Sikaman, let me tell you something. In this our country, there are three things you cannot escape: death, the cedi-dollar rate, and the price of one bed in a so-called student hostel. Of the three, the bed is the most fearful, because death comes once, the dollar will at least allow you to argue with it, but the hostel landlord will collect from you, your father, your father’s village, and the unborn ancestors of your maternal aunt — all in advance, all in dollars, all non-refundable.
Yours truly Kwabena Kokote has been observing this hostel business with a heavy heart and a light pocket. Last week, a young man — let us call him Kofi, because in Sikaman if you don’t have one Kofi in your story, the story is not Ghanaian — went to look for accommodation near Legon. He found one place. The room was the size of a coffin that had been on a diet. There was one bed, one fan that turned only when it felt like it, one socket that worked only on Tuesdays, and a window that opened into the neighbour’s prayer meeting. The landlord, sitting like a chief on a plastic chair, looked at Kofi and said:
“Eight thousand cedis. Per year. Two years advance. Cash. No negotiation. Take it or leave it. There are twelve people waiting outside.”
Kofi, who is studying Engineering and therefore understands numbers, did a small calculation in his head. Eight thousand times two is sixteen thousand. Sixteen thousand cedis. For a room where, if you stretch your arms, you will slap two different roommates at the same time. Aweeii. Kofi opened his mouth to negotiate, but before he could finish, “Please, can we discuss—” the landlord had already started showing the next person inside. That is how it goes, Sikaman. In this our country the hostel landlord does not haggle. He auctions.
And so finally, finally, Rent Control woke up. On 19 May 2026, the Office of the Rent Commissioner and the Rent Control Department directed all private student hostel operators across the country to suspend any planned increases in accommodation fees for the 2026/2027 academic year, pending further consultations with stakeholders.
Stakeholders! Sikaman, did you hear that word? Stakeholders. When Ghana wants to delay a thing officially, we hold a stakeholder engagement. It is our national delay tactic. There shall be opening prayer, there shall be a chairman, there shall be sachet water and meat pie, somebody shall be late, somebody shall give a long speech thanking “all protocols observed,” and at the end the only person who shall have benefitted is the caterer. The landlords will go back to their hostels and quietly rename the rent increase as “facility maintenance contribution.”
But let us not be cynical, Sikaman. Let us give credit where the credit is barely defensible. The Rent Commissioner, one Mr Frederick Opoku, announced direct inspections at the University of Ghana, UPSA, and Wisconsin — and one of the hostels that featured prominently in the inspection list is, I kid you not, called Viking Hostel. Viking. My ancestors, the late Alomele wrote a whole column called “There Go the Vikings Again.” If he were here today, he would have died a second time from laughter. The Vikings have come for our children. They have docked their longboats at East Legon and they are charging by the cubic centimetre.
Now, the operators of these hostels have a theory. They say “We invested money.” Yes, you invested money. We invested life. There is a difference. The bank charged you interest; you are charging us interest plus pepper plus salt plus a small bottle of Schnapps for the gateman. The Acting Rent Commissioner himself said, “It can be more than what you are thinking… But why don’t you allow yourself to be assessed? The law says you should assess. We will assess you.” Eii, Sikaman. We will assess you. That is the most threatening sentence in the entire Rent Act, 1963. Section 10, sub-section fear God.
You see, in this our country, the moment government says “we will assess you,” the assessed person goes home, takes one bottle of Star Beer, calls his cousin in Accra, and the next morning the file has missed road. We have an entire postal system dedicated to lost files. There are files that left Rent Control in 1987 and have not yet arrived at Parliament. They are still on the journey. They have grown up, gotten married, had children, sent the children to school, and the children are now also lost files. It is a family business.
