Misinformation, Disinformation, Hate Speech and Publication of Other Information (MDHI) Bill, 2025

Section 30(6) reverses the burden of proof, requiring accused persons to prove their health statements are "true or accurate" rather than requiring the government to prove falsity. This violates fundamental due process principles and creates a chilling effect on legitimate public health discourse—medical professionals discussing emerging treatments, journalists reporting on health policy controversies, or citizens criticizing government pandemic responses must now prove their statements meet undefined "accuracy" standards or face criminal penalties. The provision particularly threatens political speech about public health policy (vaccination mandates, lockdowns, treatment protocols), allowing government to criminalize policy criticism by forcing critics to prove their alternative views are "accurate"—an impossible standard for contested scientific and policy debates.

This provision reverses the burden of proof for election-related speech, requiring accused speakers to prove their statements true rather than requiring the government to prove falsity (subsection 8). Combined with the vague "likely to influence" standard and broad scope covering Electoral Commission information, voting processes, results, and candidate scandals, this creates severe chilling effects on political discourse. Speakers face criminal penalties unless they can document every election-related statement, discouraging investigative journalism about candidates, commentary on electoral irregularities, and democratic participation—contrary to international human rights standards protecting freedom of expression.

This provision prohibits "hate speech" defined so broadly (37) that it captures factual statements, satire, and speech that merely "promotes negative feelings" toward protected groups. The definition eliminates intent requirements and includes entertainment content, going far beyond international standards requiring incitement to imminent violence. Speakers cannot reliably determine what is prohibited, creating a severe chilling effect on legitimate political debate, religious discourse, social commentary, and artistic expression.

This provision eliminates intent requirements for hate speech liability, meaning speakers can be punished even when they had no intention to cause harm. It explicitly criminalizes factual statements that "incite hatred" toward groups, departing from democratic norms that protect truthful speech. The definition captures satire, parody, and artistic expression as hate speech if they affect a group's "dignity"—a highly subjective standard that creates legal uncertainty about what speech is permissible and encourages self-censorship on controversial topics.

Section 42 prohibits "indecent expressions" that explicitly do NOT incite hatred or violence, yet still trigger criminal penalties. The provision bans speech that "may reasonably provoke violence"—a vague, subjective standard based on hypothetical audience reactions rather than actual incitement. This falls well below international free speech norms (ECHR Article 10, ICCPR Article 19) which require narrow definitions, direct causation, and imminent harm. Undefined terms like "ethnic slurs and derogatory commentary" create uncertainty about what speech is permissible, potentially capturing legitimate criticism of ethnic groups' policies if expressed sharply. The Division—headed by a Presidential appointee—has discretionary power to determine what "may reasonably provoke violence," creating severe chilling effects on speech about ethnicity and group-related issues.

This provision requires individuals to publish government-mandated corrections even when they "does not know or has no reason to believe that the information is false" (Section 63(4)). This creates strict liability for speech—the Division can compel you to publicly endorse its version of "truth" regardless of your good faith, intent, or reasonable belief. You must publish corrections "in the specified form and manner" at your own cost, potentially including newspaper publication when "consequences are extreme" (undefined standard). This fundamentally violates freedom of expression by forcing affirmative speech without requiring knowledge or intent, determined by a presidentially-appointed administrative body rather than courts, and applying to the bill's vague definitions of misinformation and hate speech.

Section 64(6) permits Stop Communication Directions to be issued "even if the person does not know or has no reason to believe that the information is false"—establishing strict liability for speech restrictions. This eliminates the fault requirement fundamental to free speech protections in democratic societies, where restrictions typically require at minimum negligence or recklessness. Combined with the undefined "substantially similar" standard in s.64(3), speakers face orders to cease not only specific statements but also any related content the Division or Court deems similar, creating a chilling effect that encourages self-censorship. The provision functions as prior restraint, preventing future speech rather than addressing past harm, with initial adjudication by the Division (an executive body) rather than courts.

This provision authorizes removal orders that force speakers to delete online content without requiring proof they knew the information was false or constituted hate speech—creating strict liability for speech suppression. The order extends beyond the specific content to "any statement or material that is substantially similar," a vague standard that chills protected expression by leaving speakers uncertain what speech is prohibited. Combined with correction and stop communication orders, speakers face cumulative restrictions all based on strict liability, violating the principle that content-based speech restrictions require intent or negligence. The provision lacks explicit pre-enforcement hearing requirements, enabling government-ordered de-platforming before speakers can defend their expression in court.

This provision allows the Division—an administrative body appointed by the President—to issue orders immediately halting publication activities without prior judicial review, notice, or opportunity to be heard. Violating these orders triggers automatic penalties without warning (bypassing the three-warning system in 71), and can be issued against anyone "deemed to be engaged" in publishing "false or other information"—an extraordinarily vague standard. This creates a mechanism for executive prior restraint on speech, where government-appointed officials can silence speakers before constitutional defenses can be raised, fundamentally undermining freedom of expression and democratic discourse.

The provision criminalizes misinformation causing "public harm, violence, fear, unrest or public disturbance" with penalties up to 500 penalty units and 1 month imprisonment. However, the definitions are dangerously vague: "fear" includes "anxiety about the administration...of a public institution," "unrest" includes "widescale protests" and "agitation," and "public disturbance" includes "widespread anxiety about change in public policy." These definitions fail the rule of law requirement of legal certainty—speakers cannot reasonably predict what speech is criminal. More fundamentally, they criminalize core political speech: criticism that sparks lawful protests, creates concern about government management, or generates anxiety about policy changes. This violates international standards (ICCPR, ECHR) requiring criminal speech restrictions be narrowly defined and proportionate, creating severe chilling effects on democratic discourse and government accountability.

This provision requires all speakers—media houses, journalists, content creators, and influencers—to fact-check "before publishing information," creating a prior restraint mechanism fundamentally at odds with freedom of speech principles. The provision provides no standards for what constitutes adequate fact-checking, who determines sufficiency, or how the Division applies certification requirements, creating legal uncertainty that encourages self-censorship. For licensed entities, fact-checking certification becomes a licensing prerequisite (83 compounds this by requiring two years of training), giving the Division (headed by a President-appointed Director) discretionary gatekeeping power over who can speak. This mandatory pre-publication verification is practically impossible for real-time commentary, breaking news, and social media, effectively prohibiting certain forms of protected speech.

The Division can publish its own internal rules and render binding decisions on platform liability without establishing procedural safeguards, transparency requirements, or clear standards for rule-making. This creates regulatory uncertainty for digital businesses that must comply with enforcement decisions before judicial review is available, increasing operational costs and deterring innovation. The provision grants broad discretion to interpret what constitutes misinformation or disinformation, forcing platforms to build compliance systems without knowing how the Division will apply its authority or what additional requirements its internal rules may impose.

This provision grants the Division binding authority to determine speech legality and impose sanctions (10.2) without establishing essential procedural safeguards. The Division—whose Director is presidentially appointed—can render final determinations on whether speech constitutes misinformation, disinformation, or hate speech before any judicial review occurs. The provision fails to specify notice and hearing requirements, evidentiary standards, or transparency obligations for the Division's internal rules (10.1). This creates a system where speech restrictions are initially imposed by an administrative body rather than an independent court, with judicial review available only after binding decisions are made (60). The lack of procedural protections, combined with the bill's broad definitions, creates significant risk of arbitrary enforcement and chilling effects on constitutionally protected expression.

The Division can publish its own internal rules and render binding decisions on sanctions and remedies without establishing transparency requirements or clear procedural standards. This creates regulatory unpredictability for businesses subject to the bill's extensive compliance obligations—businesses cannot effectively assess compliance costs or plan operations when enforcement standards can change through unpublished internal rules and binding decisions lack procedural constraints. The combination of self-directed rule-making authority with binding adjudicatory power over business operations undermines the regulatory certainty necessary for commercial planning and investment decisions.

The Division receives sweeping compliance monitoring and enforcement powers (11(1)(a), (f)) to implement the bill's extensive obligations—annual audits, risk assessments, fact-checking departments, and training—but the provision provides no clear enforcement standards, timelines, or procedural safeguards. This creates significant operational uncertainty for platforms, media outlets, and content creators who must invest in compliance without knowing how the Division will interpret requirements or exercise its binding adjudicatory authority. The Division's precedence over other regulatory bodies (per 12) further concentrates regulatory power without corresponding clarity, creating an unpredictable environment that discourages digital innovation and disproportionately burdens startups and smaller platforms.

