By Alpha Amadu Jalloh
Author of Monopoly of Happiness: Unveiling Sierra Leone’s Social Imbalance
Recipient of the Africa Renaissance Leadership Award
Mr. President, can we talk?
Sierra Leone is no longer just a fragile democracy. It has become a fragile state of mind, a place where hope is slipping through the cracks of corruption, economic paralysis, and now, terrifying insecurity. Every day brings new reports, not just of hunger, not just of joblessness, but of violent highway robberies, armed assaults, and banditry. What is even more striking, Mr. President, is where this lawlessness is now taking root.
Mr. President, the southeastern corridor, your stronghold, the heartland of SLPP pride, is fast becoming a breeding ground for desperate crime. The very same districts where voices once screamed “Maada Biooooo,” where young men danced in convoys, and where women ululated with green flags are now echoing with gunshots, fear, and betrayal. The people who gave you their trust are now being robbed on their way to the market. Traders are being stripped of their wares. Vehicles are stopped at gunpoint. Travellers are forced to abandon bags, money, and dignity. Mr. President, this is no longer politics. This is collapse.
Highway robbery is no longer a rural nuisance. It is becoming a national crisis. From Bo to Kenema and from Pujehun to Moyamba, stories of theft, violence, and roadside trauma are multiplying. And these are not foreign mercenaries. These are not rebels from across the border. These are our own people. Your own people. SLPP foot soldiers. Green-shirted loyalists who once shouted your name with such faith that they turned against their own neighbours for doubting your promise. Now they are turning against the very society they thought you would fix.
Mr. President, let us not sugarcoat this. The rise in armed robbery is a symptom. A painful symptom of a failed economic agenda. It is the language of broken dreams. When young men are not working. When graduates are riding okadas. When civil servants are underpaid. When drug abuse becomes an escape route. When food prices rise daily. When no one in government listens. Then the road becomes their ATM. Then guns become their resignation letters.
Mr. President, the truth you are avoiding is that the very people who defended you to the death are now finding shortcuts to survive. Because “Maada Biooooo” has not delivered. Not for them. Not for anyone. They are tired of the lies. Tired of the slogans. Tired of the blame games. They do not believe in speeches anymore. They believe in survival. And that is why the green belt of SLPP loyalty is turning red with rage, soaked in danger and confusion.
The people feel abandoned. And not just abandoned. They feel mocked. Because while they sleep in fear, you fly in luxury. While they cry for justice, you jet across continents. While they pray for bread, you pose with wine glasses. While they beg for security, you grow your convoy. While they bury their sons killed by robbers, you are naming bridges and hosting state banquets.
Mr. President, your silence is betrayal. Not just of your opposition. But of your own base. The people who chanted your name. Who risked friendships, relationships, and livelihoods to defend your vision? And now that same vision has blinded them. Blinded them to the reality that they were lied to.
You have put the SLPP on a slippery slope. It is not the APC that will bring you down. It is not the critics. It is your own people. It is the betrayal of the southeast. The broken promises. The hunger. The darkness. The insecurity. The silence.
Do you know what hurts the people most, Mr. President? It is not that you failed. It is that you do not even act like you care. That you do not acknowledge the pain. That you pretend all is well when nothing is. That your officials are more interested in defending their positions than defending the citizens. That your ministers are busy campaigning for a future while the present is on fire.
The rate at which armed robbery is spreading tells us one thing. That state authority is fading. That law enforcement is weakened. That your administration is more focused on optics than operations. That the centre cannot hold. That Sierra Leone is slipping, and the first casualties are the same people who wore green and placed their dreams in your hands.
Mr. President, you cannot pretend not to see what is coming. Every leader gets a moment to reckon with truth. This is yours. Do not wait for gunfire to reach Freetown before you act. Do not wait for your convoy to be blocked by angry youth before you realise what they feel. Do not wait for your green base to turn grey in despair before you admit that the system has failed.
And speaking of what is coming, Mr. President, I hope you are making preparations for your future. Because what is unfolding is not going to end in praise. The streets are whispering. The hills are restless. The marketplaces are humming with regret. The same tongues that once shouted “five more years” are now murmuring, “How did we end up here?”
Mr. President, Sierra Leone is not a war zone yet. But the symptoms are gathering. Economic collapse. Youth abandonment. Lawlessness. Tribal division. Corrupt governance. Unchecked security threats. International disengagement. And a president who spends more time abroad than at home. This is the recipe for disaster. This is the blueprint of downfall.
No one is immortal in power. The people you ignore today will define your legacy tomorrow. If this trend continues, you may one day need the asylum you never thought you would. You may become a political exile, roaming airports with diplomatic passports but no moral ground to stand on. And you will not blame the APC. You will blame yourself. For wasting your moment. For betraying your mandate. For bluffing while Sierra Leone bled.
Mr. President, can we talk?
This is not hatred. This is truth. And the truth is all the people have left. You owe them honesty. You owe them action. You owe them change. Not for politics. Not for image. But for justice. For survival. For peace.
Fix the economy. Restore security. Speak to the people. Step down from your throne of excuses and walk the streets of reality. Before it is too late.
Mr. President, can we talk?
