By Abdoulie Mam Njie
(retired permanent secretary)
“Until the lions have their own historian, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunters” — Chinua Achebe
Why now?
Because silence has consequences. Because if we do not tell our stories — especially the difficult ones — others will do it for us, and not always truthfully.
In recent years, I have witnessed rhetoric that uses tribal identity to explain institutional failures, narratives that overshadow structural and systemic issues. As a career civil servant under three administrations, I’ve lived through such distortion. These stories, when left unchallenged, breed misunderstanding and division.
Do I have an ulterior motive?
Only this: to restore context, invite reflection, and challenge the normalising of tribal identity in politics.
The civil service, though imperfect, has long been one of the few institutions where national interest ideally surpasses identity politics. But that principle is fragile. What follows is not a defence, but a testimony to what tribalism does when allowed to take root quietly.
The Gambia’s civil service, like many inherited from colonial administration, was initially hierarchical and exclusionary. Independence in 1965 brought a clear push under President Jawara to professionalise and diversify the service. Tribal identity existed, but merit, discipline, and integrity were intended to be ascendant values (Hughes & Perfect, 2008).
Across the decades I spent in public service, from the idealistic 1980s to today, the undercurrent of tribalism remained corrosive, even if unspoken. Structural Adjustment Programmes (SAPs) in the 1980s led to downsizing and greater political control of hiring, altering the civil service’s capacity and professionalism. This dynamic is documented in The World Bank and IMF policy reports (IMF, 1998; World Bank, 2001; Jabara, 1994).
In those early Jawara years, as a cadet economist under Permanent Secretary Abdou B Njie, merit ruled. But the balance unraveled under President Jammeh, who wielded tribal and regional identities as instruments of power. Competence no longer sufficed; one had to belong or be silent.
Language, too, became a quiet gatekeeper — not through any formal requirement, but in how people were made to feel. I recall a moment in the civil service when a capable young officer was quietly ridiculed after a meeting: “Look at this one, she hails from a Mandinka family but can’t speak a word of Mandinka. What a shame!” someone murmured. The comment passed as harmless, even humorous, but it was neither. It stung. And it lingered.
Such remarks were not limited to the Jammeh years. Even under the Barrow administration, particularly in the informal spaces of ministry life and professional forums, similar undertones persist. Today, the inability to speak a particular language can quietly call one’s authenticity or loyalty into question. These subtle humiliations do not issue from policy, but from practice. They don’t make headlines, but they leave deep impressions, especially on the young, who begin to doubt if service alone is enough.
These moments, so often brushed aside, create exclusion without a memo. Tribalism does not always announce itself; sometimes it simply whispers, nudges, and isolates.
Even during Barrow’s post-2017 “New Gambia”, tribalism crept back. Coalition politics became identity mosaics. On social media, tribal accusations intensified, echoing what scholars term “anticipatory tribalism,” where fears of ethnic monopolisation are used to explain grievances rather than policy failures (Saine, 2019).
A recent article blaming “Kairaba Avenue boys” (often coded as urban Wolof elites) for mismanagement of Jammeh-era assets, and its mirror accusation by “provincial elites”, relied on the same flawed logic: corruption has ethnic fingerprints.
It does not.
What I’ve seen is that failure is systemic, corruption opportunistic, and competence available across all tribes. Tribalism erodes trust quietly; it questions appointments, undermines reforms, and fractures institutions.
Civil service reform cycles — especially those since 2008 — sought to build merit-based performance, capacity, and accountability. But when tribal loyalty dictates progression, those reforms falter (UNDP Gambia, 2014).
In service, I found purpose beyond tribe. I saw The Gambia’s strength in unity, not division. My journey teaches that we cannot indulge in tribal thinking; not in public service or national life. Our future depends on what we build together, not who we are individually.
Let us lower our voices, and raise our standards. Let us demand from our leaders and ourselves a politics that unites, not divides.
This article is an excerpt from my unpublished memoir titled “In the Quiet of Service: A Public Servant’s Journey Through The Gambia’s Changing Landscapes.”
