There was a time when a trip to the University of Ghana Bookshop was an intellectual pilgrimage.

I remember wandering there, looking for a recommended textbook, only to emerge 2 hours later with a novel by Chinua Achebe, a biography of Winston Churchill, and a book on Soviet Economics, all of which sit on my bookshelf 26 years later.

I had unwittingly exhausted my beer budget for the week and had to stay away from my favourite student bar, Desperados, up in Commonwealth Hall, for the rest of the week. It wasn't just a shop. It was a destination.

Generations of Ghanaians knew it simply as Legon Bookshop. Mention the name anywhere from Bolgatanga to Takoradi, and eyes would light up.

If a book had been written anywhere on the planet, there was a decent chance Legon Bookshop either had it or could get it. Professors browsed the shelves with the excitement of children in a toy store. Diplomats, lawyers, journalists and curious minds all found reasons to wander in "just to have a look."

The greatest danger was never spending too much money; it was spending too much time.

Then, one day, something happened. The books began disappearing.

Not all at once, of course. Institutions rarely die dramatically. They fade quietly, one shelf at a time. First came more stationery.

Then more school supplies. Then furniture. Somewhere along the journey, books, the very reason the building existed, became guests at their own funeral.

Today, the visitor searching for the latest work on African political thought may instead find an impressive collection of office chairs.

Need a groundbreaking history of the Ashanti Empire?

How about a swivel chair with lumbar support?

Looking for the newest Booker Prize winner?

At a time when social media threatens to make us consume shorter articles and shorter videos, leading to shorter attention spans, one would expect our premier university to lead the way in cultivating deep reading.

Instead, the books seem to be losing the battle for shelf space against staplers.

Perhaps one day a visitor will ask, "Where are all the books?"

And someone will point nostalgically to a lonely shelf in the corner and whisper, "That's where they keep them now."

No one is suggesting that the University of Ghana should not modernise or that commercial realities do not exist. Businesses must survive. But surely there is a way to preserve the soul of a place while keeping its doors open.

Legon Bookshop was never famous because it sold pens.

It was famous because it sold ideas.

Ideas bound in paper.

Ideas that challenged assumptions.

Ideas that inspired careers.

Ideas that built nations.

Those are far harder to replace than a broken office chair.

So today we gather, in our funeral black, to bid farewell to a legend.

Legon Bookshop.

Born as a sanctuary for readers.

Remembered as a paradise for book lovers.

Survived by photocopy paper, ring binders, ergonomic chairs and a fine selection of whiteboards.

May its original spirit one day rise again.

RIP, Legon Bookshop.

You deserved a better ending.