By Alpha Amadu Jalloh
To be a Sierra Leonean is to hold the world at your feet and yet feel the warmth of humanity flowing through your veins. It is to walk the streets of Freetown and see not strangers, but reflections of yourself, faces that tell your story, names that echo in your ancestry, and voices that remind you of home, even in the chaos. Every time I meet a Sierra Leonean, whether in the market of Bo, the fishing wharfs of Tombo, the green valleys of Koinadugu, or the bustling heart of Makeni, I do not see a neighbour. I see a relative.
I say this because I have come to understand something deeper than politics, more enduring than tribe, and stronger than religion, that Sierra Leone is one large family. Whether you speak Mende, Temne, Limba, Krio, Susu, Loko, Fullah, Kono or Kissi, whether you pray in a mosque or a church, whether you wear green for SLPP, red for APC, blue for PMDC, or none at all, you are my relative. You are part of the bloodline that makes Sierra Leone what it is, a family stitched together by history, hardship, hope, and humanity.
We are a people bound by something invisible yet indestructible, a spirit that rises above our divisions. I have seen our mothers share their last cup of rice with neighbours they barely knew. I have watched our youths rebuild homes after disasters that did not spare their own. I have witnessed strangers become brothers at funerals, and political rivals embrace at naming ceremonies. This is who we are at our core. This is what it means to be Sierra Leonean.
But somewhere along the way, we forgot. We allowed politics to separate us, and greed to blind us. We allowed the words of men with microphones to sound louder than the cries of the hungry. We let colours replace compassion and slogans drown sincerity. And yet, when you peel off the green, the red, the blue, you will find only blood, the same red blood that flows in every Sierra Leonean.
We have been through wars and disasters, coups and chaos, and we still survive. Why? Because our roots are the same. The palm tree may sway east or west, but its trunk stands in one soil. So too are we, different in views but rooted in one destiny. When a Sierra Leonean child dies from hunger, it is not the child of one tribe or one party, it is our child. When a young man loses his way to drugs or violence, he is not the son of a politician or a rival supporter, he is our son. When a woman dies giving birth in a rural clinic, she is not the victim of a system, but the mother of us all.
“Our greatest poverty is not the lack of wealth beneath our soil, but the lack of love within our hearts for one another.”
From Monopoly of Happiness: Unveiling Sierra Leone’s Social Imbalance
Every time we insult each other online, every time we fight in the name of politics, every time we destroy because we disagree, we are not hurting an opponent. We are hurting our family. We are burning the same house we all live in.
There was a time in this land when your tribe didn’t matter, when a Mende man could raise a Temne child and a Krio family could open their home to a Loko stranger. Our grandparents lived that way. They knew no party colours, only humanity. They shared salt and soup, joy and sorrow. They didn’t ask who you voted for before giving you water to drink. They didn’t care where your grandfather came from before lending a helping hand. That was Sierra Leone, and that is the Sierra Leone I dream of restoring.
It pains me that our unity has become a memory instead of a mission. The poor man in Koidu and the struggling mother in Pujehun are crying the same cry, the cry of survival. The farmer in Kabala and the teacher in Kenema fight the same battle, the battle to live with dignity. So why do we allow party leaders to divide us when our sufferings are the same?
When I say everyone here is a relative, I mean it with the deepest conviction of my soul. I feel your pain when you lose a child. I share your joy when your daughter graduates. I carry your worry when your rent is due. I see your reflection in every hungry child, in every tired teacher, in every disappointed graduate, in every honest policeman still trying to do right.
And to those in power, I say this: lead as if the people are your family, not your followers. Govern as if the nation is your home, not your inheritance. When you look at the crowd, do not see voters, see relatives. The office you occupy is not a throne, it is a chair in the family house. It was built by the sweat of those who came before you, and it must be preserved for those yet to come.
To my brothers and sisters in the diaspora, you too are part of this family. Do not let the distance dim your connection. Your voice, your remittances, your sacrifices, and your longing for home are the unseen arteries that keep Sierra Leone’s heart beating. We need you, not as guests returning, but as relatives reclaiming what is yours, your place in the story of our nation.
There is an old saying among our elders: “A family that fights within itself forgets the strangers outside.” And that is what we have become, a family too busy fighting to notice the world passing by. Our roads are broken, our hospitals are failing, our schools are struggling, and our youth are leaving. Yet we still find time to argue about who should lead and who should kneel.
We must stop. We must return to the family table. We must remember that the house is on fire and it doesn’t matter who started it, what matters is who will fetch the water.
If I could choose one legacy to leave behind, it would be this: that we rebuild our country with the understanding that no Sierra Leonean is a stranger. That the same blood that runs in a fisherman in Bonthe runs in a trader in Waterloo. That the same dream that drives a student in Njala burns in the heart of a nurse in Magburaka.
Let us look at each other again with the eyes of kinship, not suspicion. Let us listen with the ears of compassion, not judgment. Let us speak with the tongue of unity, not division. Let the word relative replace the word rival.
“Sierra Leone was never built by strangers; it was built by a family that forgot how related it was.”
Alpha Amadu Jalloh
Because when I look at you, I don’t see your party. I don’t see your colour. I don’t see your creed. I see my reflection, another branch of the same tree, another verse of the same song, another heartbeat of the same nation.
If Sierra Leone were a body, each of us would be a part, some the eyes that see vision, some the hands that build, some the feet that move us forward, and some the heart that keeps us alive. And if one part suffers, all suffer. That is why I cannot see you fall and not feel it. I cannot see you cry and not mourn with you.
We have one flag, one land, one destiny, and one family name: Sierra Leone.
So, my brothers and sisters, let us rebuild this home together. Let the SLPP shake hands with the APC. Let the PMDC break bread with the NGC. Let the Christians fast with the Muslims, and the Muslims celebrate Christmas with their neighbours. Let the mountains of Koinadugu and the shores of Shenge speak one language again, the language of peace, dignity, and love.
Because everyone here is a relative.
And as long as I live, that truth will remain the rhythm of my heart and the signature of my soul. When I am gone, let my words remain a reminder that Sierra Leone was never built by strangers, it was built by a family that forgot how related it was.
So let us remember again. Let us heal again. Let us be family again.
Let us be Sierra Leone, the land where everyone here is a relative.
