Herbert Mensah is a man tough to pin down — and not just because he weighs around a whopping 120 kilograms.

It is, per the context of this piece, because, even in his sixties, Mensah is constantly on the move. That explains why this interview had to be conducted at around 6.30 am, and in his personal gym (which has a mini-office attached), mere days before he departs the country — as he so often does.

These days, Mensah — an accomplished entrepreneur who played a significant role during the nascent years of mobile telephony and cable television — spends much of his time running the game of rugby not just in his homeland, but across the continent as president of Rugby Africa, a role to which he was elected in March 2023.

But while Mensah has moved on to a sport in which he is now completely immersed — his first love, he says, but that is a subject for another day — it is football, where he first made his name in sporting circles, that he will always be more readily associated with.

From the late nineties to the mid-noughties, Mensah was, over separate stints, entrusted with running the only three clubs to have ever represented the Ashanti Region — where he was born, on Boxing Day, and hails from — in the Ghana Premier League (GPL).

His work at two of those clubs, King Faisal and Ashantigold, flew relatively under the radar and certainly pales in comparison with what he hitherto achieved as Chairman of the region's — and, arguably, the country's — biggest team, Asante Kotoko.

It has been a little over two decades since Mensah parted ways with the Porcupine Warriors, but supporters of the club old enough to have experienced what life was like during that era still speak fondly of it — myself, for one. I wasn't even a pre-teen when Mensah's tenure came to an end, yet even I retain great nostalgia about those days and how the accompanying memories helped shape my perceptions of the game.

The feeling, it appears, is mutual.

He may no longer be involved with Kotoko's administration — and, indeed, prefers to observe it all from a comfortable distance — but the passion with which Mensah speaks about the club is as intense as his characteristic conviction and candidness; you wouldn't even guess being in charge of Kotoko wasn't a position he wanted in the first place, despite growing up a fan.

Mensah's professional association with Kotoko began with a phone call, from the most unexpected of personalities: the Asantehene, ruler of the Ashanti people.

In Ghana, even across Africa and in the wider world, the Asantehene is a larger-than-life figure. Only colonialism and the modern-day political structure has drastically reduced the territory he controlled back in the 18th and 19th centuries, but his reputation and glory remain undiminished down to the present.

The Asantehene is also, by custom, the Owner and Life Patron of Kotoko — and it is in this capacity that he personally reached out to Mensah for the very first time.

“It was near the end of the year, a day or so after my 38th birthday, when I received that telephone call at my family's London residence,” Mensah recollects.

“My wife was first to it and sought to know who was on the other end.”

“It's Nana,” the voice said. “Otumfuo.”

Everybody knew that title, by which the King of the Ashanti has been unmistakably and officially known since the 1930s.

Mrs. Mensah, quite reasonably, wondered just why one of the world's most revered monarchs would contact her household and request to speak to her husband.

She handed the phone over to Mensah — after whispering the identity of the person he was about to speak to — who, wiping his hands off the Christmas-time cooking he was doing, paid rapt attention to this noble caller, knowing not what to expect.

“My club is dying,” the Asantehene sighed, “and I'm told if anyone can save it, it's you. I'd like to invite you to do so.”

Oh, wow…

As flattering as that sounded, and he did feel honoured by the fact that no less a person than the Asantehene thought so highly of him, the probability of such an offer being extended to Mensah — let alone accepting it — had never prior crossed his mind.

“For me, it was completely confusing,” my host says.

“I hadn't solicited the role, and, in any case, it was nowhere near the direction I saw my life going in at that very point in time.”

Yet so greatly did he regard the Asantehene that Mensah, despite any initial hesitance he might have felt, still muttered “of course” in response — though admitting he didn't fully understand the implications of doing so.

In a matter of weeks, it would all dawn on him.

One thing led to the other, and before Mensah knew it, speculation was rife in local and domestic circles about his imminent appointment to the helm of Kotoko.

By the time Mensah, in the company of an intrigued British acquaintance and ace broadcaster/devout Kotoko fan Kwabena Yeboah, visited Kumasi to gauge the mood and assess the situation first-hand, things had progressed beyond his anticipation.

