By Kebeli Demba Nyima
I read Francis Pabai’s nostalgic dispatch, “The Standard enters new chapter as New Year rolls in,” published on January 7, 2026, and I was struck with the force of a physical blow. It was not merely a record of a relocation, but a profound eulogy for a space that served as the very furnace of Gambian intellectual life. For me, that edifice on Sait Matty Road was the site of a personal and professional epiphany, a lighthouse for those of us navigating the fog of an era defined by its suffocating uncertainty. I recall with a sharp, clear ache the cocktail of adrenaline and trepidation in 1997 when I first crossed that threshold to deliver a “Letter to the Editor,” my fingers clutching a manifesto that felt, at the time, like a live wire. In those days, I was a relentless contributor, a gadfly fueled by the kinetic energy of a newsroom that seemed to thrum with the electricity of clandestine defiance. Those visits were my induction into a secular priesthood of literary giants, a realm where the pungent aroma of fresh ink and the rhythmic clatter of keys composed a symphony of high-stakes inquiry. The Daily Observer was never merely a collection of desks and telephones; it was a rigorous academy, a proving ground, and a foundry of talent where generations of Gambians sharpened their wits against the grindstone of deadlines. To the public, the building was a vital piece of civic architecture, a place where the messy business of truth-telling was conducted with a gravity that bordered on the sacred. It stood as a lonely bastion against the encroaching silence, a physical testament to the stubborn human impulse to speak one’s mind in the face of power. Every journey to its gates reinforced my conviction that the written word was the only reliable weapon against the encroaching darkness of ignorance and state-sponsored myth. It was an epoch where the pen did not merely feel mightier than the sword, it felt like the only thing keeping the sword at bay.
Though I did not always engage with the staff in the mundane sense of “flesh and blood,” I knew them with the intimacy of a fellow traveler through the indelible marks they left on the page. There was Sheriff Bojang, a polymathic force of nature who seemed to possess an opinion on every conceivable subject, wielding a versatility that was as dazzling as it was intimidating to the uninitiated. Whether he was dissecting the national psyche in his “Essay of the Week” or interrogating the powerful in the exclusive Bantanba column, his prose was the gold standard by which all other efforts were judged. There was Lamin Cham, the supreme arbiter of the sporting world, whose dispatches for the Observer, GRTS, and the BBC elevated the box score to the level of epic poetry. And, of course, there was Francis Pabai, a writer of such exquisite precision and grace that his literary columns felt less like journalism and more like a series of meticulously carved cameos. As a proofreader, Pabai’s command of the English tongue was so absolute, so ruthlessly correct, that I fancy the ghosts of Fleet Street’s legendary editors would have looked upon his work with a mixture of professional awe and genuine envy. These men were the unacknowledged legislators of our small republic, constructing a national narrative for a people who were frequently denied a voice by those in high places. They worked with a monastic devotion that went far beyond the tawdry considerations of a salary, driven by a fierce, almost desperate vocation to enlighten and, when necessary, to offend. To see these three veterans standing in the amber glow of a fading sun before that “For Sale” sign is to witness the closing of a great book, a final accounting of a legacy that refuses to be erased. I feel a visceral pang for the masonry itself, but an overriding pride in seeing these figures still standing, unbowed by the years or the political weather. Their presence at this handover is a final act of stewardship, a salute to the walls that served as their armor during the most treacherous stretches of the national journey.