The Division—headed by a presidential appointee (14)—combines investigative, prosecutorial, and adjudicatory functions over speech-related complaints, making binding decisions on liability and sanctions without prior judicial oversight. This concentration of power within an executive-controlled entity deviates from rule of law principles requiring independent adjudication of speech restrictions. While the provision mandates promotion of "freedom of speech and expression" and parliamentary reporting, the structural design creates conditions for potential abuse, particularly when enforcing the bill's broad definitions of prohibited speech.

The Division receives broad investigative and adjudicatory powers over privacy complaints (11(1)(d)-(e)) without explicit procedural safeguards for investigation subjects. The provision does not specify whether journalists, whistleblowers, or others facing privacy investigations receive notice, opportunity to respond, or clear evidentiary standards before the Division makes binding liability determinations. Given the bill's expansive definitions of private facts (45) and confidential information (52), this procedural gap could enable investigations that chill legitimate reporting on government misconduct, with judicial review available only after administrative proceedings conclude (60).

The Division receives broad investigative and adjudicatory powers to "ensure and monitor compliance," "investigate Complaints or Reports," and "establish liability and impose sanctions" - all as binding decisions. However, the provision provides no procedural standards for investigations, no timelines for decisions, no evidentiary requirements, and no clarity on what constitutes adequate compliance. This creates significant regulatory uncertainty for businesses subject to the bill's compliance obligations, making it impossible to predict enforcement actions or plan compliance strategies. The lack of procedural constraints on the Division's enforcement discretion increases operational risk and compliance costs across all business types.

This provision grants the Division supremacy over the National Media Commission, an independent constitutional body established to protect press freedom. When their roles overlap, "the functions of the Division shall prevail"—subordinating an independent constitutional institution to an executive agency whose Director is appointed by the President (14). This eliminates the institutional check that the National Media Commission provides against executive overreach in regulating speech and media, concentrating all authority over misinformation, disinformation, and hate speech in a single executive-controlled entity with no independent counterweight.

The Complaints and Investigation Subdivision combines investigative and adjudicatory powers in a single body that can initiate investigations "on its own accord" and make "binding decisions" about speech violations. This violates the fundamental principle that investigators should not judge their own findings. Without separation between those who investigate alleged misinformation and those who decide guilt, speakers face a body that acts as prosecutor, investigator, and judge simultaneously—creating inherent bias and denying fair adjudication of speech restrictions.

The Division Director—who makes binding decisions on misinformation, disinformation, and hate speech complaints—is appointed solely by the President without parliamentary confirmation, independent commission involvement, or removal protections. This creates a structural conflict where an executive appointee adjudicates speech about the government, including complaints by government against critics. Unlike independent regulatory bodies in democratic systems (which use multi-member boards, fixed terms, and legislative oversight), this concentrates adjudicatory power over speech in a single presidential appointee, creating risk of politically-motivated enforcement and undermining the neutrality essential for speech regulation.

Section 18(4) excludes "algorithmically generated information" from intermediary safe harbor protections, creating liability exposure for platforms' recommendation algorithms, content ranking, search results, and AI-generated content. This carve-out goes beyond international norms (EU DSA, US Section 230) and imposes impossible compliance burdens—platforms cannot realistically verify the truth/falsity of every algorithmically ranked or recommended piece of content under 19's broad definition. The undefined term "algorithmically generated information" creates uncertainty about what features trigger liability, chilling AI innovation and disproportionately burdening startups with limited compliance resources.

Section 18(4) excludes "algorithmically generated information" from safe harbor protections for internet intermediaries, creating liability exposure for platforms using AI or algorithmic systems. The term is undefined—leaving platforms uncertain whether it covers AI-generated content only, or also algorithmic curation, search rankings, and recommendation feeds. Combined with 19's broad definition of false information, this creates impossible compliance burdens: platforms cannot realistically verify every algorithmically processed piece of content against truth standards. This diverges from international norms (EU DSA, US Section 230) and creates disproportionate barriers for startups and smaller platforms lacking extensive compliance resources, potentially deterring digital business investment in Ghana.

This provision defines false information using subjective terms like "misleading" and "deceptive" alongside objective falsity, creating legal uncertainty about what speech is prohibited. While the burden of proof lies with the accuser (a protective safeguard), the inclusion of "misleading" as a standalone category deviates from international best practice—democracies typically focus false information laws on objectively verifiable falsehoods, not subjective judgments about presentation. The "partial truth doctrine" (19.3) is particularly problematic: determining whether an omission makes something "more misleading than true" requires highly subjective judgment and could chill legitimate selective reporting and investigative journalism. Speakers cannot reliably predict whether factually accurate statements will be deemed "misleading," undermining legal certainty and enabling potentially arbitrary enforcement.

This provision prohibits misinformation (false information "regardless of the intention to mislead") and disinformation (false information intended to mislead). The critical problem is the strict liability standard for misinformation - people can be held liable for unintentional falsehoods even when they genuinely believed the information was true. This deviates from international democratic norms where liability for false speech typically requires at least negligence or recklessness. Combined with broad definitions of "false or inaccurate information" and "prejudicial to public interest," this creates a chilling effect on legitimate speech - journalists reporting on developing stories, academics presenting preliminary findings, citizens sharing information they reasonably believed accurate, and whistleblowers disclosing information they believe reveals wrongdoing all face potential liability for honest mistakes. While 23 provides a defense if due diligence "could not have revealed" the falsehood, this creates a practical burden to conduct verification or face liability.

This provision requires all publishers to conduct "necessary due diligence" to verify information accuracy, with "higher standards" for media houses, journalists, influencers, commentators, celebrities, brands, and multinational companies—but neither term is defined. Digital platforms, media startups, and content creators cannot determine what conduct satisfies the law, creating impossible compliance challenges for businesses operating at scale. The tiered system penalizes growth: successful digital creators face heightened obligations precisely when they achieve market success. Combined with the annual audits, risk assessments, and fact-checking requirements elsewhere in the bill (80, 81, 82), this creates substantial compliance costs and legal uncertainty that will drive over-compliance, stifle innovation in digital media, and create significant barriers to market entry for startups.

This provision creates undefined "higher standards" for journalists, academics, politicians, and public commentators—precisely those engaged in democratic debate—while ordinary citizens face lower verification burdens for identical statements. The terms "necessary due diligence" and "higher standard" are undefined, making it impossible for speakers to know what conduct satisfies the requirement. Combined with criminal penalties under 75, this creates a chilling effect on investigative journalism and scholarly commentary, as public discourse participants face greater legal jeopardy than private citizens for the same speech. While defenses exist, speakers must risk liability first and defend later, fundamentally disadvantaging those most important to democratic discourse.

This provision subjects "popular product brands and multinational companies" to an undefined "higher standard of due diligence" when publishing factual information, without specifying what this standard requires. Businesses cannot determine what verification processes satisfy compliance, creating legal uncertainty for corporate communications, marketing, and product information. Combined with 24's prohibition on publishing false information "for financial reward," this creates overlapping requirements that burden commercial speech with undefined compliance obligations and potential liability under criminal penalties.

Section 24(3) creates a rebuttable presumption that anyone who "earns a reputation publicly for constantly and incessantly publishing false information" is engaged in business misinformation. This reverses the burden of proof, requiring the accused to prove innocence rather than the state proving guilt—violating the presumption of innocence principle. The triggering criteria are dangerously vague: "earn a reputation," "constantly and incessantly," and "affects public interest" lack clear thresholds, creating legal uncertainty. This could capture legitimate journalists whose investigative reporting is disputed, satirists whose work is mischaracterized, or political commentators critical of government. Combined with the 25's broad "public interest" definition and potential license revocation sanctions, this provision creates a severe chilling effect on investigative journalism and political speech.