“We made a couple of stops along the way from Accra, as I like to do on long trips, to buy some fruit and stuff. Somehow, and for reasons that would only a little later become clear to me, we had a lot of eyes on us, with quite a few people quietly staring curiously.”

Mensah's reputation as a successful businessman and as the man with the Midas touch had well preceded him. What Mensah found on arrival, however, wasn't just an expectant city — more on that shortly — but a thoroughly run-down football club.

On the pitch and off it, in the books and nearly everywhere else, Kotoko were a far cry from the club Mensah says his parents — more dedicated supporters than himself, he concedes — once “swore by”.

Almost a decade into the professional era of football in Ghana, Kotoko were in disrepair, their fans in a state of despair. Not only was a side that had in the not-too-distant past ruled Africa struggling to fill the stands, it couldn't even raise a team to honour league games, with some serious consequences.

And whereas Kotoko players had dominated the various national teams not many years prior, they were deemed not good enough anymore for that privilege. Matchday revenue was practically non-existent, and entire player transfers undocumented/unaccounted for.

The training ground, basically a laterite pitch, was almost deserted. The team had just one set of kits to play in — even for that, they had the largesse of an ex-player to thank — and only two balls to train with.

Everywhere you looked, asserts Mensah, there was barely any semblance of leadership or order. As poisoned as that chalice seemed, though, it was in keeping with the theme of Mensah's working life.

“I've never been in a position where people call me to assume responsibility for a project or institution when things are smooth-sailing — whether in business, sport, or semi-political endeavours — only when those in charge have well and truly messed up the system.”

The next step on the itinerary was a visit to Manhyia, Asanteman's seat of power, to pay a courtesy call on the Otumfuo, but Mensah and his entourage were denied access to the premises — apparently because they had not previously booked an appointment.

That information soon came to the attention of the many desperate supporters who had turned up that day at Manhyia to seek salvation for their dying Kotoko. On picking up information that a potential saviour, the man they were all so eagerly waiting for, had been turned away, the throng grew wild, turning on Manhyia.

In the ensuing chaos, water cannons were employed to disperse the charging crowd. When that proved ineffective, shots were fired that ended up assaulting as many as eleven fans; none died, thankfully, but royal muskets had spilled blood nonetheless.

Mensah, though, was oblivious to all that. He was well on his way back to Accra, with Kumasi — and Kotoko — firmly in the rear-view mirror. Only a stern call from his irate mother burst his bubble and brought to his attention the unrest and strife he had rather unwittingly left in his wake.

“What nonsense have you been up to this time?” she asked Mensah, harshly. “Do you even know the extent of trouble you have just stirred up in Kumasi?”

Puzzled, her son pushed for some clarification about exactly what had got the old woman all worked up. 

“Well, turn on the television right now, will you?” came the order.

And so Mensah did. 

What he saw sent him back to Kumasi the very next day, this time at a less leisurely pace and with a truly heightened sense of urgency. Kumasi was on fire, blazing with fury, and only his presence could quench it. Mensah didn't anticipate it would be anything longer than a day's trip, and prepared just enough for such brevity.

All he sought was an audience with the [recently deceased] Akyempimhene, Oheneba Adusei Poku — son of the then Asantehene, Otumfuo Opoku Ware II — with whom Mensah already enjoyed a warm relationship, on the matter at hand. It was the closest Mensah could get to the King without actually meeting him (a possibility he had, at this stage, entirely ruled out).

And he had clear in mind just what message he intended to convey to the prince.

“I needed to tell him, personally and politely, that I wanted absolutely no involvement in Kotoko's business, especially after all that had happened,” he explains.

Mensah, on arrival, found the chief in conference with other Ashanti chiefs, ostensibly deliberating on the issue. The crowd was still present on the premises, and Mensah, after gaining entry via the backdoor, frantically signalled the engaged Akyempimhene for his attention. He would end up getting it — and so much more.

On catching sight of Mensah, the Akyempimhene simply announced to all, royals and commoners, within his hearing:

“My father, Otumfuo, has authorised me to announce today that the new Chairman of Asante Kotoko is the young man Herbert Mensah.”

Um, what?!

It felt like something out of a movie — one with a happy ending for the fans, but, for Mensah, just short of an epic drawn right from the horror genre. He wasn't ready for this, didn't even want to be involved to begin with… yet here he was, with the mantle of responsibility thrust upon him.

