In the feverish atmosphere of an internal party election, trust can be as scarce as it is essential. When a candidate believes that a small string of numbers—the personal identification number meant to unlock his nomination—has been changed behind his back, it cuts to the heart of that trust. This is precisely what happened in Ghana’s National Democratic Congress (NDC) as the party prepares for its national executive elections. Steven Donkor, an aspirant for the position of National General Secretary, has gone public with a serious allegation: that his PIN for filing nomination forms was altered without his knowledge. In his telling, the party’s Elections Committee is not merely an impartial referee but an active opponent, trying to frustrate his bid and clear the path for the incumbent, Fifi Fiavi Kwetey, to walk to victory unopposed. It is a claim that, if true, would raise troubling questions about fairness and democracy inside the NDC. But the party’s Director of Elections and IT, Mahdi Gibril, does not believe a word of it. In a tense interview with Citi News, Gibril rejected the allegation outright, describing it as unfortunate and pointing to what he called misinformation. He insisted that the Elections Committee had no reason to tamper with anyone’s PIN, and he challenged Donkor to explain why he was taking such a story to the public. The disagreement has turned what might have been a routine administrative dispute into a political drama, with accusations flying, reputations at stake, and ordinary party members left to wonder whom to believe. For Donkor, the PIN is not just a technical detail; it is the key that opens the door to a fair contest. For Gibril, the accusation is a smear born of frustration. The truth, as always, lies somewhere in between—or perhaps in the electronic logs of the party’s nomination system.
Gibril’s defense of the system is both technical and personal. He explained that the online nomination platform was not a closed box controlled by party officials; it was deliberately designed to give each aspirant exclusive control over their account. Every change, he argued, leaves a trace and triggers a notification. In Donkor’s case, Gibril said, when the PIN was changed, the system did not hide the information. It sent a new PIN directly to Donkor’s phone. That message, according to Gibril, was an invitation to continue. It was a signal that the process was still open, that his candidacy was still alive. Yet Donkor chose not to act on it. He did not use the new PIN to proceed with his nomination. Instead, he let the moment pass and later cried foul. Gibril’s tone suggests bewilderment more than anger. Why would a man with ambition to lead the NDC ignore a clear notification and then claim he had been sabotaged? It is a fair question, and one that Gibril clearly wants the public to ask. But the story also invites sympathy for Donkor. Imagine the stress of filing a nomination, the pressure of meeting deadlines, the fear that unseen hands are working against you. In such moments, a changed PIN can feel like proof of conspiracy. The fact that a new PIN was sent to his phone might not have felt like help; it might have felt like a cruel joke. Gibril, however, is not in a mood to entertain such anxieties. For him, the system is transparent, the notifications are real, and the responsibility lies with the aspirant. “When the PIN was changed, it indicated and gave a new PIN on his phone, meaning he could proceed with the process. But he chose not to do that,” he said. The simplicity of that statement conceals the depth of the dispute. It reduces a dramatic political accusation to a missed text message, a moment of indecision, or perhaps a misunderstanding.
Gibril went further, offering a detail that seems difficult to square with the idea of a conspiracy. According to him, Donkor did not file his nomination alone in the shadows. He came to the party’s office in person, and it was there that members of the Elections Committee helped him with the online nomination process. This is a striking image: the very people accused of sabotaging a candidate sitting beside him, guiding him through the digital forms, making sure he could pick up the nomination papers. “This is the person who came to the party office here. Even though it’s done online, it is the team here who helped him to file and pick this nomination,” Gibril said. The logic of his argument is simple. If the committee wanted to stop Donkor, why would they devote time and energy to helping him start? Why would they offer technical assistance to a man they were allegedly plotting against? In politics, however, logic does not always soothe suspicion. A candidate may wonder whether the help is genuine or merely a performance, a way to create a false paper trail of cooperation. Gibril seems aware of this, which is why he stresses the absurdity of the accusation. The party, he suggests, has no reason to fear a contest. It is not trying to manufacture a coronation for Kwetey. If anything, the committee’s willingness to assist Donkor at the office demonstrates that the process is open to all who meet the requirements. But the deeper issue remains: if Donkor received help, if he had a new PIN on his phone, if he could have continued at any moment, why did he stop? Gibril’s answer is implicit—Donkor stopped because stopping suited his narrative. He wanted to create the impression that the party was blocking him, even when the door was open. The accusation, in Gibril’s view, is not a report of an injustice. It is a political weapon, sharpened in advance, ready to be used if the nomination did not go as planned.