But let us be fair to the hostel operators, Sikaman. They too are suffering. Cement is expensive. Cement is paaaa expensive. The bag of cement that was 70 cedis last year is now 130 cedis. Iron rods are flirting with the dollar. Electricity has joined ECG’s witness protection programme — sometimes there, sometimes not there, never accountable. And then the GRA man will come asking for VAT, NHIL, GETFund Levy, COVID-19 Levy (yes, in 2026 we are still paying for it — the COVID has gone but the levy has acquired permanent residence), and one new tax that nobody has named yet but which appears on the receipt as “Other.” So when the landlord says he is suffering, he is also telling small truth.
The real palava is this, Sikaman: we have built a higher education system where the book is cheaper than the bed. A student can buy all his textbooks for the semester at 400 cedis, but the room he will read those books in shall cost him 8,000 cedis. Knowledge is free; the chair on which you sit to receive that knowledge is premium pricing. We have created the world’s first real estate university, where the property values are awarded the PhD and the students are awarded the rent invoice.
And don’t get me started on the “Two Years Advance” matter. Two years! Sikaman, in two years, anything can happen. The student can change course. The student can travel to abrokyire. The student can fall in love and decide he prefers his girlfriend’s mattress in Adenta. The government can change. The cedi can change its name. The hostel itself can fall down — and yet you have paid two years in advance, in cash, with no receipt, with the landlord’s signature looking like a heart-rate monitor of a man having a stroke.
NUGS President Rashid Ibrahim has been shouting. He must shout. That is what NUGS Presidents are paid to do — to shout until somebody invites them to a stakeholder meeting, after which they shall calm down for two semesters until the next fee hike. It is a cycle, Sikaman, like the seasons. There is the rainy season, the harmattan season, and the hostel fee increment season. Of the three, only one is reliably annual.
And the Minister, Honourable Haruna Iddrisu, has warned that public-private partnerships in hostel infrastructure must not become avenues for exploitation. Must not. The English language in Ghana has perfected the art of the must not. “Galamsey must not destroy our rivers.” “Politicians must not steal.” “Trotros must not overload.” Every time we say must not, the thing being prohibited grows a beard, gets married, opens a branch in Kumasi, and starts paying dividends.
So what shall happen, Sikaman? I will tell you. By August, the freeze shall be lifted. The “stakeholder consultation” shall produce a document called Guidelines for Reasonable Hostel Fee Adjustment. The document shall be 47 pages. Nobody shall read it. The landlords shall raise fees by 35% and call it a “compliance adjustment.” Rent Control shall issue another press release. NUGS shall issue a counter-statement. Citi FM shall do a panel. A Reverend Minister of one chamber-and-hall church shall fast for the students. And the students — eyaa, the students — shall sleep four to a room, share one fan, eat one meal a day, and somehow, somehow, still graduate with First Class.
Because that is the Ghanaian miracle, Sikaman. Not the cedi. Not the gold. Not even the jollof. The miracle is the Ghanaian student, who in the middle of a room that is being rented out by Vikings, will open his laptop on 12% battery, balance one textbook on his knee, and write an exam paper good enough to win a scholarship to a country where rooms come with kitchens. Kitchens, Sikaman! With ovens. With running water that does not flow only between 4am and 6am.
I salute you, Sikaman student. Your bed is small but your future is wide. May your landlord one day be assessed — properly assessed — with the full thunder of Section 10 of the Rent Act, 1963.
And to the Viking Hostel: my brother, our ancestors are watching. Adwoa Akwasi’s spirit is watching. The late Alomele is watching. Even the kelewele woman at the junction is watching. Lower the prices. Just small. Just kakra. The whole nation will thank you, including the small Kofi who only needs one bed, one socket that works on more days than Tuesday, and one window that does not open into a prayer meeting.
Yɛn ase yɛ den. Our backs are strong. But even strong backs deserve a fair mattress.
Yours in patient outrage and stubborn hope, Kwabena Kokote
P.S. — Landlord, the two-years-advance matter is between you and God. He is also a tenant in this country, and He has been observing.