The elated supporters, as if on cue, immediately swarmed him. Frog-marched and bathed in white powder, just as is usually done to those ‘seized’ to be enstooled as rulers in Akan-land, Mensah was not even given the chance to decline the privilege unexpectedly assigned to him.

“Had I been asked,” he says, “I definitely wouldn't have consented”.

Any hopes he may have had about being afforded a say in the matter were effectively extinguished at Manhyia, where he was taken next, to meet the King. No questions were asked of Mensah, nor did he get to ask any at all, when granted royal audience.

Opoku Ware II, the septuagenarian monarch who was then in his last months on earth, summoned Mensah, and, flanked by about eleven of his principal men, made a declaration in the full glare of the media.

“I'm giving you Kotoko,” he told the much younger man, “suspending the constitution, dissolving the Board, and giving you full permission to do whatever you need to do, for however long you wish, to get my club back on its feet and to former glories.”

“He chose to do so without a linguist, breaking with the norm,” Mensah reveals. “That left no doubt whatsoever about how personal all of this was to him.”

Otumfuo’s words, unfiltered and ungarnished, hit Mensah with all the intended intensity. And so it was that Mensah was handed a carte blanche, albeit one that few would have wished for. His was the unenviable task of restoring life to a seemingly lost cause, of reviving a sleeping giant, of rebuilding a ruined club.

Where to start, though?

---

Kotoko's self-inflicted situation was already dire as it was, but only compounded by an enormous external force: the government of the day.

Steered by the then ruling National Democratic Congress (NDC) party, state machinery was heavily engineered and utilised in favour of Accra Hearts of Oak, Kotoko's archrivals, lending a hand to them in more ways than one — often at Kotoko's direct expense and to Mensah's chagrin.

The effect, he says, “was felt as much in the transfer market as on the several occasions when referees with known NDC allegiances were appointed to handle Kotoko's games — even those we played on our own turf.”

It was always going to be a tall order.

Here you had a head of state who was a self-confessed Hearts fan, the vice-president a Chairman of the club's Board of Directors, and several other high-ranking officials of the regime also being dyed-in-the-wool Phobians. Together, they had helped create the all-conquering behemoth that, under the admittedly astute leadership of Harry Zakkour, Hearts became at the time.

Of the lot, though, the obstacle Mensah encountered most directly was the Sports minister, Enoch Teye ‘E.T’ Mensah. The former member of Ghana's parliament and Council of State almost seemed to revel in playing an antagonistic role in the context of what Mensah was trying to achieve with Kotoko, and the latter recalls the nature of their run-ins over the years.

“My battles with E.T were legendary,” Mensah states, “and we both did the utmost within our respective capabilities — I for the independence and integrity of Kotoko, he as the minister fighting for what he felt was in the best interests of the state.”

And there is one anecdote he recollects quite vividly and readily.

“There was one minor cup game in Kumasi, an edition of the annual J.O.T Agyeman Match, during which E.T — who was supposed to be neutral, mind, given the sensitive position he held — arrived, quite bizarrely, on the Hearts team bus. On reaching the stadium, they insisted on entering via the exit, for reasons best known to them, but we were having none of that.

“E.T, with all the political clout and might he wielded, demanded that they be allowed through, but the security personnel, on my orders, demanded the right route be used. Eventually that stand-off was resolved — only by E.T and his Hearts contingent giving in, of course!”

It wasn't the only time Mensah would get one over his great adversary, and while he suffered more than his own fair share of setbacks, Mensah speaks of his namesake, who passed away in October 2023 — a shrewd politician and master strategist, if ever there was one — in a tone that reflects immense admiration and respect.

“He remains one of the smartest Sports ministers Ghana has ever had, even if I wasn't necessarily in support of the cause he orchestrated,” Mensah says. “You could never underestimate him, and the policies he laid in place for the national sporting structure — for better or for worse — are, to a large extent, operational to this day.”

So formidable were Hearts — thanks, in no small part, to players whisked away from right under Kotoko's noses by the aforementioned powers-that-be — that outdoing them on the pitch was all but an exercise in futility.

Never one to be intimidated, though, Mensah gave it his best shot.