That building survived three distinct political epochs, each one a different flavor of trial for the fragile experiment of a free press. Under the long afternoon of Sir Dawda Jawara, it flourished in a climate of guarded tolerance, an era where the state might frown at a headline but would rarely reach for the handcuffs in response. This relative liberty allowed the Observer to anchor itself in the national consciousness, establishing a tradition of skepticism that would be sorely needed in the leaner years to follow. Then came the Jammeh years, and the atmosphere curdled into something far more sinister, as the bright sun of debate was eclipsed by the long, cold shadow of state paranoia. The newsroom became a bunker, its editorial courage tested daily by a regime that viewed a dissenting adjective as an act of high treason. When the bludgeon of direct intimidation failed to silence the spirit of the place, the state resorted to the more sophisticated weapon of economic strangulation, proving that the checkbook is often more effective than the cage. Through a series of murky intermediaries, the paper was wrestled from the hands of Kenneth Best, a transaction of cold-blooded neutrality designed to turn a vibrant watchdog into a docile pet. The intent was never the crude destruction of the paper, but rather its castration, a slow, bureaucratic emptying of its moral center while maintaining the outward appearance of a functional press. By the time Adama Barrow assumed office, there was a widespread, perhaps naive hope that the Observer would roar back to life like a long-dormant volcano. Instead, it became a sacrificial lamb of the new dispensation, shut down by the revenue authorities over debts incurred during the very dictatorship it had struggled to survive. It was a masterpiece of irony: after outlasting the storm of autocracy, the institution was sunk by a ledger and a tax bill in the supposed calm of a democratic spring. It was an exit worthy of a Graham Greene novel, the veteran spy who survives the war only to be tripped up by a minor administrative error in the peace that follows.
Yet, when the Observer finally drew its last breath, there was no great cry of despair, because the flame had already been passed to a new and more agile vessel. The Standard moved into that hallowed space with such poise and institutional confidence that the transition felt less like a death and more like a necessary evolution. Sheriff Bojang and his cohort of Observer exiles ensured that the intellectual DNA of Sait Matty Road was preserved, maintaining a line of continuity that defied the state’s attempts at erasure. It was a brilliant piece of tactical survival, a reminder that a newspaper is not a collection of bricksbut a gathering of minds committed to a shared purpose. The melody played on, the voices remained familiar, and the masthead continued to signal a commitment to the high-wire act of public inquiry. But now, as The Standard prepares to vacate those premises, the silence that follows will have a different, more permanent quality to it. This time, there is no successor waiting in the wings to reclaim the ground; the lights are being extinguished on a stage that has seen the best and worst of our national drama. The “For Sale” sign is a cold epitaph for a location that once hummed with the frantic, beautiful energy of history in the making. For the first time in a generation, that address in Bakau, once the beating heart of Gambian journalism, will stand empty and indifferent. That vacancy is heavy with the ghosts of stories told and untold, of editors who worked in the grip of fear, and of colleagues like Chief Manneh who walked out into the night and never returned. It marks the end of a geographic certainty, a place that served as a fixed point in a world that was constantly shifting beneath our feet.
Leaving that building is more than a logistical necessity; it is a symbolic liberation from a past that was as much a burden as it was a blessing. There is a profound justice in The Standard moving to Fajara, stepping out from the long shadow of its predecessor to claim a destiny that is entirely its own. It has earned its own stripes, built its own authority, and proved that the craft of journalism is not hostage to any specific set of coordinates. This move signals that the struggle for truth in The Gambia has entered a new, more mobile phase, one that refuses to be anchored by the tragedies or the triumphs of yesteryear. The Observer may have been the first casualty of the new order, but its essential spirit, that restless, inquisitive, and occasionally troublesome ghost, has successfully migrated into the modern age. Buildings may crumble and tax collectors may come and go, but the impulse to hold power to account is a resilient, indestructible thing. This is the golden thread that connects my 1997 self to the writers of today: a stubborn refusal to let the silence win. The resilient journalists who carried this torch through the long nights of exile and the gray mornings of intimidation are the true owners of this legacy. The masonry in Bakau may now belong to a landlord, but the history made within it belongs to the people who refused to stop writing. The building falls silent, but the argument continues, sharper, louder, and more essential than it has ever been.
As The Standard sets up its new newsroom in Fajara, it carries with it the unmatched pedigree of its predecessors and the weight of a nation’s expectations. We must offer our unflinching support to this institution that refused to let the ink run dry when the shadows were longest. It is my fervent prayer that The Standard continues to blaze a trail of editorial excellence, serving as a fearless watchdog and a source of truth for generations to come. May the Almighty grant the CEO, the editors, and the entire production team the fortitude to maintain their sharp investigative edge and the wisdom to navigate this new chapter with the same brilliance that once illuminated Sait Matty Road. Long live the free press; long live The Standard.
