By Alpha Amadu Jalloh
Author: Monopoly of Happiness: Unveiling Sierra Leone’s Social Imbalance
Recipient of the Prestigious Africa Renaissance Leadership Award
Mr. President, Can We Talk? Today, I am talking to you, not in anger, but in solemn heartbreak. Mr. President, the state of our nation is not a matter of politics or opposition; it is a cry for humanity. It is a desperate plea from the forgotten 85% of Sierra Leoneans, the poor, the voiceless, the trapped.
Mr. President, let’s talk about them. Let’s talk about the women and children whose lives are one long suffering story. Let’s talk about the elderly, left to rot in poverty, unable even to move from point A to point B because they simply cannot afford transport fares anymore. Let’s talk about the youth, Mr. President, the lifeblood of any nation, who today are paralysed by drugs like Kush and other illicit substances, imported and distributed by people you know, people you dine with, people you protect while they suck the very soul out of our poor communities.
Mr. President, I want to ask you again, Why? Why have you allowed this plague to spread? Why are the streets of Freetown and the towns of Bo, Kenema, Kono, Makeni, and beyond filled with boys and girls who once dreamed of becoming doctors, engineers, and teachers, but are now condemned to the sidewalks, zonked out and forgotten?
Why, Mr. President, did you abandon us on our day, our Independence Day, a day sacred to the memory of our forefathers and foremothers, those who fought not for themselves, but for us, even before we were born, and for the countless unborn still waiting for a Sierra Leone worthy of their dreams?
Independence Day, Mr. President, is not just a date on a calendar. It is the heartbeat of our nation. It is a day that reminds every Sierra Leonean of the blood, sweat, and tears shed to plant the green, white, and blue flag on the soil of free men and women. Yet you pre-recorded an address, boarded a flight, and left for Rome, chasing a photo-op with dignitaries who have nothing tangible to offer the suffering people of Sierra Leone.
Mr. President, how did we get here? What were you thinking when you sat down to record that hollow message before jetting off to seek validation from the Vatican while your own people waited for your leadership? You insulted every child who sang the national anthem in the dusty courtyards of our neglected schools. You betrayed every old woman who wiped her tears with a faded green-white-and-blue handkerchief, praying that her country would remember her sacrifices.
Mr. President, while you were enjoying the grand halls of Rome, the youths back home were inhaling Kush in alleys and gutters. While you shook hands with the powerful, our women were selling charcoal and groundnuts under pouring rain, praying for just one sale to feed their children that night. While you smiled for the cameras, the elderly were stretching their last Leones at pharmacies, begging for life-saving medicine they could no longer afford.
Mr. President, Can We Talk? Because we cannot continue like this. We cannot survive on staged speeches and ceremonial parades. We cannot eat empty promises or find shelter under public relations gimmicks.
And Mr. President, since we are talking, I will not shy away from asking about the things you wish to hide.
Let’s talk about Jos Leijdekkers, your purported in-law, a man internationally linked to drug cartels, now expecting a child with your daughter. Mr. President, are you aware of the darkness this relationship casts over our nation’s image? Are you aware of the signal it sends when the First Family of Sierra Leone is allegedly connected, even indirectly, to the underworld?
You can pretend these questions do not exist, Mr. President, but Sierra Leoneans see. We hear. We feel. And we remember.
What about Pademba Road Correctional Centre? Where are the results of the investigations into the massacre that happened under your watch? Who is being held accountable, Mr. President? You are quick to celebrate foreign awards and invite foreign praise, but when blood stains the soil of our prisons, you turn away.
Lawrence Leeman is still free, still boasting, still threatening violence against anyone who dares criticize your leadership. Fatmata Sawaneh enjoys diplomatic immunity in Guinea, living luxuriously after her violent role in the national tragedy. Where is justice, Mr. President? Where is accountability?
And then there is Myk Berewa, lying shamelessly through his teeth, defending your betrayal of our Independence Day, attempting to twist logic and morality to justify the unjustifiable.
Mr. President, your actions, and inactions, have disrespected not only the living but also the honoured dead: You disrespected Bai Bureh, who fought colonial oppression with pride and valor. You disrespected Sir Milton Margai, who worked to birth our nation into existence with dignity. You disrespected Ahmad Tejan Kabba, who fought for peace after our bloody civil war. You even disrespected Ernest Bai Koroma, regardless of politics, by failing to uphold the standards of leadership that every former President has, at minimum, honored.
And above all, you disrespected our green, white, and blue. You dishonoured our national anthem, the song that binds us together across tribes, religions, and regions. You broke faith with the national pledge we all took as children: to serve Sierra Leone faithfully at all times. Mr. President, you have dishonoured your oath of office. You have dishonoured everything it means to be a Sierra Leonean.
Can we talk, Mr. President? Because a true leader listens, even when the truth is hard. Because power is not a throne to be mounted and defended at all costs, it is a sacred trust given by the people, and answerable to the people.
Today, Sierra Leone does not need another pre-recorded message. Today, Sierra Leone does not need another staged smiling photo with the world’s dignitaries. Today, Sierra Leone needs leadership, real leadership, rooted in humility, integrity, and a relentless devotion to the common man, woman, and child.
Mr. President, the time to make amends is shrinking fast. History is watching. The spirits of our ancestors are watching. The unborn generations are watching.
One day, Mr. President, when you are no longer in State House, and when the trappings of office have faded into dust, what will remain will be the truth of your deeds. You can still choose a different path, Mr. President. You can still choose to listen.
The question is, Will you? I have said my piece. I am only a citizen. But remember, Mr. President: It is the citizen, not the President, who ultimately holds the destiny of a nation in their hands.
May God save Sierra Leone