Section 24(3) creates a rebuttable presumption that persons who "earn a reputation publicly for constantly and incessantly publishing false information" are engaged in the business of misinformation. This provision imposes legal uncertainty on media companies, content platforms, and verification services because "constantly," "incessantly," and "earn a reputation" lack objective thresholds. Businesses cannot assess compliance risk or structure operations to avoid liability. The reversed burden of proof requires companies to prove they are NOT engaged in commercial disinformation—an expensive defense that deters market entry and investment, particularly for startups in fact-checking and content moderation. This approach deviates from international standards (EU Code of Practice, OECD guidelines) which address commercial disinformation through transparency and disclosure rather than subjective presumptions.

This provision defines when misinformation liability applies by requiring enforcement to be "in the public interest"—but the definition is dangerously vague. Most problematic is 25(2)(f), which allows enforcement to prevent "diminution of public confidence" in government institutions. This standard is so broad it could encompass virtually any criticism of government performance, policy failures, or institutional conduct. Combined with undefined terms like "public trust" and "friendly relations with other countries," the provision gives the Division (appointed by the President) sweeping discretion to determine what speech serves "public interest." This creates severe chilling effects on investigative journalism, opposition criticism, and civil society advocacy—speakers cannot clearly determine what is permissible when any government criticism could be framed as affecting "public confidence."

This provision allows the government to pursue misinformation claims against critics through a Division whose Director is appointed by the President (14), creating a structural conflict where government-aligned officials make initial determinations about whether criticism of government is false. While safeguards exist—government cannot enforce claims about the ruling party or based solely on insults to officials, and bears the burden of proof—these do not address the institutional design flaw. Combined with the broad "public interest" categories in 25 (protecting "public trust," "public welfare," preventing "diminution of public confidence"), this creates uncertainty about what government-critical speech is permissible, encouraging self-censorship. Judicial review is available only after administrative proceedings (60), meaning the government-controlled body decides first.

This provision grants public institutions enforceable rights to pursue misinformation claims without the safeguards imposed on the Government in 26. While the Government cannot pursue claims about ruling party matters or based solely on insults, no such limitations apply to public institutions—an undefined category that could include regulatory bodies, state enterprises, security agencies, and other executive entities. This creates a mechanism for unelected state actors to suppress criticism without democratic accountability, particularly threatening investigative journalism exposing institutional corruption and civil society monitoring of public services.

This provision grants government officials, public officers, judiciary members, and election candidates enforceable rights to pursue misinformation claims against critics, creating severe power asymmetry. Officials can leverage institutional resources and political backing to pursue claims while critics face resource constraints defending themselves. The vague definition of "candidate" (including anyone "publicly known to contest") extends protection to potential candidates before formal declaration, shrinking space for pre-election scrutiny. By allowing officials to pursue claims in both official and personal capacity, the provision enables reframing legitimate policy criticism as personal misinformation, circumventing limits on government claims about "insults."

This provision grants any private individual or entity standing to initiate misinformation proceedings against digital platforms, content creators, and online publishers. Combined with the bill's broad definition of misinformation (false information regardless of intent) and administrative adjudication by a presidentially-appointed Division, this creates significant litigation exposure for digital businesses. Startups, content platforms, and tech entrepreneurs face unpredictable legal costs and operational uncertainty, as there are no anti-SLAPP protections or mechanisms to quickly dismiss frivolous claims—chilling innovation in Ghana's digital economy.

This provision enables any private individual or entity to initiate misinformation proceedings against any speaker, creating a privatized censorship mechanism with significant chilling effects. Unlike defamation law with its developed safeguards, this operates within a framework where "misinformation" includes unintentional inaccuracies and where a presidentially-appointed Division has initial adjudicatory power (60). Well-resourced entities can weaponize this provision to silence critics, competitors, or journalists through strategic litigation—even unsuccessful claims impose costs and reputational harm, discouraging legitimate speech about matters of public concern.

This provision grants unlimited standing to private individuals and entities to pursue misinformation claims against "any person," creating a powerful tool for competitive litigation warfare. Businesses face claims from competitors over comparative advertising, market analysis, product reviews, or competitive intelligence—with no apparent anti-SLAPP protections or clear thresholds for frivolous claims. The Division's initial adjudicatory role means businesses must navigate costly administrative proceedings before reaching judicial review, creating substantial defensive litigation costs that disproportionately burden smaller enterprises and startups unable to maintain legal defense budgets.

This provision reverses the burden of proof (30(6)), requiring anyone accused of publishing "false or inaccurate" health information to prove their statements are true—rather than requiring accusers to prove falsity. For digital health startups, telemedicine platforms, wellness apps, and health content creators, this creates impossible compliance barriers. A mental health app discussing coping strategies, a nutrition influencer sharing dietary advice, or a fitness platform recommending supplements could face criminal liability unless they can affirmatively prove accuracy—a standard that's particularly devastating for evolving medical science where consensus changes. Combined with vague standards like "unverified" and "unsubstantiated" (30(2)) and undefined fact-checking requirements (30(5)), this provision forces digital health businesses to either avoid health claims entirely or maintain expensive legal/medical teams to defend every statement, effectively killing innovation in Ghana's digital health sector.

This provision requires businesses in health sectors (pharmaceuticals, medical devices, wellness, telemedicine) to prove the accuracy of any public health statement if challenged, reversing the normal burden of proof. Combined with vague standards like "unverified" and "unsubstantiated," this creates unpredictable legal liability that cannot be adequately managed through compliance programs. A competitor or government official can trigger proceedings forcing a business to prove accuracy of marketing claims, product descriptions, or public statements—an impossible standard for emerging therapies, evolving medical consensus, or forward-looking statements. This deters investment in Ghana's health sector and creates competitive disadvantage versus businesses in neighboring countries operating under normal legal standards.

This provision requires all content creators, influencers, and media outlets to conduct mandatory fact-checking of election information according to Division-prescribed guidelines, while placing the burden of proof on publishers to prove accuracy of any challenged election content. The undefined standard of information "likely to influence" election outcomes creates operational uncertainty, making it impossible for digital platforms to develop clear moderation policies. Combined with potential liability for candidate information and foreign coordination restrictions, this creates prohibitive compliance costs that favor established media organizations over digital startups, independent journalists, and innovative platforms—particularly during election periods when political engagement is highest.

Subsection (8) reverses the burden of proof, requiring publishers to prove the truth of election information rather than accusers proving falsity. Combined with the vague "likely to influence" standard in subsection (1), this creates asymmetric litigation risk that smaller media outlets, independent journalists, and content creators cannot afford to manage. The mandatory fact-checking requirements in subsection (7) apply even to individual "influencers and content creators," imposing institutional compliance costs on non-institutional actors. This consolidates election coverage in the hands of well-resourced legacy media, creating barriers to market entry and reducing competition in political journalism.

This provision prohibits media houses from publishing "otherwise accurate information" when "substantial embellishments" cause it to "become inaccurate" through emotional impact alone—even though the underlying facts remain true. The test relies on subjective judgments about whether information is "overly exaggerated" and evokes emotions that the facts do not "reasonably evoke." This creates a fundamental conceptual problem: factually accurate information cannot become factually inaccurate through presentation style. The vague standards—combined with potential license suspension after warnings (71)—threaten core journalistic practices of using emphasis, dramatic headlines, and narrative framing to highlight newsworthy aspects of factual stories, creating a chilling effect on legitimate journalism based on subjective government judgments about appropriate emotional tone.

This provision allows Ghana to regulate speech made anywhere in the world by anyone, so long as it targets a Ghanaian citizen—creating an unprecedented compliance burden for digital platforms and content creators globally. While non-hate speech violations require a 2-year residency connection (subsection 3), hate speech can be prosecuted extraterritorially regardless of the speaker's location or connection to Ghana (subsection 6). This means a startup in Silicon Valley, a journalist in London, or a blogger in Lagos could face Ghanaian enforcement for content deemed "hate speech" under Ghana's broad definition, with no opportunity to cure the violation through correction or apology (unlike misinformation under 35). This exceeds international norms and creates operational uncertainty that chills innovation and legitimate global discourse about Ghanaian affairs.

This provision allows Ghana to prosecute hate speech made anywhere in the world by anyone—regardless of nationality or connection to Ghana—as long as it targets a Ghanaian citizen (subsection 6). This exceeds international norms for extraterritorial jurisdiction and creates a chilling effect on global speech about Ghanaian affairs. Foreign journalists, activists, and commentators discussing sensitive topics could face prosecution under Ghana's broad hate speech definition (37), even if their speech is lawful where they are located. Unlike other violations, the hate speech provision has no residency threshold and cannot be cured through the correction/retraction defenses available under 35, leaving foreign speakers without meaningful safeguards.

