By Charles Amponsah<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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For years, Joyce Sarfoa and Frank Obeng lived what seemed to be a modest but successful life. Sarfoa, a trusted store supervisor at a leading baby products shop in Accra, managed inventory and handled financial records. Obeng, her husband, was seen as an aspiring entrepreneur, running a rival mother-care shop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But beneath the surface, the couple was running a criminal enterprise\u2014stealing stock, laundering the proceeds, and funding a lavish lifestyle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A court ruling brought their fraudulent empire to an end, but in March 2024, the couple appealed against the severity of their sentences. A year after the appeal, the case remains a lesson in illicit financial flows\u2014and the gaps that still exist in tracking stolen wealth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Grand Theft: How a business was hollowed out<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Court records paint a five-year-long operation of systematic theft.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It started with small, unnoticed stock shortages at Mavobed Enterprise, the baby products business where Sarfoa worked. However, in 2013, discrepancies began to emerge. Stock and revenue figures didn\u2019t add up, yet no one could pinpoint the cause. Then the losses grew into hundreds of thousands of cedis, with no clear explanation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Investigators later discovered that Sarfoa, with Obeng\u2019s help, had been moving stolen stock to their own shop in Weija, later relocating to Kasoa in Accra. They used a network of assistants\u2014including a porter who unknowingly transported stolen goods\u2014to fuel their illicit business. Witnesses, including sales assistants and porters, testified that Sarfoa frequently handed over goods to her husband at Accra\u2019s Rawlings Park, where he would drive them away in his white car.<\/p>\n\n\n\n By 2018, the financial strain on Mavobed was unbearable. The owner, struggling to pay suppliers, launched a private investigation, uncovering staggering findings: a secret second shop stocked with stolen merchandise, payments to suppliers that were never made despite records indicating otherwise, and more than GHC 700,000 worth of products unaccounted for. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The store owner, realising the extent of the fraud, petitioned the Ghana Police CID, triggering a full-scale investigation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Turning stolen goods into \u2018clean\u2019 money <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n As the trial unfolded, prosecutors revealed the next phase of the couple\u2019s operation: money laundering. <\/p>\n\n\n\n With the proceeds from the stolen goods, Frank Obeng expanded his wealth by purchasing a Toyota Venza worth GHC 45,000, securing a plot of land at Tetegu near McCarthy Hill, and establishing a fully stocked retail store, which operated under the guise of a legitimate business. Through these acquisitions, the couple successfully disguised their illicit earnings, attempting to pass them off as legitimate profits from their so-called enterprise. <\/p>\n\n\n\n But their mistake? They underestimated the evidence stacked against them. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Drama in Court: “Do you know me somewhere?<\/strong>“<\/p>\n\n\n\n The courtroom drama reached an unexpected peak during the sentencing. As the trial judge, Mrs Evelyn Asamoah, handed down a 15-year jail term to Frank Obeng for conspiracy to steal, abetment of crime, and money laundering, he snapped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPlease, do you know me somewhere? Why have you given me 15 years jail term?\u201d he reportedly shouted at the judge.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Before anyone could react, he ripped off his shirt and began walking aggressively toward the bench. The situation escalated so quickly that the prosecutor and a court warrant officer had to physically intervene, escorting the judge to safety in her chambers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Meanwhile, Obeng was dragged out of the courtroom\u2014bare-chested, without his sandals. His defiance did not change the outcome. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Appeal and the final judgment<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Months later, the couple appealed the severity of the sentence, claiming the evidence was unreliable and that their confessions were made under duress. <\/p>\n\n\n\n In March 2024, the High Court delivered its ruling, reducing Joyce Sarfoa\u2019s sentence from ten years to four years, while Frank Obeng\u2019s fifteen-year term was cut to five years. Alongside the reduced sentences, the court upheld the order for them to return the stolen stock and pay GHC 712,229 in restitution to the complainant. <\/p>\n\n\n\n One year on: What this case means for Ghana\u2019s fight against Illicit Financial Flows<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Despite the convictions, one accomplice remains at large. And for every case that makes it to court, many others go undetected.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Illicit financial flows\u2014whether through corruption, fraud, or money laundering\u2014cost Ghana billions of cedis annually. These crimes drain the economy, making it harder for businesses to thrive. They also undermine trust in financial institutions, creating uncertainty in the financial system. Additionally, they reduce government revenue, limiting resources for essential public services and infrastructure development. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Time to ramp up fight against IFFs<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n While this case was a success, Ghana needs to scale up efforts by strengthening financial oversight in businesses, improving mechanisms to track suspicious transactions, and enforcing stricter anti-money laundering laws to curb illicit financial flows effectively. <\/p>\n\n\n\n For now, Sarfoa and Obeng sit in prison, their stolen fortune gone, their empire dismantled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But the bigger question remains: how many others are slipping through the cracks? <\/p>\n\n\n\n