An impressive line of foreign trainers — including a former Chelsea manager — was imported in a bid to elevate Kotoko's technical standards, but Mensah singles one out for being the most transformative of them all: Ernst Middendorp.

Even in a country that has a strong appetite for expatriate coaches, Middendorp remains a household name many years after he left. And whenever he gets mentioned, what's often recalled in quick succession is his infamously intense temperament — so notorious, in fact, that reference was made to it in one of that era's big hit songs, Sony Achiba's ‘Damere Woyare’.

That, though, isn't a very accurate distillation of Middendorp's character, is it?

“No, it wasn't,” Mensah asserts.

“Yes, he did not suffer fools gladly, and anyone who came within a mile of him would know that, but that was more a reflection of Middendorp’s reputation as a disciplinarian than any perceptions of him being irascibile or volatile.”

There was, however, a lot more to Middendorp — who came to Ghana about 12 years after his coaching career had started in Germany — than just his characteristic strictness, according to Mensah.

“He certainly revolutionised things at Kotoko, restructuring right from the base, creating a template for success, and instilling a mindset that powered the team through the most challenging of times.”

Acknowledging how tough it would be for Kotoko to compete with the establishment-backed Hearts for the country's best footballers, Mensah got to work in combing the nation to unearth young prospects that Kotoko could acquire on the cheap and groom for the future.

Here, too, Middendorp's quality shone through, as he fully embraced the policy and adopted a hands-on approach to it.

“We had scouts all around, and when Middendorp would be informed of a rare talent spotted anywhere in our immediate catchment area — in and around Kumasi, but even as far as some remote villages — Middendorp would hit the road as early in the day as he could to find that lad, wherever he may be. If convinced, he'd urge the club to take the steps necessary to secure that prospect,” Mensah recalls.

Those “steps” involved convincing the boy's parents to hand him over, often with the promise of investing in treasury bills and bonds for the family, as well as getting their ward admitted to one of Kumasi's elite high schools. Yet, even with all that done, Middendorp's work wouldn't end there.

“He made it a point to regularly visit those secondary schools and have sessions with the sports coaches there during which he'd help them appreciate their role in developing the potential of the boys in their care, pointing out specific ways in which they could carry out that assignment with a high sense of responsibility and a sufficient degree of expertise,” Mensah adds.

That in itself helped spawn quite a few coaches, notably the renowned Paa Kwesi Fabin, who would go on to make a name for themselves in mainstream Ghanaian football as elite talent developers.

Middendorp was no less diligent and meticulous in handling Kotoko's first team. 

“The detailed reports he would send me each week — on the players’ physical, mental, and behavioural assessments — were characterised by stunning depth, the hallmark of a coach who knew his charges through and through,” Mensah gushes.

Tactically, too, Mensah believes Middendorp — whose job at Kotoko was the first outside his homeland, and proved the beginning of a globe-trotting adventure that has now seen him work in Azerbaijan, China, Cyprus, Ethiopia and Tanzania, but mostly in South Africa — wasn't just on top of his game, but also well ahead of his time. 

“Middendorp prioritised pressing — which is why he closely monitored the dietary and lifestyle choices his players adopted which could impact those levels of concentration and fitness he absolutely didn't compromise on — and emphasised the importance of doing so from the first minute to the last.”

He also moulded Aziz Ansah, a midfielder by trade, into one of Africa's best full-backs (and one half of a devastating wing-back duo, the late great Godfred Yeboah being the other) that, Mensah intimates, Middendorp even contemplated inverting, along with the utilisation of a false nine.

Then there was Osei Boateng, the first-choice goalkeeper who was barely tall enough for his primary job of keeping balls out, yet perfect for the sweeper-keeper role in which Middendorp often deployed him.

Latter-day fans and students of the modern game would consider the aforementioned tactical concepts all the rage, but, back in the day, they were pretty novel worldwide, and altogether foreign on the domestic scene.

“You appreciate why I rate him so highly,” Mensah says, with a smile that reveals not just a set of teeth, but a crack of nostalgia.

Even after Middendorp left the club, Mensah still had reason, on at least one occasion, to be in awe of his genius.

