Why do successive governments and politicians take the people of The Gambia for a ride—and for granted?
I vividly remember my younger days in the constituencies of the late Alieu Badara Njie (Sukuta) and the late BLK Sanyang (Bulock). I attended political rallies filled with drumbeats, excitement, and joy. Grand promises were made—to farmers and women in horticulture—yet election after election, those promises were broken or never fulfilled.
At the time, I was politically innocent. But as I matured, became educated, and exposed to broader perspectives, I began to understand the inefficiencies, abuse of power, and manipulation that characterised politics in The Gambia. I didn’t know then those politicians lived in luxury, enjoyed privileges far removed from ordinary people’s lives, and were greeted with fanfare despite delivering so little.
These leaders rarely lost elections or the public’s trust, yet they gave little back. I never heard of development plans to uplift communities, and there were no clear intentions of reinvesting in the people who elected them. Scholarships were rare, though the late OJ did secure a few for his constituents—a smart and commendable move.
During the First Republic, progress hinged on who you knew. Access to jobs, scholarships, or opportunities was based on connections—not merit. The same culture continued under Yahya Jammeh and is still alive under President Adama Barrow.
The children of former ministers and top civil servants now dominate our institutions—many educated abroad- accountants, economists, senior civil servants, and technocrats. While they deserved their success, their rise reflects the systematic exclusion of the broader population.
Yahya Jammeh’s era was a shock, but many welcomed it—desperate for change. The people had lost faith in the old guard. One of Sir Dawda Jawara’s gravest political mistakes was overstaying his welcome, even after expressing his desire to retire. Then came Yahya, young and charismatic, claiming to be a visionary. For a while, he seemed serious—promising transformation in education, health, welfare, and the economy.
But it didn’t last.
Over time, Yahya’s true nature emerged. He began to amass power, wealth, and land (as exposed by the Janneh Commission). He silenced dissent through fear and intimidation. His delusions reached a point where he believed he could rule for a ‘billion years.’ He turned into a self-proclaimed healer, spreading concoctions to “cure” AIDS, ignoring science and costing the nation dearly.
His transformation—from hopeful leader to feared despot—was deeply psychological. Driven by a need for attention and control, perhaps rooted in childhood trauma, Yahya took the country for granted in a way few could have imagined. The TRRC revealed even more: a trail of human rights violations, grand corruption, and paranoia.
His eventual fall in 2016 was met with hope. Adama Barrow emerged from the pendulum’s other end—a humble man who promised change. But the forces that enabled Yahya never truly left. They surrounded Barrow and continued to manipulate the system for their benefit.
The Barrow of 2016 and the Barrow of 2025 are worlds apart. The man who once symbolised humility and hope now mirrors the leaders he replaced—influential, inconsistent, and increasingly detached from the struggles of the average Gambian.
Successive governments have failed because power becomes a personal agenda. Instead of focusing on public service, leaders chase wealth, build empires, and forget that power is temporary. They abandon the communities that raised them, alienate those who made their rise possible, and prioritise luxury over public interest.
Meanwhile, the people struggle. They have no jobs, no consistent electricity or clean water, and the cost of living rises. Our children can’t afford education, and our environment is neglected. Ministers travel abroad for seminars, not for development but for per diems. They drive posh state-funded vehicles while citizens walk miles searching for necessities.
Politics has become a get-rich-quick scheme. Embezzlement, fraud, and organised corruption are calculated and systemic. These politicians surround themselves with loyalists in key positions to shield themselves from accountability.
And so, we ask again—how did we get here? Are we politically and morally bankrupt? Has our nation become a sinking ship doomed unless a new captain takes the helm?
We need a shift—a serious one. As Acemoglu and Robinson noted in Why Nations Fail, inclusive institutions create prosperity, while exclusive ones bring ruin. Our political institutions have long been exclusive, benefiting the few while stifling the many.
Yahya and Barrow had opportunities to change this. Both failed.
It’s time for Gambians—home and abroad—to unite, rise above partisan lines, and demand better. Our silence must end. Our votes must speak. We must build systems that serve the majority, not the privileged few.
We are good people trapped by bad politics. But we can—and must—do better.
