By Muhammed Y Darboe
Over the past two years, I made a difficult decision to discontinue my monthly creative writing which was due to professional reasons. It’s challenging to cease writing and engaging in free talks. I’m referring to casual conversations because I was still speaking, but my language took an almighty shift. It was from creativity to a formal and careful legal tone. Writing of any art is inherently part of me. For example, I have learned to designate individuals as “suspects” rather than “thieves” and avoided labeling someone as a criminal, instead opting for “a person of interest.” Despite physically handling packs of intercepted cannabis, when communicating with the press, I preferred to describe the contents as “suspected cannabis sativa substances.” This practice is not misinformation; it stems from my training to label items as suspected or alleged until proven guilty in a court of law. Some may call it a “competent court of law”, but I have refrained from using that phrase after a white man named Roy committed sexual assault against teenagers, and the court only imposed a light penalty. Since then, I question their “competence.” But that’s a discussion for another time. It is not easy to maintain official role and status in a society that once saw you as a controversial figure. An official position mandates adherence to ethical standards that require one to exercise restraint, guided by oaths and a code of conduct, in maintaining a measured and professional demeanor at all times. One can see things that are wrong in your place of work, but you’re not in the right place to speak against it publicly. Wait, I’m not justifying silence for not advising your leadership to right a wrong at internal level. Failing to do so signifies a lack of personal conviction or negligence of duty to oneself and the people one serves. Now I’m sounding so formal again. I have attended many protests as a cop, including the one against Not Always Water and Electricity Continues (NAWEC). That protest came as a shock-infused fun of experience. As an observer, I could tally the total number of protesters, excluding the journalists. It was as if NAWEC only denied Killer Ice (Ace) the ice in a fridge, or Ousainou was the only saint – I refer to the Ousou boy – who carries Gambia’s flag as an identity, not the legal luminary who leads the yellow marines. I was surprised that concerned citizens and overly concerned ones on social media refused to come out to voice their collective anger and frustration. Another irony of the protest was that it was the first time I attended without saying a word. No shouting. No screaming. No yelling. Not even jumping. I kept silent. A boring silence! As my life continues to evolve, here’s an announcement that I am back after weathering storms and droughts in communication, and now it will flow freely for the joy of writing. As Fabrizio says it, here we go!
