It was the late 1990s in Ghana—a season of cautious hope. The country stood between reform and reward: post-structural adjustment yet pre-oil boom, as private business ambitions quietly began reshaping the city’s edges. In Dzorwulu, Accra, a new hotel emerged. Its name, the Hibiscus Hotel, gleamed in gold against smooth, freshly painted stucco. No other property nearby offered a functioning generator or satellite television in every room. Mr. Ben Mensah had built it from ‘scratch’, fueled by decades of steady service as an accountant.
The hotel shone with polished floors, velvet drapes, and soft-lit sconces—reflecting not only Mr. Mensah’s pension savings but his faith in Ghana’s future. To the outside world, it whispered luxury. The lobby sparkled with marble underfoot, floral arrangements perfumed the air, and soft jazz curled through the space—each element designed to lull guests into a carefully crafted dream of effortless elegance. But all that glitters, as Yawa-Attah would soon learn, deserves a closer look.
The architect’s renderings came from a cousin who had studied in Belgium—depicting elegant corridors, curved staircases, and recessed lighting. But one Thursday morning, a delivery truck reversed into the narrow alley designated for drop-offs. There was no proper loading dock—only a makeshift platform. As crates were offloaded, a kitchen staff member slipped on the muddy ground. There was no first aid available, and no established protocol.
Mr. Mensah watched it happen from his office window. He looked away.
Later, in a candid conversation with a close friend, Mr. Mensah admitted that operational issues were mounting. He wondered if professional management might be necessary—even though he remained convinced he was the best person to manage his “dream hotel.” It was suggested he consult Hospitality Associates—the only well-known hotel consultancy at the time. Reluctantly, he agreed to a formal consultation. Having built the hotel with his pension, brick by brick, and fortified by his unwavering belief, criticism—even when well-founded—felt like betrayal. Reluctantly, he agreed to a formal consultation. Having built the hotel with his pension, brick by brick, and fortified by his unwavering belief, criticism—even when well-founded—felt like betrayal.
Somewhere beyond the mirrored elevators and perfumed hallways, Yawa-Attah stepped into a service corridor that smelled of compromise. The receiving area felt like an afterthought—crammed beside the storeroom, as if added to the blueprint at the last minute, like a forgotten subject on a school timetable.
At the time, younger but already sharp-eyed, she sat across from Mr. Mensah with a sheaf of notes. “There’s no shade at the supply entrance; the receiving area is also a hallway. You’ve placed waste storage less than four meters from food preparation. That’s not a hiccup—it’s hazardous.” She had been brought in following a spate of guest complaints, and Mr. Mensah’s concerns had become clear. Yawa-Attah on the other hand, had no sense of diplomacy, and her words landed like punches.
Despite the hotel’s gleaming surfaces, something beneath was beginning to unravel. With each return visit, her observations hardened into fact: behind the gilded doors, operations faltered. Deliveries arrived at a cramped dock that doubled as a hallway. Unwholesome poultry and misplaced crates became routine. Trash bins spilled over just steps from food preparation stations.
Storage rooms were scattered, chaotic—or altogether absent in some critical departments. The receiving area, sandwiched between the staff cafeteria and the storage room, was cramped, barely accommodating a dolly. Crates of vegetables knocked shoulders with detergent drums. Invoices clung to makeshift clipboards. The air smelled faintly of crushed mint—until it didn’t.
What Mr. Mensah had framed as kitchen issues turned out to be symptoms of a deeper malaise. The dysfunction extended to broader back-of-house operations—receiving, waste management, general storage—choking efficiency and breeding daily crises.
Yawa-Attah shared her observations with her co-director, Mr. Aanani: “While guests admire the ambiance and elegance of the public spaces, behind the scenes, chaos brews in the very areas that keep the hotel alive.”
Yawa-Attah’s dossier of anomalies during a 7-day walk-through the hotel—compiled from her own observations, staff disclosures, and guest complaints—was growing:
- A foul smell near the staff breakroom: a pungent mix of citrus peels and burnt oil.
- Rodent droppings spotted near an exterior drain.
- The potential headline loomed: “Luxury Hotel Fails Hygiene Spot Check.”
- A guest slipping near the lounge, dodging leaking bin bags.
- Cold tilapia served at dinner, with whispers about its freshness.
- Clean linen locked away in a closet no one seemed to have the key to.
- A rodent darting past the banquet hall cart.
- The waste disposal area—no larger than a broom closet—was overflowing. There was no segregation and no ventilation.
Will Yawa-Attah’s undiplomatic stance be her downfall? Watch out for how this story ends next week.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.