Ralf Zumdick, a more phlegmatic German and a man Middendorp had personally recommended to Mensah as a successor, was coach of Kotoko in 2002 as the club marched towards a first continental final in almost a decade, in the now-defunct CAF Cup Winners’ Cup.

Kotoko had won the first leg of their quarter-final against Egyptian side Ghazl El Mahalla 3-0 in Kumasi, and, having done their homework so well, were confident of killing off the tie in the reverse.

But that trip proved more precarious for Kotoko than expected, after being pummelled and peppered by their hosts during the early exchanges; by the 46th minute, that comfortable lead held on aggregate had been wiped out. An abject first half showing prompted an inquisition at the break, with Mensah querying exactly what the problem was and, more importantly, how he intended to resolve it.

“Don't worry,” came Zumdick's response. 

“I just rang up Middendorp and he suggested a tweak that should fix things.”

The potentially game-changing tip?

Bringing on Kwadwo Poku, a young forward recruited as part of the process that was in full swing during Middendorp's time.

The lad had been knocking on the first team's door up until that point, with little success, but his introduction this time proved an absolute revelation.

Almost single-handedly, Poku unlocked El Mahalla's hitherto resolute defence, twice setting up Michael Osei to score just enough goals to get Kotoko through to the next round. Middendorp had worked his magic again, rather incredibly — remotely, too!

Despite the best efforts of Middendorp and the other coaches Mensah hired, however, the club achieved little success on the pitch in terms of major trophies — just the one FA Cup triumph, in 2001, which was followed by that competition's decade-long hiatus.

To beat a system that was so clearly operating in favour of the far more successful Hearts, Mensah focused on what he could control off the pitch, which is really where Kotoko truly flourished.

To start with, Kotoko, for so long and so relentlessly debased by state-owned print media platforms, needed to find its own voice that would change the prevailing toxic narrative around the club at the time.

“And that is why we established the club's official mouthpiece, the Kotoko Express,” Mensah explains.

“From humble beginnings, the newspaper quickly made strides, growing so far and wide in circulation that, at some point, it even surpassed the numbers of some publications that were more national in character and in reach.”

There was, however, a lot more to be done in improving Kotoko's image, and Mensah spared no expense in doing so — even if at considerable personal cost.

“Sports is big business, and, taking over Kotoko, that was exactly how I intended to run it. Early on, I came to the realisation that we needed to win off the field to have a chance of winning on it. That meant creating structures people didn't even want to hear about, to ensure whatever was being built would stand the test of time.

“I was convinced the bar had to be set very high in all areas, and we did what we could to make that happen. We went out looking for partners in the sporting and corporate world whose association could elevate us to those heights my administration envisioned. I dug into my own coffers  to make it happen, and where sponsorship was required, I actively pursued them.”

For shirt sponsors, Kotoko got Admiral, who had history of kitting the England national team. Headline sponsors weren't hard to find, with Mensah connecting with major players in the telecommunications industry, where he first made a name, for some solid deals. Heck, he even went as far as securing sleeve sponsorship for Kotoko — the now defunct national carrier, Ghana Airways — almost two decades before a club from the English Premier League (Manchester City, 2017) first landed one.

There were overseas tours, too, with Kotoko even featuring in considerably high-profile pre-season competitions, like the Vodacom Challenge Cup in South Africa, that would later be graced by clubs like Manchester United, Tottenham Hotspur, and pre-Emirati Manchester City. And when Kotoko travelled, they did so in a manner befitting a top-tier European side.

Player welfare was, in fact, prioritised in a way that presented Kotoko as a worthy alternative to Hearts; if the latter held greater promise of silverware, a player courted by both clubs knew just where to turn if they wished to look and feel right.

But while money no doubt played its part, Mensah is quite emphatic about what the club's greatest resource was — and still is.

---

“Kotoko is nothing without its supporters,” Mensah believes.

“Without them, we couldn't have taken on and overcome all those daunting odds.”

Those supporters had taken to him from Day One, but Mensah never took their backing for granted, reaching great lengths to nourish and reinforce that vital bond.

In modern football, there is the tendency for those running clubs to come across as aloof, keeping themselves comfortably distant from the hordes whose voices and funds fuel and drive the team. Mensah, though, made  a conscious effort to not be that sort of leader, going out of his way to considerably shorten the distance between the hierarchy and the rank and file.