The timing of Donkor’s complaint also troubled Gibril. He pointed out that Donkor had been absent from the party’s office for roughly two weeks before returning on November 7 to report the alleged PIN change. In a world of instant communication, two weeks is an eternity. If a PIN had been changed without your knowledge, if your political future were at risk, would you wait fourteen days to complain? Gibril clearly thinks not. He sees the delay as evidence that Donkor’s grievance was manufactured or, at the very least, exaggerated after the fact. A man who truly felt robbed of his chance would have stormed into the office the next morning, phone in hand, demanding answers. Instead, according to Gibril, Donkor stayed away, only to reappear with a dramatic story when the moment suited him. The human dimension here is compelling. There is something deeply familiar about a person who, faced with failure, searches for an external explanation. It is painful to admit that one missed a step, ignored a message, or simply lost momentum. It is far easier to say, “They changed my PIN.” Gibril’s frustration is understandable. He is watching a candidate turn a bureaucratic process into a morality play, casting himself as the victim and the party as the villain. Yet there is another way to read the delay. Perhaps Donkor spent those two weeks trying to resolve the matter through other channels, speaking to friends, advisors, even party elders, hoping to find a solution without going public. Perhaps he only raised the alarm publicly after those quiet efforts failed. In the absence of evidence, both interpretations remain possible. But Gibril’s insistence on the timeline gives his account a concrete anchor. It is no longer just a dispute about a PIN. It is a dispute about behavior, about whether Donkor acted like a man who had been wronged or like a man constructing a story.
At the heart of Gibril’s response is a broader accusation: Donkor is deliberately trying to poison the well. By claiming that the party is preventing him from completing or validating his nomination, Donkor casts doubt on the entire electoral process. If one candidate can claim to be blocked, others may wonder whether their own opportunities are at risk. The NDC, a party that prides itself on internal democracy, cannot afford such suspicion. Gibril’s defense of the system is therefore more than personal; it is institutional. He insists that the PIN and identification details issued to aspirants are personal information, protected by the system, and that each candidate has direct access to updates on their own account. There is no middleman who can quietly alter a PIN without leaving a trace. There is no shadowy figure in a back office deciding who gets to stand and who must sit down. The system, in Gibril’s telling, is designed to empower candidates, not to betray them. This is a reassuring vision, but it also raises a question: if the system is so transparent, why is there any controversy at all? Gibril’s answer is that controversy is manufactured by a candidate who did not take advantage of the process. Donkor, he suggests, wants to be seen as a martyr of the nomination process, a brave voice silenced by a powerful machine. That story may rally supporters and create sympathy, but it does not reflect the truth. For Gibril, the PIN change is not a mystery. It happened, it was communicated, and the candidate moved on—or, rather, he did not. The silence after the notification is the only real crime. It is the act of someone who chose not to continue, not someone who was forced out. Gibril’s words carry the weight of a man who has seen many elections, many candidates, many claims of injustice. He knows that politics is a rough game, and that sometimes the easiest way to explain a failed bid is to blame the system. But he is not willing to let that explanation stand without challenge.
As the NDC moves toward its national executive elections, Donkor’s claims have inevitably raised concerns about the transparency of the nomination process. The party’s ability to conduct a credible internal election depends on the belief that every candidate has a fair chance. When a senior official dismisses a candidate’s complaint as misinformation, and the candidate insists he was sabotaged, ordinary members are caught in the middle. They must decide who speaks the truth. Gibril offers a clear, logical narrative: the system notified Donkor, he ignored it, and now he is trying to rewrite history. Donkor’s narrative is equally clear: the party wanted to stop him, the PIN was changed to block him, and the only reason he is speaking out is to defend his right to contest. Both stories are compelling in their own way. The difference is that Gibril speaks from a position of authority, with access to the system and its records, while Donkor speaks from the perspective of an aspirant who feels he was treated unfairly. In the court of public opinion, such disputes are rarely settled by technical details. They are settled by emotion, by instinct, by which side seems more believable. Gibril’s calm confidence may reassure some; Donkor’s passionate grievance may move others. What is certain is that this is not the last the NDC will hear of the matter. If Donkor is truly barred from contesting, he may take his case to internal party bodies, or even to the courts. If he is merely frustrated by his own inaction, the controversy may fade as the elections proceed. For now, the party must find a way to heal the wound before it becomes infected. It must reassure aspirants that the system is fair, while also demanding that candidates take responsibility for their own nominations. The PIN may be a small string of numbers, but in this moment, it has become a symbol of trust, ambition, and the fragile faith that keeps political parties together. In the end, the NDC’s challenge is not just to conduct an election, but to do so in a way that leaves every member feeling that the outcome, whatever it is, was honest. That is the real prize—and it cannot be secured with a PIN alone.