On the surface, it may seem as though nothing has changed. The buckets are still lined up, the tanks still dry, and the thirst, both literal and figurative, still lingers in the air. But beneath this surface of silence and fatigue, a quiet struggle for accountability simmers.
Over the years, students have tried to raise their voices, not with violence or revolt, but with dialogue and diplomacy. Student leaders have met with university administrators, penned letters, convened forums, and even opened dialogues with the Ghana Water Company Limited (GWCL). These efforts, though persistent and earnest, have borne no lasting fruit. The pipes remain dry. The promises echo and evaporate. What remains is a mounting frustration.
The Students’ Representative Council (SRC), mandated to be the voice and shield of the student body, has repeatedly stepped into the ring. Each SRC administration has inherited this problem like a cursed heirloom, one that weighs heavily on their credibility. While some leaders have made sincere efforts to address the crisis, others have faded into the background, consumed by the political machinery of student governance. Students grow sceptical, wondering if the SRC is truly powerless or simply complacent.
Behind closed doors, SRC executives have engaged in discussions with the Ghana Water Company. Some meetings ended with vague assurances of "plans in motion" or "technical issues being resolved." But these talks have rarely translated into action. A promise without a pipeline is a cruel mirage.
The university administration, which holds the ultimate power to solve the crisis, has adopted what many students describe as a "band-aid approach." Occasionally, tankers are dispatched, an irregular appearance that feels more like a gesture than a solution. The erratic supply offers no stability, no planning, and no hope. Students are forced to either miss out or scramble to purchase water from local vendors.
This is not merely negligence, it is institutional betrayal. A university, a supposed centre of knowledge and progress, has watched generation after generation of students carry buckets instead of books, chase tankers instead of dreams. In the shadows of academic pursuit, students are taught an unwanted curriculum: how to survive abandonment.
Where are the long-term infrastructure plans? Where is the urgency? Where is the leadership? It is not water alone that is absent, it is vision, commitment, and respect.
This enduring neglect has created a chasm between students and those meant to serve them. The administration's silence is as loud as the sound of dry taps. To the student body, it signals indifference. To the SRC, it reflects dismissal. The lack of transparency, follow-through, and accountability reveals a disturbing truth: student welfare is not a priority.
And yet, hope flickers.
There are students who believe that true change is still possible, if only the voices of the many are louder, more united, and more relentless. The thirst is no longer just for water, but for dignity, for respect, and for a campus that treats its students as humans, not numbers.
This is more than a callout; it is a call to organize. The water crisis on the Nyankpala campus is not just a technical problem, it is a crisis of leadership, communication, and priorities. If leadership continues to fail, then the students must lead themselves.
Because no student should have to choose between education and basic survival.
Because we are not asking for a favor, we are demanding what is rightfully ours.
And no one should graduate with a degree in endurance.
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