One way he sought to do so was via a personal column in the Express — bits of which you could find archived on Mensah's personal website today — in which he opened up on the realities of the club to the fans, especially the literate among them.

“Through the Express, we were able to convey an accurate picture of our challenges, on the field and off it, at every point in time,” Mensah explains, “and the fans certainly appreciated being kept in the loop, giving them reason to trust and get behind us in what we sought to achieve.”

The Baba Yara Stadium, naturally, started filling up for Kotoko home games. In droves they'd turn out for the games, often exceeding by far the 40,000-seating capacity of what was then comfortably Ghana's largest sporting arena. Mensah, though, was interested not just in the supporters’ presence; more crucially, he needed them to be vocal and intense on matchday.

To that end, Mensah made a conscious effort to rally the troops, as it were, particularly before home games. And he went at it full-throttle, knowing that, however honest and impactful his written correspondence was, only his presence on the ground would matter ultimately.

“Ahead of high-profile games — like when Hearts would come to town, or on the eve of a crucial African inter-club home fixture — we would move to the Bantama High Street, arguably one of Kumasi's liveliest hubs, to stage street carnivals, complete with loud and live music, driving up support for the game ahead and whipping the fans into a frenzy that would culminate in a stadium full and an atmosphere raucous hours before the match even kicked off.”

And while it was just football on the menu, Mensah ensured the match-day experience had so much more in store for the fans.

“You have to understand that the average Kotoko fan is a low– to average-income earner who saves up what he can to watch his team over the weekend; it's possibly the only social event he would be able to afford at the end of a week of back-breaking work,” Mensah explains. “To sell him just the football, then, would be to sell him short. We had to make it worth his while.”

And that's just what happened.

Whoever missed the previous day's party — and many did, having come from all over the country and even beyond Ghana's borders, as far as neighbouring Ivory Coast and Burkina Faso — was often guaranteed a pre-match concert that rivalled the game itself in length and in excitement. 

Popular local music acts like Yaw Sarpong, Pat Thomas and Lord Kenya would be brought in to perform, heightening the mood even more for what was to come. The presence of Mensah on the touchline would only send that already wild sea of red surging. Not even Anfield, at its most vociferous, had anything on the Baba Yara.

If such an atmosphere was intended to propel the home team to victory, it had quite the opposite effect on the opposition.

“I recall, sometime later, Andre Arendse, a now-retired South African international goalkeeper, admitting to me that when he visited with his hometown team Santos in April 2002 for an inter-club clash, the intensity of the stadium drove them right back into the tunnel almost as soon as they emerged for warm-ups,” Mensah relates. 

“It was all just a bit too overwhelming for them, apparently.”

Even Kotoko's ‘smaller’ games were similarly well-attended, be it against Bofoakwa Tano or Kwaebibirem United, rain or shine, whatever the stakes. All Mensah had to do was sound the battle-cry and the fans would come out in full force, ready to run through a brick-wall for him and the team.

And why not?

Here was a man who would fight their cause — quite literally, in at least one instance, with Mensah recounting an away day at the intimidating Berekum Golden City Park in the league, where he physically had to take on some thugs employed to do the home team's bidding — and a general who, especially when things got tough, shouldered a great deal of responsibility.

One rainy Wednesday night, though, they would need him more than ever.

---

In hindsight, you had to admire the sheer pluck of the Kotoko fans who turned up at the Accra Sports Stadium on May 9, 2001 for their league clash with Hearts.

Kotoko had been beaten badly on their last visit, dealt a 4-0 thrashing — the worst-ever defeat at the hands of their eternal foes — that many probably still suffered trauma from. Yet they came in their numbers, hoping their boys would upstage an opponent that had turned oppressor.

Hearts, Kotoko acknowledged, were almost invincible. The former were reigning African champions, the continent's team to beat, and boasted a squad — the dreaded, all-conquering '64 Battalion’ — that was simply fearsome. Just two months earlier, in fact, Hearts' starting XI had even lined up to represent Ghana's senior national team and managed a creditable draw against rivals Nigeria in a FIFA World Cup qualifier. None of that, however, quenched Kotoko’s burning desire to beat them.

