By Alpha Amadu Jalloh
Mr. President, what are you afraid of? At a time when the majority of Sierra Leoneans are barely surviving, struggling to make ends meet with daily blackouts, rising food prices, and crumbling public institutions, it is utterly disheartening to see that your greatest concern is your own personal safety. You recently acquired a bombproof car. Why, sir? What are you scared of?
Your loyalists tell us, with the kind of straight faces only the most hardened propagandists can maintain, that you are the best president Sierra Leone has ever had, and possibly ever will have. They say you are a working president. A man of the people. A leader so beloved that the masses cannot help but rally behind you. And yet, here you are, hiding in the security of a bombproof vehicle, unable or perhaps unwilling to address your people in their most vulnerable moments.
Mr. President, a leader who truly works for his people, who is adored and admired, should have no fear walking among them. A leader confident in his love from the people does not need to shield himself behind armoured glass and security convoys at every turn. You once declared yourself the “father of democracy,” but it’s increasingly looking like your definition of democracy involves speaking only when it’s convenient for you and disappearing when the nation burns, literally.
Where is your voice, Mr. President? Freetown is on fire again. Families are losing their homes. Children are displaced. Mothers cry out, watching their dreams turn to ashes. But we have not heard from you. Not a word. Not a press conference. Not a visit to the affected areas except for the State House. Not even a tweet. We are met with silence. Eerie, shameful silence.
Oh yes, how could I forget? You are not just the president; you are also the minister of energy and power. The irony is not lost on us: fires rage across our capital, and our power supply is worse than it has ever been. A nation living in darkness under a president who doubles as the light bearer.
And still, you are silent.
Mr. President, you have surrounded yourself with untouchables. We know about your right-hand man, the so-called “Senior Man,” who, though a product of CKC, some say is more feared than respected. A man who, if given the opportunity, would “run every enemy down in the click of a finger.” Is this the democracy you promised us? One where threats of force hang like a guillotine over the heads of critics and political opponents?
The truth is fear is breeding within the very core of your leadership. You fear dissent. You fear criticism. You fear your own people. But why? A man who has served his people diligently and justly would have no reason to fear his own citizens. Mr. President, your favoritism is not lost on us.
You have done tremendously well for your alma mater, Bo School. The gates shine, the classrooms look modernized, and the budget seems to have no end. It is admirable to uplift institutions that shaped you, but let us not forget, Mr. President, Bo School is not the only school in Sierra Leone.
In fact, for many Sierra Leoneans, Bo School represents something else entirely. Historically, it has been synonymous with elitism and exclusion, tracing back to the protectorate days. It was never just a school; it was an institution for those “above” the rest of us. Sons of paramount chiefs. Offspring of influence. Today, many of your closest associates, those who whisper in your ears, those who shape national policy, are Bo School boys.
In “Monopoly of Happiness: Unveiling Sierra Leone’s Social Imbalance,” I wrote:
“Bo School was not just a school; it was a caste factory. It created a class of men who believed leadership was their birthright and the rest of the country their playground. This mindset continues to dominate our politics, our civil service, and even our justice system. The child in Tonkolili with dreams just as big is taught early that Bo School boys run this nation, and that truth, not talent, determines their future.”
We are not blind. This is not a coincidence. This is careful, calculated favoritism.
Mr. President, we are asking, when will the same love and attention you give Bo School be extended to other schools across this nation? Where is the project to rebuild all school libraries? To refurbish dormitories and laboratories? Government schools in Pujehun, Kono, Port Loko, Kambia, Kailahun, and even in some parts of Bo itself are falling apart. Pupils sit on bricks. There’s no running water. There are no books. Yet you continue to allocate resources disproportionately.
In that same book, I warned:
“The idea that one school, or one class of students, deserves more simply because of who they are or where they come from is the foundation of our national decay. Until education is equal, opportunity will remain exclusive. And as long as Bo School continues to symbolize dominance, other schools will continue to embody neglect.”
You, of all people, should know the value of equitable education. How can we speak of national development when the very foundation, education, is built on such imbalance?
Mr. President, Bo School alone cannot carry the future of Sierra Leone. Yes, some of my contemporaries from Bo School will be offended by this truth. But when the truth matters, who cares? Should I stay silent because of nostalgia and loyalty? No. Loyalty to a country must always outweigh loyalty to a school or a brotherhood.
This is not an attack on Bo School or its proud alumni. This is a plea for fairness. For inclusivity. For a government that sees all children, not just those whose fathers wear chieftaincy caps.
As “Monopoly of Happiness” states:
“The monopoly of opportunity begins in the classroom, and in Sierra Leone, that classroom has long been locked behind the gates of Bo School. We must dismantle the myth of inherited greatness and replace it with a system where every child, regardless of surname or dialect, has an equal stake in the nation.”
Mr. President, you cannot build a nation on silence, fear, and favoritism. The people are talking. Even those who once cheered for you are whispering now. “Where is the president?” they ask. “Why is he afraid? Why doesn’t he talk to us anymore?” The myth of the working president is unraveling. You are no longer seen as a man of the people but as a man detached from the very people who gave you power.
You cannot lead us from behind tinted windows. You cannot empathize with us from inside a bombproof car. You cannot inspire us if you refuse to speak when it matters most.
Your silence is a betrayal. Your fear is not just about your life; it reflects a deeper, systemic rot. It shows you know something is wrong. You fear retribution not from armed enemies, but from a people disappointed, disillusioned, and desperate.
Mr. President, step out of your shell. Face us. Lead us. Speak to the fire victims. Visit the burnt communities. Apologize for the failings of the energy sector under your watch. Announce and implement a national plan for disaster preparedness. Fix our schools, not just Bo School, but all schools. Show us that you care beyond your comfort zone and beyond the confines of the Bo School elite.
And please, return to being the people’s president, if you ever were. Because today, Sierra Leoneans are not just facing darkness from a failing energy sector or fires from preventable accidents, we are facing the darkness of hopelessness.
Your silence feeds that darkness.
Your fear emboldens it.
And your favoritism only deepens the divide.
So, Mr. President, Can We Talk?
Not from behind bulletproof glass, not through spokespeople or loyalists. But directly, from you, to us. Face-to-face. Heart-to-heart. From the man who promised us a new direction to the people now trapped in the old ways.
If you still claim to be the people’s president, then act like it.
Speak, Lead, and Unite.
Because history is watching. And so are we.
