By Alpha Amadu Jalloh
Mr. President, here I am again. What? Mr. President, what’s going on?
You thought I would stop talking? That I would give up? That I would disappear quietly into the noise of this broken republic you’re leading into ruin? No, sir. Even if you almost burnt down the very place we once used to meet, those symbolic walls where we exchanged guarded glances and half-truths, I will still come. I will still manage to show up, despite your silent threats and your not-so-subtle attempts to wave me off like I’m some inconvenient fly buzzing around your honey pot of power.
I’m used to squalor. I have breathed in the stench of hopelessness with my people. I have walked the streets of Kroo Bay, of Susan’s Bay, of Moa Wharf, and beyond. I have sat among mothers who boil stones to trick their children into sleep. So no, I am not afraid. Not of you. Not of your bloated police force. Not even of your wife, the First Lady, who seems more concerned with silencing critics than championing her so-called “Hands Off Our Girls” campaign.
Mr. President, if your First Lady is wondering who I am, tell her this: I am the one who dares to speak when others hide. I am the one who walks into fire just to drag truth out of its ashes. I am the one who still believes this country is worth fighting for. And she will come to know me, Insha Allahu, just as she has come to know that her husband’s rule is no longer protected by silence.
But today, let us talk about “Dr. Denis Sandy,” your Minister of Lands, the one whose name stains the air like smoke from a burning home. Mr. President, “again” this man? Must we really go through this man again? Corruption, unchecked. Power, abused. Morality, discarded.
What kind of man is this, Mr. President? How does a man go from being accused of “rape” to fraudulent divorce tactics to illegal land grabbing to even more alarming allegations and still sit comfortably at the seat of power, untouched, unbothered, and untouchable? This is no longer politics; this is a crime scene.
Let us rewind. The incident of the attempted assault on his wife’s daughter, whether she was biological or not, alone should have sent him packing. Every vuvuzela in the land was blown in outrage. Whistles were blown, banners lifted, and voices raised, but you, Mr. President, turned a deaf ear. And your government? They responded with a blanket of silence so thick, it suffocated justice.
How does a man with such allegations continue to hold public office? He didn’t just keep his job; he expanded his empire. And now, word on the streets is that he is the one building all your hidden properties in “Banjul, The Gambia”. Yes, Mr. President, we know. We know about the secret projects. The cement bags don’t lie. The building permits don’t vanish in thin air. The sand trucks tell stories, even when the mouths of men are zipped shut.
And why does he continue to thrive, Mr. President? Because he is one of your “blue-eyed boys.” He is protected by the very First Lady who says “Hands Off Our Girls” with one breath and shields a predator with the next. How does she sleep at night, knowing she’s protecting a man whose name alone terrifies victims?
What an irony. A campaign meant to protect girls has become a smokescreen for those who prey on them. A government that cries about protecting women has instead become a refuge for predators in suits.
Mr. President, the law is no longer the law in Sierra Leone. It is now a weapon wielded against your enemies and a shield raised to protect your allies. The guilty walk free while the innocent rot behind bars. What kind of justice is that?
Visit the correctional centers, that is, if your convoy can take a detour from your endless flights abroad. You will find young men jailed for stealing a phone or for smoking a joint. You will see women locked up for hawking on the street without a license. You will see fathers imprisoned because they refused to bribe a police officer.
But those like Dr. Sandy? They are out there, dancing. Dancing on the graves of victims, smiling under the sun as if their hands are clean. They are playing “Hey Diddle Diddle, the Cat and the Fiddle” with our laws, jumping over the moon like the cow in that nursery rhyme. And you, Mr. President, are watching it all happen, arms folded, lips sealed, conscience dead.
But I have news for you, Mr. President: “Wan day dem cup go full up.” And when that day comes, no amount of diplomatic immunity, no foreign PR firm, no empty awards from the West, and no army of sycophants will be able to save you and your cohorts.
The people are tired. Tired of your selective justice. Tired of your government-by-favoritism. Tired of First Lady feminism that protects abusers. Tired of you flying first class on a chartered plane while they eat dust. And they are listening, Mr. President. They read when I write. They listen when I speak. Because my voice is theirs. My anger is theirs. My resilience is theirs.
You see, when you tried to silence me by nearly burning down our old meeting place, the State House, you made one mistake: you forgot that fire makes iron stronger. I am forged by the very heat you tried to destroy me with. I am not a politician looking for position. I am not a diplomat hoping for appointment. I am not a vuvuzela-for-rent singing praises for a plate of rice. I am a son of this soil, and like the soil, I endure.
You may not arrest Dr. Sandy, but you will never erase what he has done. You may not remove him from office, but history has already marked his name with disgrace. And the people, the ordinary people who sleep with empty stomachs and wake with broken dreams, they are watching too.
They ask, “If Dr. Sandy can do all this and still remain in government, what does that mean for us?”
It means the law is dead.
It means justice is for sale.
It means Sierra Leone is no longer a nation of laws but a jungle of favoritism.
So, Mr. President, here I am again. I will keep coming until either you change or they carry me away. And if they do, let it be known that I went speaking the truth, not begging for favours, not asking for contracts, not seeking asylum. Just the truth.
And yes, I expect retaliation. I know your police are on alert. I know your party propagandists are typing already. I know your First Lady has taken note. But remember this: “A voice that speaks for the voiceless cannot be silenced by threats.”
Mr. President, before you fly again, sit. Listen. Look into the eyes of those who suffer under your watch. Then ask yourself, “Is this what I promised?”
Because if this is your legacy—corruption protected, justice denied, victims ignored, and voices silenced—then your time in history will not be written with gold. It will be written in ash.
Wan day dem cup go full up.
And when it does, may the record show that someone warned you. Again and again. And that person was me, using the voice of the people, Alpha Amadu Jalloh, the recipient of the Africa Renaissance Leadership Award 2025.
