connects people to it is failing. Without the road, the hospital's capacity to save lives is compromised.