This provision subjects any business globally to Ghanaian enforcement if their content targets Ghanaian citizens, regardless of where the business operates or whether it has any connection to Ghana. The hate speech exception (subsection 6) is particularly problematic: unlike other violations which require the offender to be Ghanaian or a 2-year resident, hate speech claims apply to anyone, anywhere. For digital platforms, content creators, and media businesses, this creates unpredictable liability exposure and forces costly compliance with Ghanaian law even when operating entirely outside Ghana. The broad definition of "hate speech" under 37 compounds this uncertainty, making it difficult for businesses to know what content is permissible and creating barriers to market entry for startups and smaller platforms.

The definition uses subjective terms like "negative feelings," "hostility," and "attitudes" without clear boundaries, making it impossible for digital platforms and content creators to know what speech is prohibited. The removal of intent requirements means platforms face strict liability for user content, while the explicit inclusion of entertainment content (movies, songs, parodies, satire) directly targets Ghana's growing digital creative economy. This vagueness forces platforms to over-moderate content to avoid liability, increases compliance costs dramatically, and makes Ghana's digital ecosystem less competitive compared to other African tech hubs with clearer regulatory frameworks.

The hate speech definition uses subjective terms ("negative feelings," "hostility," "attitudes") and eliminates intent requirements, making it impossible for businesses to predict what commercial speech, advertising, or entertainment content will trigger liability. The provision explicitly captures factual statements and satirical content (movies, songs, parodies), meaning truthfulness provides no defense. With "other identity factor" undefined, businesses cannot identify which groups are protected, and the dignity-based standard varies by community. This creates unmanageable legal risk for media companies, advertisers, content creators, and any business engaging in public communications—forcing over-censorship and stifling commercial innovation.

This provision requires digital platforms to apply Section 18's communication requirements before publishing any content that could constitute hate speech—a category that explicitly includes entertainment, satire, parody, and factual statements under 37. Combined with 39's liability framework, platforms become responsible for user-generated content they can "substantially dictate" or remove, effectively requiring pre-publication review systems for all potentially controversial content. This creates significant technical complexity and market entry barriers, particularly for startups lacking resources to implement comprehensive content screening systems, while discouraging innovation in content moderation tools.

This provision subjects satire, parody, and entertainment content to pre-publication communication requirements by incorporating Section 18 into the hate speech framework. Since the hate speech definition in 37 explicitly includes "entertainment in a movie, song, parody, skit or as a satire" that "promotes negative feelings" or "stigmatises" groups, artists and comedians must satisfy undefined communication requirements before publishing creative work. This creates a prior restraint mechanism on political satire and social commentary, with liability extending to editors and producers under the broad "control" definition in 39.

This provision requires businesses to apply Section 18's communication requirements to hate speech before publication, but the preceding provision defines hate speech so broadly—including content that "promotes negative feelings" or "stigmatises" groups, plus entertainment and satire—that media organizations and platforms face substantial compliance costs determining what content requires pre-publication verification. The following provision then exposes editors, content managers, and platform moderators to personal liability for hate speech they can "substantially dictate" or remove, creating legal uncertainty that forces businesses to adopt overly cautious content policies and implement expensive compliance systems.

This provision criminalizes hate speech that incites genocide or aggravated violence, but when combined with the broad "control over communication" standard in 39, it creates criminal liability exposure for platform moderators, editors, and content curators. Anyone who "substantially dictates how content should be framed" or can "communicate or remove content" may face criminal penalties for hate speech they did not originate. The provision is also incompletely drafted—it references "section []" without specifying penalties and cuts off the definition of "aggravated violence" mid-sentence—creating legal uncertainty about what conduct is prohibited and what penalties apply. This chills legitimate platform moderation and editorial judgment, forcing businesses to choose between over-moderation or criminal liability risk.

This provision criminalizes hate speech that incites genocide or aggravated violence, but suffers from critical drafting defects that violate legal certainty. The sanction reference is incomplete ("section [] of this Act"), and the definition of "aggravated violence" cuts off mid-sentence ("motivated by"). When combined with the broad "control over communication" standard in 39—which extends liability to anyone who can "substantially dictate how content should be framed" or "remove content without recourse to the original author"—this creates criminal liability for editors, platform moderators, and publishers based on editorial judgment. The following provision grants the Division (headed by a President-appointed Director) initial adjudicatory power to evaluate whether speech incites violence using subjective criteria like "tone" and "purpose" (41). While criminalizing incitement to violence aligns with international standards, the incomplete drafting and broad secondary liability create legal uncertainty that chills legitimate editorial judgment and platform moderation.

This provision criminalizes hate speech that incites genocide or aggravated violence, but when combined with the broad "control over communication" standard in 39, it exposes platform moderators, editors, and publishers to criminal penalties (up to 500 penalty units and one month imprisonment) for exercising editorial judgment over content. Anyone who "substantially dictates how content should be framed" or can "communicate or remove content" has "control" and faces potential criminal liability. The provision is also incomplete—it references "section []" without specifying penalties, and the definition of "aggravated violence" is cut off mid-sentence—creating legal uncertainty that makes compliance planning impossible and forces businesses to choose between over-moderation, market exit, or abandoning editorial control entirely.

This provision establishes blanket liability for hate speech and indecent expressions that applies equally to all persons—journalists, academics, activists, and ordinary citizens—without distinguishing between professional contexts, speaker roles, or levels of culpability. Combined with 42's low threshold for indecent expressions (statements that "may reasonably provoke violence"), this creates severe chilling effects on legitimate speech. While 44 references professional guidelines as "instructive," these are non-binding and do not establish clear defenses or safe harbors for journalists following ethical standards or academics engaged in scholarly debate.

This provision prohibits disclosure of "private facts" using highly subjective standards—information must be "offensive, repulsive, embarrassing or shameful to a reasonable person"—creating legal uncertainty that will chill investigative journalism and whistleblowing. The prohibition extends to "commentary about private facts, opinions about private facts, innuendos and insinuations," capturing analytical journalism and opinion pieces. While a public interest defense exists, speakers must navigate unclear balancing tests and face liability for disclosing "partly private facts which were not necessary"—forcing journalists to self-censor rather than risk administrative proceedings and potential criminal penalties. The provision particularly protects government officials' private facts that might "adversely affect public interest" or "public trust," language broad enough to shield legitimate exposés of official misconduct.

This provision defines "private facts" using subjective standards like "intimate detail" and "expected to be kept private" without objective criteria, creating legal uncertainty for journalists reporting on public figures. While it carves out public records and crime information, it broadly protects personal finances and relationships even when relevant to public accountability, placing the burden on publishers to prove exceptions apply. Combined with 47(3) (which makes prior circulation "immaterial"), this lacks the explicit journalism exemptions found in GDPR Article 85 and Commonwealth frameworks, forcing publishers to make risky subjective judgments about what details are "necessary in the public interest" under 45(7).

Section 47 creates an unworkable compliance framework for digital platforms and content creators by establishing that republishing information is a violation even if it was already publicly available (47.3's "immateriality" clause). This eliminates standard defenses used by news aggregators, social media platforms, and content curation services. Combined with 48's prohibition on using private facts in entertainment, this severely restricts digital creative content including satire, parody, and commentary—key drivers of Ghana's digital creative economy. The provision provides no practical mechanism for platforms to verify consent status (which can be revoked at any time), creating impossible compliance burdens for user-generated content services and making Ghana's framework incompatible with international digital business practices.

Section 47.3 states it is "immaterial" whether information was already publicly known or resulted from the subject's own conduct—meaning even republishing already-public information violates the law without ongoing consent that can be revoked at any time. This eliminates the standard "public domain" defense found in democratic jurisdictions and creates severe restrictions on journalism, commentary, and public discourse. Combined with 48's prohibition on using private facts in satire, parody, or entertainment, this framework prevents legitimate discussion of public figures and matters of public interest using information that is already widely known.

