The opening remarks of Mr Peter Gomez’s ‘Coffee-Time’ radio programme on Tuesday, March 11, 2025, brought to light an insightful speech delivered in 2021 by the late Vice President, Mr Badara Joof. In his address, the late Vice President unequivocally reaffirmed the NPP government’s steadfast commitment to fulfilling the long-standing dream of diaspora voting—a democratic aspiration that has remained tantalisingly out of reach since The Gambia gained independence in 1965. His words embodied the administration’s determination to navigate this intricate constitutional issue, a challenge that is far more complicated than its detractors care to acknowledge.
As I meticulously articulated in my last published paper, the issue has never been about National Assembly Members (NAMs) of the NPP and their coalition partners deliberately stonewalling the enfranchisement of Gambians abroad. Rather, the reluctance to rubber-stamp the bill without due diligence stems from the monumental burden it would impose on the Independent Electoral Commission (IEC), the institution tasked with the daunting implementation process. The legal framework is crystal clear: the diaspora voting bill, clause 14, is enshrined among 157 entrenched clauses in the 1997 Constitution—provisions that cannot be altered by a simple National Assembly vote but require the more arduous path of a national referendum. To expect the government’s NAMs to endorse a move that is procedurally untenable would not only be counterintuitive but would also place an impractical and overwhelming strain on the IEC and, by extension, the state itself.
If amending this provision were as straightforward as the opposition now pretends, then between 2017 and 2021—when they held a commanding majority in the National Assembly—they would have seized the opportunity to rectify the situation. They did so with other amendable provisions that served their strategic interests. Their newfound urgency, therefore, reeks less of a principled stand for democracy and more of a calculated manoeuvre to score political points.
Following your introduction, Mr Pa Samba Jaw—a well-known diaspora-based commentator—asserted that the 1997 Constitution does not explicitly forbid diaspora voting. That much is true. He went on to claim that Gambians abroad have tirelessly championed this cause for over two decades, only to be met with resistance. Predictably, he laid the blame squarely at the feet of former President Yahya Jammeh, accusing him of obstructing diaspora voting out of fear that the overseas electorate would overwhelmingly reject his rule. And now, the same unfounded allegations are being hurled at President Adama Barrow. However, let us be clear: no forensic study has ever been publicly presented to validate this narrative, leaving it as mere conjecture at best—or an outright fabrication at worst.
I had resolved not to re-engage in this debate. But after listening to Mr. Pa Samba Jaw’s commentary—thinly veiled in insinuations designed to malign my character—I felt compelled to respond. Though he refrained from naming me outright, his reference to *“former diaspora Gambians who now support the NPP government but were, two decades ago, vocal critics of Jammeh and even authored books about his governance, only to later retract their positions” left no room for ambiguity. It was an unmistakable jab directed at me, Samsudeen Sarr.
Yet, this discussion should not devolve into a personal referendum on my past critiques of Jammeh or the contents of my book. The heart of the matter is the complexity of the diaspora voting bill and its entanglement within The Gambia’s constitutional framework. Advocates cannot, in good faith, demand its immediate implementation while turning a blind eye to the very legal instruments required to facilitate its realisation.
Before I published my memoir, ‘Coup d’état by The Gambia National Army’, through Xlibris in the United States in 2007, I had extensively documented the events surrounding the 1994 military coup and the years that followed. My primary objective was to correct the distortions of history propagated by foreign scholars and biased narratives. However, my book was not merely a political exposé—it was an autobiographical chronicle, capturing the essence of my life’s journey before, during, and after my military career.
When I reconciled with President Jammeh in 2014, after fifteen years of estrangement, my decision sparked an uproar among Gambian dissidents, particularly within the diaspora. I was immediately branded a traitor—accused of forsaking “the struggle.” My interview with the late Pa Nderry Mbai—may his soul rest in peace—on *Freedom Radio* became a spectacle. Pa Nderry, notorious for his unrelenting anti-Jammeh rhetoric, twisted my words, fabricating the ludicrous claim that I had disavowed my own book. Ironically, he admitted he had never even read it! Furthermore, he peddled the sensational lie that my reconciliation with Jammeh was a trap—an elaborate scheme to lure me back to The Gambia, where I would be either imprisoned or assassinated.
Yet, when I finally returned home in 2015, Jammeh did not harm me. Quite the contrary. Three months after my visit, he appointed me as Deputy Ambassador to the United Nations—a gesture that spoke volumes. If I had indeed fabricated lies in my book, would he have entrusted me with such a prestigious diplomatic role?
Politics, by its very nature, is fluid. The notion that one must remain a lifelong adversary to a government they once opposed is intellectually barren and strategically foolish. Clinging stubbornly to perpetual opposition, without reassessing evolving realities, is a brand of dogmatism that borders on delusion. Those who prattle about unwavering resistance, as though it were a badge of honour, resemble the perennial bachelor who refuses to marry—not because he lacks opportunity, but because he awaits a mythical, perfect spouse who does not exist.
Consider the case of Donald Trump in the United States. How many of his former adversaries—both Republican and Democrat—have since aligned with him? Have the self-appointed political purists of the Gambian diaspora ever paused to reflect on that? Yet, they now vilify figures like Dr. Ismaila Ceesay and Momodou Sabally simply for exercising their democratic right to choose their political allegiance. This, in its purest form, is the essence of democracy—the fundamental freedom to align, shift, and reassess one’s political stance without fear of persecution.
And here lies the ultimate irony: those who have deserted their own families, leaving behind broken homes and fatherless children in the wake of reckless adventures, now stand atop soapboxes to lecture others about principles and integrity. It is akin to a general who abandons his troops at the height of battle, only to later proclaim himself a war hero.
Regardless of the uproar and noise, one truth remains unshaken: if an electoral contest were held in the Bronx, New York, today, between the NPP and any opposition party, the NPP would secure no less than 95% of the votes. So let us dispense with the delusion that dominance in a few social media circles translates into an accurate representation of the broader Gambian diaspora. That assumption is not only fallacious—it is patently absurd.
