By Abdoulie Mam Njie
Africa-Press – Gambia. In our tradition, power is like a calabash — passed from hand to hand. But when gripped too tightly, it spills what was meant to nourish us all.
Having served The Gambia under three political regimes — as a civil servant, policy adviser, and coordinator of national development projects — I’ve seen power at its best and its worst. This reflection is born of quiet contemplation and public service. It is not an indictment, but an invitation — to reflect on how we use power in our homes, our offices, our pulpits, and our nation.
Leadership is not confined to high office. It lives in the classroom where a teacher uplifts; in the clinic where a nurse comforts; in the village square where a youth leader inspires; and on the prayer mat or altar where truth is spoken. In every corner of society, power exists — and in each, it must be stewarded with humility.
Across faiths and philosophies, a shared wisdom echoes: power is never permanent, and true leadership begins in humility.
“Say, O Allah, Owner of Sovereignty, You give sovereignty to whom You will…” — Qur’an 3:26
“But among you it will be different. Whoever wants to be a leader among you must be your servant…” — Bible, Mark 10:43–45
“Victory breeds hatred; the wise leader wins without conflict and governs without coercion.” — Dhammapada
“Leadership is by virtue, not by force.” — Confucius
These sacred words remind us that while power may dazzle, it is fleeting — and that greatness is measured not by how long one reigns, but how deeply one serves.
From scriptures to constitutions, the message is clear: power is not a birthright. It is not a family heirloom. It is a sacred trust — granted for a time, and always under watch.
History has its own chorus. Rome, the Soviet Union, and the British Empire all declared themselves unshakable. So did men like Napoleon, Hitler, and Nixon. All fell. So too did Africa’s would-be giants — some who liberated with one hand and ruled with an iron fist with the other.
And here at home, history too has spoken. In the early days of the 1994 coup, the new Gambian junta invited Ghanaian high court judge, Justice Vida Akoto-Bamfo, to chair an Assets and Properties Recovery Commission to investigate former President Jawara and some of his ministers. But her experience reveals how power, when unchecked, bends even justice toward its will.
In her own words: “I was then told that if I failed to make adverse findings against some ministers, the objectives of the Revolution would have failed.”
And when it was time to submit her report to the junta: “We sat there for close to four hours; the Secretary General came to inform me that the President had a toothache… and asked us to come the next day. I said to him I had booked my flight. So, I just took the report and handed it over to him and left. I later learnt that the report was rewritten.”
Years later, she would recount how one of those under the probe — now Chief Justice of The Gambia — wrote to thank her for her courage and asked for a copy of her original report, as the official version had been tampered with. Ultimately, the Supreme Court of The Gambia in 2023 declared the commission unlawfully constituted, its findings null and void.
Her story is a sobering reminder: even noble missions can be corrupted when power demands obedience over truth.
In The Gambia, we have lived through three administrations:
The first, under Jawara, founded in idealism but weakened by fragility.
The second, under Jammeh, born in promise but poisoned by fear.
The third, under Barrow, emerged in hope but risks becoming another lesson in how power tempts permanence.
I served through all three. And I carry scars — none more searing than the day I was summoned to the Paul Commission, detained without any charges, and dismissed without hearing. That silent walk home from the NIA was the longest of my life. I remember the ache — not just of dismissal, but of being silenced without cause. It taught me a truth that no regime can erase: power that fears truth is already rotting.
And yet, the future whispered justice where the past had shouted dismissal. Following the change of government, I submitted a quiet petition. In a twist laden with irony, I was called again to the NIA — this time not for interrogation, but for an interview before a panel. Weeks later, I received a letter from the Personnel Management Office: I was to be reinstated and retired with dignity, as I had requested.
It was at the very institution where we once learnt of our dismissal that the arc of justice bent back toward truth. That moment did not erase the pain, but it reaffirmed a deeper principle: the power to dismiss does not override the right to dignity.
The recent rejection — for the second time — of The Gambia’s draft constitution by the National Assembly highlights the complex tensions between reform and resistance. While some argue that the process lacked adequate consultation and consensus, others see in it a missed opportunity to lay a stronger democratic foundation. Regardless of the reasons, what remains clear is this: a constitution is not just a legal document — it is a collective promise, a moral compass, and a framework for accountability.
We must relearn four essential truths:
1. Power is not a trophy.
2. Institutions must outlive individuals.
3. Silence before abuse is complicity.
4. Each generation must refuse to repeat the last’s mistakes.
And now, the final truth: Power always ends. Thrones crack. Banners fall. Songs of praise fade into silence. But service — humble, honest, and just — echoes across time.
So when next you are handed a moment of power — be it over a budget, a microphone, a meeting room, or a nation — hold it lightly, wield it wisely, and let it go gracefully.
Because in the end, it is not how loudly you ruled that will be remembered. It is how gently you served.
Let us be the generation that breaks the cycle — and proves that in The Gambia, true leadership still bows to truth.
Source: The Standard Newspaper | Gambia
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