At just 17, Akwasi Alhassan was a rising football star from Kwesimintsim, a suburb of Takoradi, dreaming of representing Ghana on the world stage. Today, at 53, he remains locked away in the Nsawam Medium Security Prison—a man forgotten by time, serving a life sentence for a grave mistake made in his youth.
“Pray for me,” says Akwasi Alhassan, handing over a photo of himself beside the late Christian Atsu—a man who once visited Nsawam Medium Security Prison to bring hope. In the background, inmates-turned-footballers and referees played their usual match, creating brief moments of joy in a place many would rather forget. This was a rare day. For Akwasi, it was a painful reminder of what could have been.
Alhassan wore a blue shirt with a star over his chest. Not a badge of honor for athletic brilliance, but a “rank” earned after decades of incarceration.
“This has been my home for 36 years,” he said, voice heavy with regret. Convicted in 1993 for a mistake made during a teenage argument in 1989, he was just 17. A promising goalkeeper—once part of Ghana’s first U-17 squad—his life took a turn no one could have predicted.
He fought with a friend. He had a key in his hand. The friend died. Alhassan was arrested, remanded for four years, and eventually sentenced to death. His sentence later became life imprisonment.
Today, at 53, he has spent more time in prison than outside. Over half of Ghana’s population has never heard of him. And yet, to some former Black Stars, he was unforgettable.
“Alhassan was extremely good. There was no goalkeeper like him at the time,” said Yaw Preko. Former teammate Augustine Ahinful agrees.
They met at a distance from the other inmates—near the section for those condemned. There, old friends remembered a young goalkeeper whose talent promised greatness. A greatness never realized.
When the Black Stars legends visited, Alhassan quietly stood back. As Sammy Kuffour embraced inmates and spoke hope into their lives, Alhassan watched, perhaps thinking, “This could have been me.”
He later approached and handed over the photograph. His voice shook. His hands trembled. His face buried in a towel. “Please help me,” he said.
Years ago, his name appeared first on a leaked presidential pardon list. But the letter was withdrawn. He remains locked away. Forgotten by time. Forgotten by justice.
“To be here for 36 years of your life is not easy,” Ahinful noted solemnly. And he’s right.
Even prison officials admit that some inmates are serving extreme sentences for minor infractions or youthful misjudgment. One young man is in for 23 years—mistaken for a thief. A woman was jailed for murder after a playful moment with her husband turned tragic. These are lives broken, not by intent, but by circumstance.
“He was a boy,” one officer said. “He didn’t set out to kill anyone.” And still, 36 years.
Even today, raw talent thrives in prison. Inmates dazzled visiting players. One was gifted money by Yussif Chibsah. Another was named “Man of the Match” by Kwame Ayew.
“The boy in number 10 is from my place,” Sammy Kuffour said proudly. “He’s better than many on TV today.”
The story of Akwasi Alhassan is not just about loss. It’s about justice without mercy. Punishment without rehabilitation. It’s a plea—for society to remember the humanity of those behind bars.
“Don’t we all deserve a second chance?” asked Deputy Director of Prisons, Patrick Thomas Seidu. Yes, we do. And Alhassan, above all, does too.
“Pray for me,” he said again. And he means it. Let’s not forget him.