Section 47.3 states it is "immaterial" whether information was already publicly known or resulted from the subject's own conduct, meaning businesses face liability for republishing publicly available information without ongoing consent. This creates impossible compliance burdens for news aggregators, content curators, archives, and research firms that rely on publicly available information. Combined with the perpetual consent revocation right, businesses cannot maintain historical content or databases without continuous consent verification—making standard media and research business models legally unviable and placing Ghanaian businesses at a structural competitive disadvantage against international platforms not subject to these restrictions.

This provision categorically prohibits the use of private facts in parody, skit, or satire in mass media, with no exception for public interest. Satire and parody are core forms of political commentary protected in democratic societies—essential tools for criticizing public figures and holding government accountable. By banning these forms entirely, even when they serve legitimate public interest purposes, the provision creates a severe chilling effect on political speech. The undefined term "entertainment" creates uncertainty about whether any humorous political commentary is permissible, encouraging self-censorship by media outlets and content creators.

This provision establishes liability for publishing private facts about government officials, politicians, and public officers using the same standard as for private individuals, without recognizing that public figures have reduced privacy expectations on matters relevant to their public roles. The vague carve-out (disclosure must "adversely affect national security, public interest, public trust, public safety or public order") creates uncertainty about what constitutes legitimate investigative journalism. Combined with 50's provision allowing the Division to initiate complaints on behalf of officials, this enables government suppression of accountability reporting about officials' conflicts of interest, health conditions affecting job performance, or financial relationships—even when such disclosures serve legitimate public purposes.

The provision allows "individuals affected by the publication" to claim disclosure of private facts without defining who qualifies as "affected," creating unpredictable liability for platforms hosting content. More concerning, the Division can initiate complaints "on behalf of aggrieved persons" without requiring those persons to come forward, enabling government-directed enforcement against platforms. The provision also allows estates of deceased persons to pursue claims indefinitely, creating perpetual liability for historical content, biographies, and archives—forcing platforms to monitor and potentially remove content about deceased individuals without temporal limits.

The provision allows the Division to initiate private facts claims "on behalf of aggrieved persons" without requiring those persons to come forward or consent, enabling government-directed enforcement against journalists and critics. The undefined standard for who is "affected by the publication" creates uncertainty about liability exposure. Additionally, estates can pursue claims indefinitely for deceased persons' private facts without temporal limits, restricting historical narratives and biographies of public figures long after death—a significant departure from democratic norms where privacy rights diminish upon death.

This provision allows estates of deceased persons to pursue claims indefinitely for disclosure of private facts, creating perpetual liability for businesses publishing biographical, historical, or archival content. Combined with the undefined "individuals affected" standard, businesses cannot determine when liability exposure ends or who might bring claims. This forces media companies, publishers, and digital platforms to either avoid historical content entirely or maintain indefinite legal reserves, particularly impacting documentary producers, biographers, and archival institutions.

This provision defines "public disclosure" so broadly that information becomes actionable the moment it "becomes known by one or more persons"—creating severe compliance uncertainty for digital platforms, content-sharing services, and tech startups. Combined with the preceding provisions' expansive categories of "protected confidential information" (52, 53)—including Cabinet communications, economic data, and closed-door proceedings—platforms cannot determine what user-generated content might trigger enforcement. The provision lacks critical safeguards: no distinction between active publication and passive hosting, no threshold requirement (e.g., "widespread" disclosure), and no consideration of technical feasibility for content monitoring. This forces platforms to either implement expensive pre-publication screening systems (often technically impossible for encrypted services) or accept significant legal risk, creating structural barriers to entry for information-sharing platforms and chilling innovation in investigative journalism tools and whistleblower platforms.

This provision defines disclosure as "public" when information becomes known by one or more persons—meaning even private communications with a single individual (a source, editor, or legal counsel) could trigger enforcement action under the Act. Combined with the preceding provisions' expansive categories of "protected confidential information" (52, 53)—including Cabinet communications, economic data, and closed-door proceedings—this creates a framework where journalists and whistleblowers face enforcement risk for virtually any disclosure of government information. The provision lacks safeguards for communications with editors, fact-checkers, legal counsel, or oversight bodies, and does not require that the discloser knew the information was protected, creating a chilling effect on investigative journalism and government accountability.

This provision defines information as "public" when it is "published by whatever means" and "becomes known by one or more persons"—an extremely low threshold that triggers enforcement under the Act. Combined with the preceding provisions' broad categories of protected confidential information (52, 53), this creates severe compliance uncertainty for businesses. Media organizations reporting on government economic plans, platforms hosting discussions about Cabinet decisions, or startups analyzing government data all face potential enforcement action. The provision does not distinguish between intentional publication vs. accidental leaks, public interest disclosures vs. violations, or commercial speech vs. protected reporting, creating a compliance minefield that deters investment in information-related sectors and enables strategic litigation against businesses.

The provision allows any person to file complaints against speech with a minimal merit threshold—merely "an allegation of fact" suffices to trigger administrative proceedings. The Division must determine merit within 2 working days based solely on whether the complaint alleges noncompliance, without assessing whether the speech is actually unlawful or whether constitutional protections apply. Anonymous reports can enter the system at the Division's discretion. This creates a low-barrier mechanism for challenging speech through administrative proceedings that can lead to correction orders, financial penalties, license suspension, and criminal prosecution, enabling coordinated complaint campaigns against critics, opposition voices, and investigative journalists.

Respondents to Division complaints must respond within 2 working days or face adjudication based solely on the complainant's case (default judgment). This timeline is substantially below international standards (typically 14-30 days) and creates severe operational burdens for startups, small media organizations, and individual content creators who lack dedicated legal teams. Missing the deadline triggers default judgment, which combined with the Division's power to recommend license suspension after three warnings (71), creates business continuity risks that disproportionately affect smaller digital businesses and innovation entrants.

Respondents have only 2 working days to respond to complaints about their speech, or face adjudication based solely on the complainant's case (56(2), 56(3)). This compressed timeline is grossly inadequate for asserting speech-protective defenses like public interest disclosure, opinion/commentary exclusions, or correction/retraction protections—particularly for individual citizens, journalists, and small content creators lacking legal resources. The default judgment mechanism means a speaker's side may never be heard if they miss the deadline, creating a severe chilling effect on protected speech. This falls far below international standards (typically 14-21 days minimum) and disproportionately burdens those engaged in investigative journalism or public interest reporting.

Businesses must respond to Division complaints within 2 working days or face default judgment based solely on the complainant's case. This compressed timeline—substantially below international standards of 14-30 days—creates disproportionate burdens on smaller media organizations, startups, and content creators lacking dedicated legal teams. Missing the deadline triggers adverse findings that can lead to license suspension or revocation (71), creating existential business risk. The provision forces businesses to maintain costly rapid-response capabilities, creating a competitive advantage for larger organizations with legal infrastructure while deterring market entry and innovation.

The Division—an executive body whose Director is appointed by the President (14)—has initial adjudicatory power over most compliance disputes, including enforcement of annual audit requirements, fact-checking obligations, and content moderation standards. Platforms and media outlets must respond within 2 working days and face decisions within 5 working days on complex technical matters, with judicial review available only after exhausting administrative proceedings (60). The vague "significant public traction" standard for determining which cases reach court creates unpredictability about enforcement, while the asymmetrical exclusion of government allegations from Division jurisdiction creates an uneven regulatory playing field that particularly burdens startups and smaller digital businesses lacking resources to navigate rapid executive adjudication.

This provision grants an executive-appointed Division initial adjudicatory power over most speech-related complaints, requiring individuals to exhaust administrative remedies before accessing courts (60). The Division determines whether speech constitutes misinformation, disinformation, hate speech, or private facts disclosure—all vague categories requiring constitutional analysis—yet operates under the National Communications Authority with a President-appointed Director (14). While certain matters are excluded (government allegations, criminal cases, monetary damages), the "public traction" standard for court referral is undefined, allowing the Division to retain jurisdiction over controversial speech most in need of judicial protection. This structure violates separation of powers by placing speech adjudication in executive hands, creating chilling effects as speakers face a non-independent tribunal before reaching courts.

Businesses must exhaust proceedings before the executive-appointed Division before accessing courts (57(6)), with 2-working-day response deadlines (56(2)) and 5-working-day decision targets (58(5)). This creates regulatory uncertainty as compliance disputes are initially adjudicated by a non-independent body using vague standards like "significant public traction" to determine court referral (57(4)). The asymmetrical framework—where government allegations bypass Division jurisdiction (57(2)(c)) while businesses face mandatory administrative proceedings—creates unequal competitive conditions and delays access to impartial judicial review for potentially business-destroying decisions.