And, with half an hour to go, it looked like that determination would prevail, courtesy a lead taken through Lawrence Adjei. But Hearts fought back, with tormentor-in-chief Ishmael Addo striking twice late to overturn the deficit and seal what would prove a come-from-behind win. That result, however, would only briefly be celebrated by the home team — and remembered fondly by nobody.

You see, some supporters in the away end felt Hearts’ triumph had been aided by the referee — and not for the first time — venting those feelings in a pretty aggressive way. It was, however, the security services’ overzealousness that triggered the ensuing explosion of terror. They released tear-gas, mindlessly and copiously, into the stands in response, sending panicked spectators into a desperate and chaotic  battle for their lives — a battle that, quite regrettably, 126 lost.

Regarding May 9 — the nadir of his tenure, he says, and definitely the most tragic day in the entire history of Ghanaian and African sport — Mensah is certain of one fact.

“That disaster, a culmination of an avoidable sequence of events, should never have occurred.”

The manner in which he delivers that verdict suggests Mensah is still befuddled and scarred by what he witnessed that day — who wouldn't be? — and that he, unlike many Ghanaians who saw the tragedy unfold, has not really moved on from it.

“The events of the night, and how they came together to create the perfect storm, made — and still make — little sense to me,” Mensah says.

“Consider the security personnel who ran from the scene of a problem they created. Look, too, at those involved in the appointment of various personnel for the occasion. How was it that, during such an emergency, there was nobody — Red Cross staff, emergency medical technicians, the lot — mandated to save lives could be found? And how about the fact that the gates to the terraces were locked, trapping those who desperately sought to escape the asphyxiation that ended up killing so many? How was all that allowed to happen?”

The real heroes of the day, Mensah argues, were those fans brave enough to step up and deliver in their own small ways where the officials and authorities had shockingly shirked responsibilities assigned to them.

“You think about how these ones fought through the stampede and noxious fumes to summon me from the VIP box and, afterwards, mustered the effort and courage to help pull bodies from the tangled mess, You wonder how God gave strength to some of these very ordinary people to carry 30, 40 bodies — the dead, the half-dead, and the barely alive — into more decent places and positions than we found them in. Those are memories you don't forget in a hurry.”

Mensah, for one, hasn't forgotten at all.

May 9 — twenty-three years later — may have been largely consigned to the basement of our national consciousness, but for Mensah, it deserves to be at the very forefront. It is why, in spite of his busy schedule, he still makes time to keep in touch regularly with the bereaved.

Annually, on the anniversary of the disaster, he leads a commemorative walk; behind the scenes, he does even more to ensure that this unfortunate episode's relevance is not diminished at all by the sands of time. It has, at times, felt like a one-man crusade, but that is a charge Mensah wants to willingly and actively lead, for as long as he can.

---

Mensah left Kotoko after nearly four years, with the final stretch of his administration not made very pleasant by the P.V Obeng-led Board of Directors installed during that period. Mensah admits there were times when he wished to be relieved of a role that, though a remarkable privilege, was also fraught with great frustration. 

When he did leave in the end, though, it wasn't on his own terms.

“I had been to see Otumfuo [Osei Tutu II, Opoku Ware II's successor], who clearly communicated his desire to have me continue while also expressing his disappointment in the Board's failure to provide the necessary backing,” Mensah recalls.

“Somehow, not many days later, the good King suddenly had a change of heart and reversed his decision — and, just like that, my time with Kotoko was over.”

When judging how successful the tenure of a club's president/chairman/chief executive officer has been, the tendency is to assess the extent to which the trophy cabinet was updated under their oversight.

Given the well-documented circumstances of Kotoko when Mensah took over and all those forces — internal and external — he had to contend with, however, it would be unfair to subject him to such standards.

In fact, per the brief handed him at the start, Mensah proved an unqualified success. By the time of his departure, the club was a force to reckon with once again, striking fear and awe in opponents. The foundations for long-term success had been laid, and Mensah is convinced he could have accomplished even more had his tenure not been so abruptly terminated in the end.

“If I had not left when I did, in two years, I confidently estimate Kotoko would have blossomed into an irrepressible force of nature, at the core of which would be players nurtured and developed by the club.

