Gambiaj.com – In our tradition, power is like a calabash—passed from hand to hand. But when gripped too tightly, it spills what was meant to nourish us all. Having served The Gambia under three political regimes—as a civil servant, policy advisor, and coordinator of national development projects—I have seen power at its best and at its worst.
This reflection is born not of anger, but of quiet contemplation and public service. It is not an indictment but an invitation to reflect on how we use power—in our homes, our offices, our pulpits, and our nation.
Leadership is not confined to high office. It lives in the classroom where a teacher uplifts, in the clinic where a nurse comforts, in the village square where a youth leader inspires, and on the prayer mat or altar where truth is spoken. Power exists in every corner of society, and in each, it must be wielded with humility.
Across faiths and philosophies, a common wisdom echoes: power is never permanent, and true leadership begins with humility.
“Say, O Allah, Owner of Sovereignty, You give sovereignty to whom You will…” — Qur’an 3:26
“But among you it will be different. Whoever wants to be a leader among you must be your servant…” — Bible, Mark 10:43–45
“Victory breeds hatred; the wise leader wins without conflict and governs without coercion.” — Dhammapada
“Leadership is by virtue, not by force.” — Confucius
These sacred words remind us that while power may dazzle, it is fleeting—and that greatness is measured not by how long one reigns, but by how deeply one serves.
From scriptures to constitutions, the message remains clear: power is not a birthright. It is not a family heirloom. It is a sacred trust—granted for a time and always under watch.
History itself is a constant witness. Rome, the Soviet Union, and the British Empire all declared themselves invincible. So did men like Napoleon, Hitler, and Nixon. All fell. And closer to home, Africa has seen its share of leaders who liberated with one hand and ruled with an iron fist with the other.
Here in The Gambia, history has offered its own warnings. In the early days of the 1994 coup, the military junta invited Ghanaian High Court judge Justice Vida Akoto-Bamfo to chair an Assets and Properties Recovery Commission, tasked with investigating former President Jawara and his ministers. But her story reveals how power, when unchecked, bends even justice toward its will.
She later recounted, “I was then told that if I failed to make adverse findings against some ministers, the objectives of the Revolution would have failed.”
When she went to submit her report, she said, “We sat there for close to four hours; the Secretary General came to inform me that the President had a toothache and asked us to come the next day. I said I had booked my flight. So, I just handed over the report and left. I later learned that the report was rewritten.”
Years later, she would recall how one of those under investigation—now Chief Justice of The Gambia—wrote to thank her for her courage and asked for a copy of her original report, as the official version had been tampered with.
In 2023, The Gambia’s Supreme Court declared the commission unlawfully constituted and its findings null and void.
Her story remains a sobering reminder that even the noblest missions can be corrupted when power demands obedience over truth.
We Gambians have lived through three republics. The First, under Jawara, was born of idealism but weakened by fragility.
The second, under Jammeh, emerged from promises of change but soon became poisoned by fear.
The Third, under Barrow, arrived with hope but now risks becoming another chapter in the long story of power’s seduction.
I served through all three. And I carry scars—none deeper than the day I was summoned to the Paul Commission, detained without charge, and dismissed without hearing.
That silent walk home from the NIA was the longest of my life. I remember the ache—not just of dismissal, but of being silenced without cause. It taught me a truth no regime can erase: power that fears truth is already decaying.
And yet, time has a way of bending back toward justice. After the change of government, I submitted a quiet petition. In an unexpected twist, I was summoned again to the NIA—not for interrogation, but for an interview before a panel.
Weeks later, I received a letter from the Personnel Management Office. I was to be reinstated and retired with dignity, just as I had requested.
It was at the very institution where I had once learned of my dismissal that the arc of justice turned back toward truth. That moment did not erase the pain, but it reaffirmed a deeper principle: the power to dismiss does not override the right to dignity.
The recent rejection—for the second time—of The Gambia’s draft constitution by the National Assembly lays bare the deep tensions between reform and resistance.
Some argue that the process lacked genuine consultation and consensus, while others see it as a lost opportunity to strengthen our democratic foundation. Regardless of the reasons, one fact remains clear: a constitution is not just a legal document. It is a collective promise, a moral compass, and a framework for accountability.
As a people, we must relearn certain essential truths. Power is not a trophy. Institutions must outlast individuals. Silence in the face of abuse is complicity. And each generation must refuse to repeat the mistakes of those who came before.
Above all, we must remember this final truth: power always ends. Thrones crack. Banners fall. Songs of praise fade into silence. But service—humble, honest, and just—echoes through time.
So when next you are entrusted with power—whether over a budget, a microphone, a meeting room, or a nation—hold it lightly, wield it wisely, and let it go gracefully.
In the end, it is not how loudly you ruled that will be remembered. It is how gently you served.
Let us be the generation that breaks the cycle—and proves that in The Gambia, true leadership still bows to truth.
