By Kebeli Demba Nyima,
Atlanta, GA
I still vividly remember my days in primary school when twenty-five bututs could make a child feel rich. With that modest coin, my two siblings and I could buy enough snacks to last through lunch, and sometimes even save a few bututs for the walk home. Those were the years when the Gambian currency was as solid as the old baobab tree that stood beside our classroom.
Back then, school life had its own version of social welfare: the school feeding programme courtesy of the World Food Programme (WFP) and UNICEF. Every school day, just around midday, the aroma of benechin with corned beef or sardines filled the air, making some gluttonous students lose concentration during lessons as they grew eager to tantalize their taste buds. Fridays were sacred but celebratory. We closed school early for Juma prayers, but it was also the day of pancakes, large, golden, and generous enough to make even the most restless child sit still. We even used to take some home to share with siblings who had not been lucky enough to attend school.
When I moved on to high school, from Form One to Form Six, one dalasi was still a small miracle. It could buy akara and bread, with enough left for a bottle of wonjo or mango juice, a full meal that kept us talking and laughing all afternoon. For some of us who grew up in Banjul, one dalasi could even get you into the cinema at Laso Wharf near Crab Island School and you’d still have some change left to pamper your significant other. In those days, a single dalasi note could get you many things. Today, that same note could get you barely anything. The dalasi then was the strongest currency in the subregion, respected in Banjul, admired in Dakar, and acknowledged even in the Western world. Economists would call that purchasing power parity; we simply called it value.
But somewhere along the line, our once-proud dalasi began its steady decline. Under President Barrow, it no longer commands respect in markets, wallets, or even in memory. The same one dalasi that could once buy akara and juice is now barely accepted by vendors, as most traders even prefer foreign currencies, particularly the CFA franc, which once held no power in the Gambian market. Today, the dalasi stands as the weakest currency in the subregion, a shadow of its former strength and a symbol of economic despair.
Economic theory offers a clear diagnosis of this malaise. According to Keynesian principles, when governments engage in excessive spending without equivalent production or productivity growth, inflation becomes inevitable. The monetarists, like Milton Friedman, would argue that “inflation is always and everywhere a monetary phenomenon,” caused by printing more money than the economy can absorb. In The Gambia, both explanations seem tragically accurate. Fiscal indiscipline, corruption, and poor governance have eroded the dalasi’s purchasing power and led to widespread inflation affecting every sector, from agriculture and manufacturing to education and health.
This erosion of value is not merely a statistical anomaly; it is a symptom of institutional decay. Political scientists refer to this as governance failure, a condition where the state loses its capacity to manage economic and social systems effectively. When corruption becomes systemic, the budget becomes a political tool rather than an economic instrument. The state begins to spend not to stimulate growth but to sustain loyalty. In such an environment, monetary policy becomes captive to political expediency, and the central bank, meant to be independent, operates like a cashier’s window for the executive.
The consequences are visible in the faces of young people wandering the streets in search of work. Youth unemployment has risen because high inflation discourages investment and reduces real wages. When prices rise faster than income, small businesses struggle to survive, industries close, and young graduates are left idle. The labour market becomes distorted as cost-push inflation forces employers to cut staff or freeze hiring. This is not merely an economic failure; it is a political one. When government fails to control inflation, it fails to control the social contract itself.
In Zimbabwe, decades of reckless monetary policy turned the local currency into confetti. At the height of hyperinflation, a loaf of bread cost trillions of Zimbabwean dollars, and citizens carried wheelbarrows of cash to buy a cup of tea. Their experience stands as a grim reminder of what happens when governments ignore basic economic principles and treat central banks as printing presses for political survival. The Zimbabwean case also demonstrates what political scientists call state capture, where political elites use economic policy as a means of patronage, rewarding allies while punishing dissenters. The outcome is always the same: a currency that collapses under the weight of greed and incompetence.
In The Gambia, the warning signs are no longer subtle. Inflation has gnawed away the very fabric of our economy, eroding trust, hope, and livelihoods. Farmers cannot afford seeds, traders cannot afford import duties, and students cannot afford transport fares. Every sector feels the pinch, and every household bears the burden. This is the anatomy of economic collapse, not an overnight event but a slow suffocation of value and virtue.
If left unchecked, the dalasi’s depreciation could lead to what development economists call stagflation, a deadly combination of stagnant growth and high prices. The result is social frustration, political instability, and the erosion of public trust in governance. Youth unemployment, already alarming, will continue to climb as industries shrink and foreign investors flee. Once the private sector stops hiring and the public sector stops expanding, the only growth left is in desperation.
The Gambia has not yet reached Zimbabwe’s nadir, but the road signs are alarming. Inflation has become the unseen tax on the poor, reducing the real value of their income every day. Unless policymakers embrace structural reform, fiscal restraint, and the diversification of production, the dalasi will continue its humiliating descent.
British playwright George Bernard Shaw once quipped that “if all the economists were laid end to end, they would not reach a conclusion.” Yet, in The Gambia, the conclusion is painfully clear. Our economic tragedy resembles a Shakespearean play where greed, ignorance, and moral decay all compete for the lead role. Like Macbeth, those in power have murdered prudence and washed their hands in the blood of excess spending, convinced that the stench of corruption can be disguised by rhetoric.
The dalasi has become a mirror reflecting our national mismanagement. It is no longer just a medium of exchange; it is a symbol of betrayal. The time has come for genuine reform guided by sound economics and moral discipline. Leaders must remember that a currency is not merely paper; it is a covenant of trust between the state and its citizens. When that covenant is broken, no amount of printing or propaganda can restore it.
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