“With such a template, the league would have been won — without bribery, violence, or any of the other ‘ways and means’ clubs here often resort to for such successes — by the end of my first five years in office and, within the ensuing five-year spell, Kotoko were projected to make it as far as at least the semi-finals of the various CAF competitions with some consistency.”

In that sense, then, Kotoko were well ahead of schedule. They reached the final of the aforementioned Cup Winners’ Cup in 2002, suffering a narrow defeat to Moroccan club Wydad Casablanca, after which Mensah bowed out. A first league title in ten years was won in the season that followed his exit, with largely the same squad assembled under his oversight, and Kotoko would go on to reach yet another African final — this time in the inaugural Confederation Cup — the very next campaign, but it cannot be objectively claimed that he has been bettered by any of those after him.

Financially and structurally, too, Mensah left Kotoko in a good place. Yet the only things the club currently retains from the lot he bequeathed are the badge — which was redesigned during his time at the helm — and the alternative kit that was restored to being designed in Asanteman's traditional colours of green, yellow, and black.

The stands have gone back to being sparsely filled, Kotoko's players struggle to make it into the Black Stars — though, admittedly, such is the plight of all home-based Ghanaian footballers these days — while the finances are a mess once again. There is now a digital app in place, by the same name, but more than two years have passed since it was last updated.

It is, in many ways, almost reminiscent of the state of affairs Mensah inherited. Kotoko, put simply, has considerably regressed since Mensah's exit, and that's probably why, whenever the club is in need of fresh leadership, his name is always whispered regarding a possible return.

While Mensah believes that ship has sailed, and also refuses to criticise any of his successors, he isn't hesitant to share his thoughts on what may be holding the club back. The restraining influence, in the view of an increasing section of supporters and observers, is Manhyia, to which Kotoko is tethered by tradition and provenance.

Mensah, to an extent, agrees, even if he is more inclined to lay the blame at the doorstep of the institution itself and not specifically the figure who heads it.

“Football has changed, and Manhyia must evolve into the realms of modernity, but don't forget the sitting Otumfuo has always been a modern, sophisticated man. He's an accountant by profession, and thus has an in-depth understanding of how money and business work. The problem, in my opinion, lies with the many lobbyists in and around his court that have their hands all over the club in a rather unhelpful way. You can't lobby for the wrong appointees and expect things to work properly, can you?”

Mensah is not, however, of the persuasion that Manhyia should cut Kotoko loose and release it wholly into private hands, arguing such a move would leave the club “as soulless as Hearts now seem”, after their own privatisation over a decade ago.

Instead, Mensah believes modernity and tradition can thrive side-by-side or, better still, share a very productive embrace. In illustrating how that could be possible, Mensah makes reference to his own example and experiences.

“I certainly found no conflict [between modernity and tradition],” he claims, “and that is because we had competent people running the club's affairs. There are always going to be those elements around the team committed to preserving and observing Kotoko's conservative values; and we respected that, choosing to focus strictly on delivering on our royally-assigned mandate.

“Great and effective management of any business, not just football, results from  a shortening of the time between the conception of an idea and the execution of same. So while we did not disregard Kotoko's long-standing customs and protocols, doing all we could to nourish the umbilical cord that tied the club to Asanteman, we also strived to ensure we weren't dependent — in terms of finances, particularly — on Manhyia's involvement.

“We never took a pesewa from Otumfuo — this I say on authority, and with pride — yet were still able to fully settle all our debts, pay salaries and bonuses, purchase players at considerable cost, and turn Kotoko into a self-sustaining model during our time.

“Such financial independence gave us sufficient room to function without interference, ensuring tradition seldom got in the way of our efforts towards ushering the club into an era of professionalism.”

There is, however, a much more fundamental secret to succeeding at Kotoko, and Mensah — whose legacy is burnished and sparkles a little more with each failed attempt to match it — is willing to share with anyone looking to follow his tough act, now or sometime in the future.

“If you really want to understand Kotoko, you need to feel the air and the spirit of what transcends Asanteman,” he intimates.

“If you look at it purely as a football club, well, that's the beginning of your downfall.”

Mensah, who insists he would change nothing about how he ran Kotoko even if not everything went swimmingly, is well-placed to give such sound counsel.

The one having ears, let him hear.