The Division determines speech restrictions using the undefined standard of what is "just and right" (58(2)), with expedited 5-working-day decisions in "exceptional cases" (58(5)). This vague standard combined with compressed timelines creates systematic risk of erroneous speech suppression—particularly problematic given the Division's Director is presidentially appointed and decisions are binding with criminal enforcement (59). The provision lacks explicit procedural protections essential for speech cases: no burden of proof standards favoring speakers, no evidentiary hearing requirements, no mandate for reasoned written decisions, and no consideration of less restrictive alternatives.

The Division can enforce its own decisions through "such orders and directions as may be necessary" with parties facing "administrative and criminal penalties" for non-compliance (59.2-59.3). The provision appears to require immediate compliance before appeal rights are exhausted, meaning platforms could face license suspension, content removal orders, or other enforcement actions before judicial review. This creates severe operational uncertainty for digital businesses—particularly startups and smaller platforms—who must comply with potentially erroneous Division decisions immediately or face penalties, rather than having enforcement stayed pending appeal as is standard in democratic jurisdictions.

Division decisions ordering content removal or corrections must be complied with immediately, with "administrative and criminal penalties" threatened for non-compliance (59.2). While appeal rights exist, the provision does not explicitly protect speech pending judicial review. This means the Division—whose Director is appointed by the President—can censor potentially protected speech (political commentary, investigative journalism, public interest disclosures) with judicial correction only available after the censorship has occurred. This inverts democratic norms where speech remains available until a court determines it unlawful, creating a prior restraint effect that particularly harms time-sensitive speech and encourages self-censorship even among speakers with strong legal defenses.

The Division can enforce its own decisions immediately through "such orders and directions as may be necessary" (59.3), with parties facing "administrative and criminal penalties" for non-compliance (59.2) before appeal rights are exhausted. This creates severe business uncertainty as license suspensions, content restrictions, or financial penalties could be enforced immediately, causing irreversible operational and reputational harm even if later overturned on appeal. The provision concentrates investigative, adjudicatory, and enforcement powers in the same body without explicit protection for businesses during the appeal period.

The appeal framework provides inadequate protection for digital businesses facing Division enforcement actions. While judicial review is available, Division decisions are immediately binding and enforceable (59), meaning license suspensions or revocations can destroy a media business before appeals are heard. The restrictive appeal grounds exclude proportionality review and errors of law, and there is no automatic stay of coercive actions pending appeal (except for technical impossibility). For startups and small media outlets with limited legal resources, the 30-day appeal deadline and lack of interim relief create a "comply or die" dynamic that undermines business viability and chills market entry.

The provision lists only four narrow grounds for courts to overturn Division decisions (60(5)), but omits explicit constitutional review for freedom of speech violations. While ground (c) permits setting aside decisions if "the communication or information was permissible under the Act," it's unclear whether this encompasses constitutional speech protections or only statutory interpretation. This ambiguity is critical because the Division—whose Director is appointed by the President (14)—has initial adjudicatory power over speech using broad, discretionary definitions of prohibited content. Without an explicit constitutional review ground, speakers cannot be confident courts will rigorously scrutinize whether Division sanctions violated their constitutional rights to freedom of expression and press freedom, creating a chilling effect on protected speech.

The provision limits High Court review to four narrow grounds, excluding challenges based on proportionality (whether penalties fit the violation) or procedural fairness (whether the Division followed fair processes). Combined with 59's immediate enforcement requirement, businesses facing license suspension or revocation cannot effectively challenge these decisions before their operations are destroyed. A media outlet or platform suspended during the appeal period—which may take months or years—faces business collapse, employee loss, and market exit before judicial review occurs, making appeals practically meaningless even if ultimately successful.

The provision permits imposing multiple simultaneous sanctions (correction orders, content removal, access blocking, license suspension, administrative penalties, criminal penalties) without clear proportionality limits or graduated penalty structure. Platforms could face existential sanctions like license revocation or access blocking combined with other penalties for a single violation, even after voluntarily removing content. When combined with 63's strict liability standard (sanctions "even if the person does not know" information is false), this creates unpredictable liability exposure that will drive excessive compliance costs, over-moderation, and market exit by smaller platforms and startups.

This provision permits the Division to impose multiple simultaneous sanctions—including correction orders, content removal, access blocking, license suspension, administrative penalties, and criminal penalties—with only vague "necessary and proportionate" language providing no objective criteria. Combined with 63, which permits sanctions "even if the person does not know or has no reason to believe that the information is false," this creates liability without fault. The framework eliminates incentives for voluntary correction by permitting sanctions even after removal/retraction, and concentrates enforcement power in a non-judicial Division with a President-appointed Director who acts as both investigator and adjudicator. This creates severe chilling effect as speakers face arbitrary stacking of severe penalties for innocent mistakes or good-faith errors.

This provision authorizes license suspension or revocation as a sanction for content violations, creating existential threats to media outlets and platforms. Combined with the authority to impose multiple simultaneous sanctions without clear proportionality guidelines, businesses face unpredictable liability exposure that makes operational planning impossible. The provision also eliminates incentives for voluntary compliance by permitting sanctions even after content removal or retraction, contradicting standard regulatory practice that rewards self-correction to reduce enforcement costs and encourage responsible business conduct.

The provision permits Correction Directions to be issued even when the person "does not know or has no reason to believe that the information is false" (Section 63(4)), creating strict liability for speech. Digital platforms, media outlets, and content creators can be compelled to publish corrections in specified forms and locations—bearing all compliance costs (Section 63(5))—without any knowledge requirement. This creates unpredictable legal exposure that cannot be mitigated through good-faith compliance, particularly problematic for startups and SMEs facing the bill's other compliance burdens (annual audits, risk assessments, fact-checking departments). The vague standard for "extreme consequences" (Section 63(3)) triggering newspaper publication requirements adds further uncertainty, discouraging investment in Ghana's digital economy.

Businesses must bear all costs of complying with Correction Directions, including publication in newspapers and communication to specified audiences, even when they had no reason to believe information was false (Section 63(4)-(5)). This creates uninsurable financial liability that cannot be managed through due diligence, with costs falling disproportionately on smaller businesses. Combined with potential monetary damages (Section 63(6)) and the three-warning license suspension system (71), this creates cascading financial exposure that disrupts operations and distorts market competition.

Section 64 empowers the Court or Division to order cessation of not just specific content, but also "any statement or material that is substantially similar" to alleged misinformation, disinformation, or hate speech. This undefined standard creates impossible compliance challenges for digital platforms, content aggregators, and automated systems—they cannot predict what content will be deemed "substantially similar" and thus face unpredictable legal exposure. Combined with strict liability (orders can issue "even if the person does not know or has no reason to believe that the information is false"), this provision makes it impossible for digital businesses to assess and manage legal risk through due diligence, fundamentally undermining investment certainty in Ghana's digital economy.

Section 64(6) permits Stop Communication Directions to be issued against businesses "even if the person does not know or has no reason to believe that the information is false"—creating a strict liability regime for business communications. Combined with the undefined "substantially similar" standard in s.64(3), companies cannot predict what statements might trigger enforcement, forcing them to self-censor marketing, public relations, and stakeholder communications. Businesses must bear compliance costs for correction notices and newspaper publications (s.64(5)), creating financial barriers particularly burdensome for smaller enterprises and startups lacking legal resources to navigate this uncertainty.

This provision allows removal orders without requiring knowledge that content is false, creating strict liability for digital publishers and content creators. The requirement to remove "substantially similar" material—an undefined standard—forces platforms and startups to over-remove content to avoid liability, directly chilling innovation in content creation and distribution technologies. While third-party intermediaries cannot be compelled to remove content (only requested per their policies), individual publishers, news aggregators, and digital businesses face removal orders plus the full costs of compliance, creating prohibitive barriers for startups and small digital enterprises operating in Ghana's online ecosystem.

