We were not asking for palaces,
only roofs that do not leak,
bread that does not become a luxury,
and a wage that can carry a family
from Monday to Monday.
We were not asking for miracles,
only leaders who would remember
that behind every statistic
is a mother counting coins,
a father hiding his worry,
a student walking home
because transport has become too expensive.
But somewhere between
the promises and the podiums,
the people became numbers.
The price of rice climbed.
The price of fuel climbed.
The price of school climbed.
The price of medicine climbed.
Even the price of hope
seems to rise every morning.
And still we are told
to be patient.
Patient for how long?
How long must a mother divide
one meal into two
and call it enough?
How long must a young man
hold a certificate in his hand
while holding an empty pocket
in the other?
How long must the old
choose between medicine
and food?
How long must the poor
pay the highest price
for simply being poor?
This is not merely
the hardship of an economy.
It is the exhaustion
of a people.
A nation cannot measure
the suffering of its citizens
only by figures on a page.
There are tears
that never reach statistics.
There are children
who go to bed hungry
without ever appearing
in a government report.
There are families
selling what they have
to survive what they never caused.
And sometimes I wonder
whether those who govern us
can still hear the silence
inside ordinary homes.
Do they hear
the mother who says,
“Eat, I am not hungry,”
when everyone knows
she has not eaten?
Do they see
the trader standing in the market
from morning until evening,
selling almost nothing
because the people themselves
can no longer afford to buy?
Do they see
the young graduate
losing confidence
one unanswered application
at a time?
Do they understand
that dignity becomes fragile
when survival becomes expensive?
We love this country.
That is why it hurts.
We complain because
we still believe Sierra Leone
can be better.
We question because
we still believe leadership
should mean service.
We speak because
silence cannot feed a family.
And I refuse to believe
that the people of this country
were born only to endure.
We deserve more
than speeches.
More than slogans.
More than promises
repeated at every election.
We deserve a country
where a day’s work
can buy a day’s meal.
Where a child can dream
without poverty standing
at the door.
Where healthcare
does not become a death sentence
for those who cannot pay.
Where government remembers
that power is not ownership
of the people.
Power is responsibility
to the people.
So I write tonight
not because I hate Sierra Leone,
but because I am tired
of watching a beautiful nation
make suffering look normal.
I am tired
of seeing resilience celebrated
when what people deserve
is relief.
A people should not
have to become extraordinarily strong
just to survive ordinary life.
Sierra Leone is crying.
Some tears are visible.
Many are not.
But they are there
in the markets,
in the classrooms,
in the hospitals,
in the taxis,
in the villages,
in the crowded homes,
and in the hearts
of people who are asking
a simple question:
When will the country
we love
begin to love us back?
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