By David Kujabi
Activism is defined in the Oxford Dictionary as “the policy or action of using vigorous campaigning to bring about political or social change.”
It comes in many forms, from protests and petitions to boycotts and strikes, from grassroots organisations to digital campaigns that turn hashtags into rallying cries.
Used for a noble cause, activism is the pulse of a society that refuses to be silenced. It is the tool by which ordinary citizens speak truth to power, hold leaders accountable, and tilt the moral arc toward justice.
A few embodied this spirit better than Martin Luther King Jr, the most famous activist the world has ever known. MLK’s activism was a moral clarity unshaken by the violence of segregation or the lure of power. His dream was bigger than himself, rooted in sacrifice, nonviolence, and the belief that the dignity of humanity cannot be traded.
But in our age of clicktivism, activism has taken on a more complicated and often macabre face. The smartphone, for all its power to amplify, also tempts the activist into a performance. The protests have become a stage, and the placards have become a prop. And the cause, once sacred, risks becoming just another piece of content.
Across the world, we’ve seen how activists can be chewed up by the very systems they challenge or even become weapons for those systems. Chernoh Alpha M Bah, the Sierra Leonean journalist and activist who rose as a fearless critic of corruption, found himself hounded by the political machine, accused and discredited, his credibility dragged into the mud. Whether or not the accusations hold, the damage to his standing in the public square is a cautionary tale: power will always look for a way to turn your fire into ashes.
Austria’s Lena Schilling, hailed as a climate campaign prodigy, has faced allegations and internal fractures that have left the public unsure where truth ends and smear begins. And in Pakistan, Imran Khan, the cricketer-turned-political leader, once mobilised millions with his anti-corruption rhetoric, only to find himself jailed, banned, and branded by his opponents as a villain.
The danger is not always that the activist is wrong; sometimes, it’s that the activist is human. Humans falter. Humans get seduced by the perks of influence. Humans can be set up, entrapped, or exploited.
Africa knows this well. From Thomas Sankara’s betrayal at the hands of his comrade to the quiet neutralisation of liberation leaders across the continent, the story repeats: systems do not just fight you; they study you, learn your rhythm, then break you from within.
In The Gambia, activism is no stranger to this paradox. Our recent democratic transition has given rise to a generation of fearless voices, whistleblowers, grassroots organisers, and citizen journalists. But as the political temperature rises ahead of the 2026 and 2027 elections, some of these same voices are being courted by parties, promised positions, or pulled into factional fights. Others are publicly discredited through carefully timed “leaks” or cyberbullying. And in the endless scroll of Facebook and X, genuine causes are too easily drowned in a cacophony of personal attacks, doctored screenshots, and the quest to chase clout.
The Gambia has its fair share of activists and politicians: Those who saw darkness, until they boarded the BUS; And those who saw the light, until they lost their seat on the BUS.
Their tongues twist like chameleons, shifting colours to suit the moment. I liken them to two-faced Januses wearing masks of loyalty, masters of betrayal dressed as truth.
The gift of a chameleon to change colours to survive becomes a liability when applied in political or moral positions. When a voice changes hue to suit a patron, a party or tribe or a trending hashtag, trust erodes. Two-faced Januses are even worse, smiling one way to the crowd, whispering the opposite in private. That does not make one clever but rather corrosive. Movements that tolerate or promote such duplicity harden into factions, and communities learn to read activism as a seasonal fashion, not a steadfast commitment.
The consequences are human and immediate. People who once believed in a cause feel tricked; young organisers burn out watching their seniors pivot toward patronage; ordinary citizens grow cynical and withdraw from public life. The situation gets worse when moral authority becomes a marketplace where loyalties are traded; the demand for accountability loses its moral spirit. In my opinion, a critic whose outrage can be bought is worse than public officials who manipulate people for their benefit.
This is the small theatre where trust dies. When voices bend toward who holds the keys, movements fracture, followers feel betrayed, and the cause becomes collateral. Public life in a small country is intimate; every flip is noticed, every excuse recorded. The cost is not only the individual’s reputation but the community’s faith in change.
I beg thee to self-examine. Before you speak, weigh the wound you may inflict. Before you post, ask: will my fire warm, or will it scorch? Choose to be a mason, not a passenger on a bus on which you forget where you came from.
This is the curse of toxic activism: when the fight becomes less about justice and more about ego; when solidarity is traded for the cheap thrill of a trending hashtag; when a movement begins to mimic the cruelty of the oppressor it opposes.
True activism demands more. It asks for discipline in the age of distraction, humility in the age of self-branding, and integrity in the age of expedience. The activist must remain a servant of the cause, not its celebrity, not its profiteer, not its politician-in-waiting.
We cannot afford to let activism rot from within. The stakes are too high.
For in the end, the world does not need more famous activists; it needs more faithful ones.