The provision permits removal orders based on "substantially similar" content without defining what constitutes similarity, forcing businesses to make subjective compliance judgments that create unpredictable legal risk. Combined with strict liability (removal orders issued "provided there is evidence" without requiring knowledge the content was false), businesses face removal orders and mandatory compliance costs for content published in good faith. The cumulative effect—removal plus mandatory corrections plus potential newspaper publication—creates substantial, unpredictable operational costs that discourage content creation and online business investment.

Subsection (3)(b) eliminates appeal as a defense to non-compliance, requiring speakers to comply with Directions restricting their speech before they can challenge those Directions in court. This reverses normal due process protections where coercive action against speech is stayed pending judicial review. A speaker who believes a Direction unlawfully restricts protected speech must still comply (or face escalating penalties including financial sanctions and account removal) before obtaining judicial determination of the Direction's lawfulness. This creates a prior restraint dynamic where the Division—an executive body appointed by the President (14)—can effectively suppress speech before courts review legality, chilling legitimate expression.

Licensed media entities face license suspension or revocation for failing to comply with administrative Directions after three warnings (68), even while appealing those Directions. This creates an existential business threat—license revocation effectively terminates media operations—for what may be administrative disputes rather than substantive violations. The provision also imposes 1,000 penalty units plus 100 penalty units per day of continued non-compliance, creating accumulating financial exposure that could be ruinous for smaller outlets. This enforcement mechanism concentrates significant power in the Division (an executive body) to effectively shut down media businesses through administrative proceedings.

The Division can request removal of online accounts after three compliance warnings, without explicit requirements for judicial review, notice to the account holder, or hearing rights before the request is issued. While subsection (4) protects politicians and "known public or social commentators," ordinary citizens lack the same protections, creating a two-tier speech system. The provision concentrates power in the executive-appointed Division to silence critics through administrative proceedings, with judicial review available only after the fact. When combined with 68's elimination of defenses and 70's vague standards for access blocking, this creates a coercive pathway to suppress dissent.

This provision allows the Division to order ISPs to block access to entire websites based on vague criteria like content "prejudicial to friendly relations" or that "unjustifiably projects the Republic as a defaulter of international law." Unlike content removal, access blocking prevents ALL Ghanaian users from reaching a platform, creating existential risk for digital businesses. The undefined standards provide no clear compliance guidance, deterring digital investment and innovation. ISPs face license revocation for non-compliance, transforming them into de facto censors and undermining the open internet infrastructure necessary for Ghana's digital economy.

This provision allows the Division or Court to order ISPs to block access to entire websites based on vague criteria like content "prejudicial to friendly relations" between Ghana and other countries. Unlike targeted content removal, access blocking prevents all Ghanaian users from accessing an entire online location—affecting innocent users and legitimate speech on the same platform. The ill-defined triggers ("prejudicial," "unjustifiably") give the President-appointed Division broad discretion to silence criticism of Ghana's international conduct, creating a severe chilling effect on speech about foreign policy, diplomatic relations, and international law compliance.

This provision empowers the Division to order internet service providers to block entire online locations based on vague criteria like content "prejudicial to friendly relations" (70.1(c)), with license suspension or revocation as the penalty for non-compliance after three warnings (70.4). This creates existential risk for ISPs—essential infrastructure providers whose licenses are their entire business—forcing them to over-comply and block legitimate business content rather than risk losing their operating authority. The blanket blocking mechanism affects entire platforms rather than specific content, meaning a single allegedly problematic post could shut down access to an entire business platform for all Ghanaian users. Combined with the Division's executive control (Director appointed by President per 14) and vague substantive criteria, this creates a hostile, unpredictable environment for digital businesses and infrastructure providers.

Section 71(5) grants the Minister unconstrained authority to prescribe the "scope, extent and range of monetary damages" without defined criteria, parliamentary oversight, or damage caps. Combined with punitive damages (71(4)(c)) lacking clear standards, this creates unpredictable financial liability that digital startups and online platforms cannot accurately calculate or insure against. When layered with administrative penalties (69) and license suspension threats (71), this cumulative enforcement regime creates existential risk for smaller digital innovators with limited capital reserves, effectively raising barriers to market entry in Ghana's digital economy.

The Minister can unilaterally set damage ranges for speech violations without parliamentary oversight or defined criteria (71(5)), while courts may impose punitive damages without clear standards for publishing "false or inaccurate election information" or "confidential information concerning the Republic" (71(3)-(4)). Combined with administrative penalties from 69 and license revocation from 71, this creates cascading financial liability that deters investigative journalism and political commentary. Democratic systems typically require legislatively defined damage caps and limit punitive damages to malicious conduct—this provision lacks both safeguards.

Section 71(5) grants the Minister unconstrained authority to prescribe the "scope, extent and range of monetary damages" without parliamentary oversight, defined criteria, or transparency requirements. This prevents businesses from accurately calculating compliance costs, obtaining insurance coverage, or conducting risk assessments. Combined with authorization of punitive damages without clear standards (Section 71(4)(c)) and cumulative enforcement through administrative penalties (69) and license suspension (71), this creates unpredictable financial liability that undermines business planning and investment decisions—particularly for smaller publishers and media outlets that cannot absorb undefined damage exposure.

Section 72(1)(c) allows the Division to recommend license revocation after a publisher becomes "notorious for publishing false or other information" with only one compliance warning—bypassing the three-warning requirement in 72(1)(a). This undefined standard creates legal uncertainty that prevents digital businesses from understanding what conduct triggers existential risk. Combined with 73's warning-free Cease and Desist orders, this provision enables rapid escalation to business closure without clear criteria, proportionality analysis, or consideration of good-faith compliance efforts. The vague triggering standard deters investment in Ghanaian digital media, discourages startup entry, and creates regulatory capture risk where enforcement could selectively target government critics while protecting aligned publishers.

This provision allows the Division to recommend license suspension or revocation for publishers who become "notorious for publishing false or other information" after just one compliance warning (72(1)(c)). The term "notorious" is undefined and subjective—lacking criteria for how many publications, over what timeframe, or what types of violations trigger this status. This creates a shortcut around the graduated enforcement model requiring three warnings (72(1)(a)), enabling the Division to target publishers through vague standards. License revocation is an extreme prior restraint that eliminates a publisher's ability to operate, yet the provision lacks proportionality safeguards and doesn't reference defenses available elsewhere in the bill (quick correction, public interest). Combined with 73's Cease and Desist orders requiring no prior warning, this creates severe chilling effects on investigative journalism and government criticism.

This provision allows the Division to recommend license revocation—effectively forcing business closure—based on becoming "notorious for publishing false or other information" after just one compliance warning (72(1)(c)). Unlike standard regulatory violations with clear thresholds, businesses cannot assess or mitigate "notorious" status through compliance planning. This creates existential uncertainty that deters investment, disadvantages smaller media outlets lacking resources to contest subjective determinations, and concentrates market power among established players who can absorb regulatory risk. Combined with 73's warning-free Cease and Desist orders, a single contested violation could trigger the "notorious" pathway to business closure.

The Division can issue Cease and Desist orders against any person "deemed to be engaged in the business of publication" based on vague criteria, with immediate administrative penalties for non-compliance without any compliance warning (Section 73(2)). This bypasses the graduated enforcement system established in 71 (three warnings before license action) and 73 (5-day response period), creating existential risk for digital businesses. The provision lacks procedural safeguards—no required notice, hearing, or appeal before penalties—and provides no timeframe for compliance or specification of prohibited conduct, making it impossible for digital platforms and publishers to predict or prevent enforcement actions.

The Division can issue Cease and Desist orders against businesses "deemed to be engaged" in publishing false or other information, with immediate administrative penalties for non-compliance without any Compliance Warning (Section 73(2)). This bypasses the graduated enforcement system that gives other violators three warnings before license suspension (71) and the normal 5-day compliance period (73). Businesses face immediate financial penalties without opportunity to correct course, creating operational uncertainty and investment risk in Ghana's media and digital sectors.

The provision imposes 500 penalty units plus 100 units per day of continued non-compliance with Division orders, creating unlimited financial liability that accumulates indefinitely. For digital startups and small media organizations, this escalating penalty structure creates existential financial risk that forces compliance regardless of whether Division orders are legally sound. The provision provides no proportionality safeguards or consideration of a publisher's size or resources, and 76 creates a pathway where administrative non-compliance becomes criminal liability. This structure creates severe barriers to entry in Ghana's digital media sector and discourages innovation by making regulatory risk impossible to quantify.

