"Pray for me,” says Akwasi Alhassan, handing over a photograph of himself. To his left is the late Christian Atsu—a man whose life was larger than life itself. He touched lives silently, and the image presented to me, coincidentally, was from one of those days he visited the Nsawam Medium Security Prison to touch lives. Behind them were other inmates called to duty to officiate the usual matches played by inmates. It was a moment for Alhassan to reload his early years of brilliance as goalkeeper. Here, they have coaches, referees, and commentators who are all inmates. Matches like that, though brief give them a window, it's cherished. I had never been here before. But my name and image rang in the minds of some occupants of this facility. Before Alhassan came, others had screamed my name from afar. One would later send me and email introducing himself. Alhassan's gesture, though, was unexpected as stretched out my hand for a handshake, introducing myself. “I know you,” he said, leaning closer for a hug. He wore a blue shirt, with a star on the upper left chest—where our hearts are believed to be. This heart was heavy, filled with regret for a mistake he made in his teens. The star up there is not the praise you get for your talent. In this God-forsaken space, it is a rank you attain after years of incarceration, per a prison officer. A star rank. Born a star per his talent and the testimonies of his playmates, but, unfortunately, he wears a star of pain and sorrow in this enclosed, dishevelled environment. Akwasi Alhassan is not a name that resonates with about 57% of Ghana’s recent population. "This place has been my home for 36 years," he says. Born in Kwesimintsim, a suburb of Takoradi, he was a budding talent with dreams. Dreams of representing Ghana on the green fields and under floodlights of the biggest stadia and football competitions in the world—but his life has been spent behind iron bars before 57% of the country’s population was born. To put this into context, Alhassan has been here for more than half of Ghana’s age. Yes, Ghana turned 68 in March, and for 36 of those years, the cage has been his home. Now you understand why about 57% of Ghanaians probably never heard his name. There is no guarantee Alhassan would have become a great footballer or offered much to his country to be widely known, but there’s also no denying the fact that he may have been one of the biggest assets Ghana never had. "Alhassan was a very good goalkeeper. Extremely good," former Black Stars striker and his one-time teammate, Augustine Ahinful says. "There was no goalkeeper in the country who could match him at the time," Yaw Preko, a brilliant footballer down the flank in his hey days, now coach testifies. This conversation, which happened near a tent at a distance from other inmates—dedicated for condemned prisoners—became a memory recollection centre of what could have been. Many of the former Black Stars players, who had loud cheers from inmates, knew him. Samuel Osei Kuffour had the loudest cheers. He hugged them, had tête-à-têtes with them, and shared words of encouragement. "We are here to support you. We haven’t forgotten about you because you are here. You are one of us." Alhassan stood there, watching on. Maybe, in his mind: “This could have been me being cheered for making Ghana’s national teams great, but my dreams were cut short by teenage emotions. Now, I am the one being encouraged.” From the crowd, he descended to join Ahinful and I to hand me that photograph. He stood quietly for a moment, his eyes watery. It's hard to believe he still has water in his eyes. These are tears he's shared for over three and a half decades. When he eventually uttered his words, his voice was heavy. "I had a fight with a friend," he recalled. "It was in 1989. I was part of the first under-17 team that was being put together in 1988. But unfortunately, my life ended here." His voice trembled. Tears welled up in his eyes. He reached for his face towel. "When we had the fight, I had a key and I used it on him. Unfortunately, he died when he was rushed to the hospital. I was on remand for four years before I was sentenced in 1993." "This has been my home for 36 years," he said. "Please help me." For 36 years, the only world he’s known is the Nsawam Prison. He was a boy. A teenager. His brain still developing. He made the worst mistake of his life in a fight—one any young, hot-blooded boy could have found himself in. "I don’t even know how my house looks like," he said, looking down, visibly broken. Augustine Ahinful shook his head. "Alhassan hasn’t been fortunate," he said. Many of us would recall in the latter days of the Akufo-Addo government, a letter leaked alleging presidential pardon for inmates. The first name on that list was Akwasi Alhassan. He was convicted of murder and sentenced to death on March 19, 1993. That letter was never fake. But for whatever reason, it was withdrawn. And Alhassan continues to wallow in this cage. Ahinful is not wrong when he says Alhassan has not been lucky. "To be here for 36 years of your life is not easy." Indeed, it is not. Some precious lives that could have contributed to the development of this country are rotting away. Caged and forgotten. "Some of them are here for minor mistakes any of us could have made," Deputy Director of Prisons, Patrick Thomas Seidu, says. "There’s a woman in condemned prison because she was sharing a lovely moment with her husband. They competed for the meat while eating, and she pushed her husband in an attempt to snatch the meat from him. He hit his head on the wall while trying to run away with the meat. She was convicted of murder," a prison officer says. He adds: "That boy there," pointing to the crowd, "is serving 23 years in prison because he was mistaken for a thief. He said they were chasing thieves and he was also running. They caught him, and nothing he said made sense." That boy looked young. Just around the age Alhassan was when brought here. The stories here are of broken lives, abandoned souls, and dreams buried under years of regret. It is not the steel bars that hurt the most, but the memory of a mistake made as a child. A mistake he has paid for, every single day, for 36 long years. He was not a criminal. He was a boy who made a grave mistake. In his own words, he never had the chance to grow into the man he could have been. No chance to right the wrong. He has spent his entire adult life in a cell. And yet, he remains kind. Hopeful. Pleading. "Pray for me," his parting words. I have resolved to keep this photo with me and take it to every Jummah Prayer and ask my Imam and congregation to pray for him every Friday. He needs it. The pain in his voice is not of someone making excuses. It is the pain of a man who has reflected, repented, and regrets. How does a nation hold a man captive for 36 years for a mistake committed at 17? A mistake he did not set out to commit. One could argue he should have known better. But he didn’t. He was a child. Our laws may be blind, but our hearts shouldn’t be. Justice without mercy is cruelty. Justice without compassion is vengeance. "Don't we all deserve a second chance?" Patrick Seidu quizzed. We all do, and many of those here for infringing the law need it. I saw others. Describing them as talented footballers will be an understatement. One was so good that, Yussif Chibsah, Ghana’s Olympics team captain, gave him money. Another was adjudged the best player of the game by the coaches present. It's hard to tell what brought some of them here, but their talent is noticeable even in cage. Sammy Kuffour had mixed feelings when he prouldy said, "The boy in the number 10 for the blue team is from my place." I dare say he's a better footballer than many of those we see on TV here. These talents have been caged just like that of Alhassan. 36 years. Behind bars. For a teenage fight.