By Abdoulie Mam Njie,
Africa-Press – Gambia. The quiet power of the secretary general
The role of the secretary general in The Gambia is one of quiet power — often unseen, rarely celebrated, yet fundamental to the continuity and credibility of the state. As the highest-ranking official within the civil service, the secretary general stands delicately between the shifting ambitions of the political executive and the enduring obligations of the administrative machinery.
In the hands of principled individuals like Dr Jabez Ayo Langley and Abdou Sara Janha, the office became a stabilising force, a moral compass, and at times, a buffer between overreach and collapse. The secretary general is not merely the chief administrative officer of the presidency, but a steward of institutional coherence — tasked with translating political intent into procedural form, preserving momentum without compromising integrity.
The temperament and judgment of the secretary general are of extraordinary consequence. Too partisan, and the civil service risks becoming a tool of coercion or favoritism. Too passive, and essential systems may be circumvented. The ideal occupant, as I have observed from close quarters, is one who blends deep institutional memory with discretion, resolve, and a profound sense of self-effacement.
This role is especially vital during transitions. Though not elected, the secretary general is often the final thread of continuity between regimes. They do not command departments, yet their influence quietly shapes ministries. Their signature — or their silence — can shift policy. Their names may not be remembered publicly, but their contributions anchor the state. Trust, rather than visibility, is their currency — earned quietly through competence, and sustained through principle.
The janaza as civic mirror
There is something distinctly Gambian about the quiet power of a janaza. At the funeral of Abdou Sara Janha at the Kairaba Avenue Mosque, the solemnity, simplicity, and sense of collective memory converged to honour more than a man — it honoured a tradition of service.
As I stood among the mourners, I observed the silent dialogue between past and present. Former colleagues, mentors, and contemporaries gathered — not to posture, but to remember. Among them were Abdou Njie and Alieu Ngum, both of whom I had the privilege to serve under; Abdou Touray and Cherno Jallow, companions during formative years of service. Each face recalled a policy debate, a cabinet paper, a crisis averted or endured. Current ministers Hamat Bah, Musa Drammeh, and Abdou Jobe were also in attendance. Their presence was not mere protocol, but a gesture of civic continuity. The civil service, in its finest moments, is not severed by elections; it is bridged by shared values, institutional memory, and moments like these — where respect is paid without spectacle.
No speeches. No headlines. Just presence. The gathered crowd formed a civic ledger: those who trained us, those we trained, and those continuing the work. Janha’s death became a mirror — held gently before the rest of us. It asked what legacy we are shaping. It reminded us that our own files will one day close, and our memory will reside in who stands for us, and why.
Legacies in the shadows of service
In the shadows cast by the midday sun at the mosque, I reflected not just on Janha and Langley, but on the nature of service itself — quiet, enduring, and often thankless.
Neither man sought headlines. Yet both bore the state’s burdens with calm authority. Their work played out not in rallies, but in minutes of meetings, in thoughtful memos, and in hard counsel given behind closed doors. They were not saints — but they were servants. And they served with dignity.
In an era where performance is confused with spectacle, they remind us that the deepest legacies are not always loud. The most enduring contributions often go unnoticed — until their absence is felt. The steady hand during instability. The quiet refusal to bend principle. The institutional wisdom that prevents error.
Their funerals, especially Janha’s, were not just farewells. They were quiet affirmations that the work of nation-building lives on in integrity, not visibility.
A personal memory: fairness and quiet authority
One memory from my early service years remains vivid. During President Jawara’s Meet the Farmers Tour, our delegation was to spend a night in Mansakonko. Being relatively junior, I realised I might be left without accommodation. I voiced my frustration — perhaps boldly — in front of the Minister of Agriculture and Mr Janha, then secretary general. I declared that if I was not given a room, I would return to Banjul that night. The minister laughed. Sara leaned in and calmly said: “He has a point.” Then, with his quiet authority, he told me I would ride in his vehicle to Tendaba and instructed the regional commissioner to allocate me a room. It was a small moment — but it revealed his fairness, dignity, and instinctive understanding of institutional respect, regardless of rank.
The cost of misperception
Years later, following a change of government, Sara left The Gambia and went into exile. I, too, came under suspicion. After a mission to Brussels with Minister Bakary Dabo, who also went into exile, I was summoned to the National Intelligence Agency. Later, the new minister of finance requested my curriculum vitae explaining that the APRC, then led by the military junta, was considering me for a diplomatic posting to Belgium.
What followed exposed the precarity of public service in politicised times. The minister, after reviewing my CV, told the council I was “one of Sara’s pets” — a comment that reduced years of dedicated work and rapid progression into a suggestion of favouritism. My role as Poverty Alleviation Focal Point and Coordinator for the Strategy on Poverty Alleviation was misread not as earned merit, but as patronage. It was disheartening, but not surprising. In volatile times, even integrity is suspect.
Closing reflection
As I return to the quiet of my own reflections, I do so with renewed humility. The story of public service in The Gambia is still being written. It is being shaped by those who serve without noise, who protect institutions without glory, and who, like Sara and Langley, will one day be remembered — not for how brightly they shone, but for how steadily they burned.
Source: The Standard Newspaper | Gambia
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