This provision creates escalating administrative penalties (500 units + 100 units per day indefinitely) for non-compliance with Division orders, which can require removal of content deemed misinformation, disinformation, or confidential information. The cumulative daily penalties create overwhelming financial pressure to comply with orders before any independent judicial review, functioning as a de facto censorship mechanism. Critically, 76 transforms administrative non-compliance into criminal liability (200-500 penalty units + 1 month imprisonment) for private facts and confidential information violations, creating a dual-track enforcement system. The Division—headed by a Presidential appointee—both adjudicates violations and collects penalties, creating structural bias. This penalty structure enables suppression of protected speech, including government criticism and investigative journalism, by making non-compliance financially unsustainable regardless of whether the underlying speech is constitutionally protected.

The Division collects administrative penalties it issues, creating a financial incentive structure where the enforcer benefits from enforcement—penalties are paid "to the Division" rather than to a neutral treasury. This violates basic regulatory independence principles and creates perverse incentives for aggressive enforcement against businesses. Combined with undefined "Directions or Orders" that trigger penalties and 100 penalty units per day accumulation with no proportionality review, businesses face unlimited financial exposure from a regulator with financial motivation to maximize penalties. The pathway to criminal liability in 75 for non-compliance compounds this by threatening management with criminal records.

This provision criminalizes speech causing "public harm," "fear," "unrest," or "public disturbance" with definitions so broad they encompass normal business communications. Tech companies face criminal penalties (up to 500 penalty units + 1 month imprisonment) for content that causes "anxiety about public policy changes" or "significant reputational damage" to government institutions—making it impossible to build compliant content moderation systems or engage in legitimate policy advocacy. When combined with 76, executives face criminal liability for failing to prevent employee or user speech they cannot reasonably monitor, creating severe operational risks and chilling effects on digital innovation.

This provision criminalizes speech causing "loss of funding" or "loss of human capital including strikes" (subsection 3), making routine business communications—such as reporting on government contracts, labor disputes, or policy impacts—potential criminal offenses. The "reasonable belief in falsity" standard means businesses face criminal penalties even when acting in good faith, while the vague definitions of "public harm" and "fear" make it impossible to predict what statements will trigger liability. Combined with 76's personal criminal liability for executives who fail to prevent employee speech, this creates an impossible compliance situation that deters legitimate business reporting and corporate communications.

This provision creates criminal liability for tech company officers and managers who "ought reasonably to have known" about offences and failed to take "all reasonable steps" to prevent them. This directly contradicts the safe harbor protection in 77, which shields intermediaries from liability for third-party content. While platforms are protected from strict liability, their management faces imprisonment for failing to prevent user violations of vague offences like misinformation or hate speech. This forces companies to implement aggressive monitoring systems, creates barriers to entry for startups that cannot afford compliance infrastructure, and incentivizes over-moderation that stifles user expression and innovation.

This provision makes managers and officers criminally liable if they "ought reasonably to have known" about speech offences by employees or users and "failed to take all reasonable steps to prevent" them. This creates an affirmative duty to monitor and censor all employee and user speech to avoid criminal penalties including imprisonment. Combined with the Act's broad definitions of misinformation (false information regardless of intent), hate speech, and private facts, managers face criminal liability for failing to prevent speech that might violate subjective standards. This incentivizes aggressive pre-publication censorship and creates a powerful chilling effect on journalism, commentary, and public discourse—managers will err on the side of suppressing speech rather than risk criminal prosecution.

This provision imposes criminal penalties (fines and imprisonment) on corporate officers and managers who "ought reasonably to have known" about employee or user violations and "failed to take all reasonable steps to prevent" them. For businesses, this creates an affirmative duty to actively monitor and censor all content to avoid prosecution—but the underlying offences (misinformation, hate speech, private facts) have vague definitions that make compliance standards unclear. The result is a compliance trap: businesses must invest heavily in monitoring infrastructure or face criminal liability, but cannot know with certainty what conduct they must prevent. This creates barriers to market entry for startups and SMEs that cannot afford compliance costs, deters foreign investment due to unpredictable legal risk, and forces businesses to choose between over-censorship or criminal exposure for management.

This provision requires all internet intermediaries and media houses with online locations to conduct annual human rights due diligence audits of their algorithmic systems and content moderation practices, without differentiation by company size or capacity. Unlike comparable frameworks in OECD democracies (such as the EU's Digital Services Act), this applies uniformly to small startups and large platforms alike, creating substantial compliance costs that disproportionately burden smaller entities. The provision lacks clear standards for what constitutes adequate compliance, creating uncertainty, while penalties of 500 penalty units plus 100 per day of continued non-compliance create significant financial exposure that could be existential for startups and small platforms.

This provision requires annual human rights due diligence audits but provides no standards for what constitutes adequate compliance, leaving companies unable to predict costs or assess compliance adequacy. The penalty structure—500 penalty units initially, then 100 per day of continued non-compliance—creates escalating financial exposure without clear guidance on how to satisfy the requirement. The Division has broad discretion to determine whether an audit meets the undefined "human rights due diligence" standard, making it impossible for businesses to plan compliance costs or assess their legal exposure. This lack of clarity particularly harms smaller entities that cannot afford extensive legal review or multiple audit iterations.

This provision requires all internet intermediaries and content creators to fact-check information before publication and establishes mandatory fact-checking desks for platforms. For user-generated content platforms processing thousands or millions of posts daily, pre-publication verification is technically and economically impossible without either massive delays that destroy user experience or automated systems that will block legitimate speech. This directly contradicts the safe harbor protections in 77, which state intermediaries have no general monitoring obligation. Combined with the licensing prerequisite and training requirements, this creates insurmountable barriers for startups and smaller platforms while giving the Division discretionary power to exclude competitors through certification denial.

This provision makes fact-checking certification a prerequisite for license renewal (subsection 5), giving the Division discretionary control over which businesses can operate in Ghana's media and digital sectors. Combined with 83's requirement for two years of bi-annual training before license renewal, this creates compounding barriers to market entry and continuation. The provision provides no standards for what constitutes adequate fact-checking or how certification decisions will be made, creating regulatory uncertainty that particularly burdens smaller media organizations and startups lacking resources for compliance infrastructure. This licensing prerequisite transforms the Division into a market gatekeeper with undefined criteria for business operation.

Licensed media entities and intermediaries must provide bi-annual in-house training on misinformation and disinformation, with license renewal denied if two years of training are not completed. This creates substantial ongoing operational costs and administrative burden, particularly for smaller organizations. Combined with requirements for fact-checking departments (82), annual risk assessments (81), and algorithm audits, the cumulative compliance regime significantly increases the cost of doing business in Ghana's media sector and could force smaller players out of the market.

This provision requires digital advertising intermediaries, influencers, and content creators to take "reasonable steps" to ensure paid content complies with the entire Act—including provisions on misinformation, hate speech, and private facts—but provides no clear guidance on what constitutes "reasonable steps." The penalty structure (100 penalty units initially, plus 100 per day of continued default) creates severe financial exposure that accumulates rapidly, particularly problematic for startups and smaller platforms. This vague compliance obligation combined with escalating daily penalties creates significant barriers to market entry, discourages innovation in advertising technology and creator monetization, and could chill the digital creator economy by making brand partnerships and sponsored content legally risky.

This provision requires content creators, influencers, and advertising intermediaries to ensure paid content complies with the entire Act—including provisions with vague definitions of misinformation, hate speech, and private facts. The "reasonable steps" standard creates uncertainty about what paid content is permissible, forcing creators and intermediaries to self-censor commercial speech rather than risk daily penalties of 100 penalty units. This effectively creates a prior restraint on paid speech, with enforcement discretion vested in a President-appointed Division Director, raising concerns about selective enforcement against monetized criticism or opposition-supporting advertising.

This provision requires digital advertising intermediaries, influencers, and content creators to ensure paid content complies with the entire Act, creating substantial operational costs for content vetting and legal review. The daily penalty structure (100 penalty units per day of non-compliance) creates severe financial exposure, particularly for platforms handling high volumes of paid content. These compliance burdens and financial risks create barriers to market entry for startups and smaller platforms, discourage creator monetization and brand partnerships, and could drive digital advertising activity away from Ghana's market entirely.