Our Sierra Leone Part One

This is the beginning of a series of honest conversations about our beloved Sierra Leone. We intend to strip away the official narratives and speak directly to the lived realities of our people. This is not about making enemies. It is about telling the truth. Because until we begin to face our truth, we will continue to decorate our poverty with slogans, paint over our pain with politics, and silence our shame with propaganda. Today, we begin with life in general in Sierra Leone. Not the life seen on billboards or chanted in press briefings, but the daily life of the average Sierra Leonean. The woman who wakes at 4 a.m. to find water. The man who roams the streets with his CV in a plastic folder. The schoolgirl who walks five miles with slippers on worn-out feet. The trader who prays the customs officer does not confiscate her entire stock. This is the Sierra Leone that the cameras do not capture. Life in Sierra Leone is hard. It is exhausting. It is unfair. And it is getting worse. For most families, survival is not about plans, dreams, or vision. It is about hustling. Scraping. Managing. It is about putting together enough rice and oil for the day. It is about choosing between paying school fees and paying rent. It is about sacrificing medication because food must come first. The desperation is not only in Freetown. It echoes in Makeni. It whispers in Kono. It screams in Kenema. It weeps in Kabala. There is no region untouched, no tribe exempted, no profession spared. Yet, in the face of all this, there is one constant. One figure who has always borne the weight of the nation’s brokenness. The Sierra Leonean woman. It is not because the Sierra Leonean man is lazy or irresponsible. Far from it. Our men are trying. But Sierra Leone itself is broken, and the burden has become too much. The weight is slipping from the shoulders of fathers, and it is falling, once again, on the backs of mothers. From time immemorial, our women have carried the nation. They are the ones who sell charcoal to pay school fees. They are the ones who farm, fetch, and fend. They are the ones who go hungry so that their children can eat. They are the ones who beg for a chance at the hospital door. The ones who pray quietly at dawn, bathe their babies at the well, tie their wrappers tightly, and face another day with courage that defies explanation. Today, Sierra Leone’s economy is not only failing. It is collapsing. And the loudest sound you will hear is not the voices of men debating policy, but the quiet determination of women keeping families afloat. If you walk through the markets of Bo or climb the hills of Moyamba, you will see her. Bent under the weight of firewood. Singing as she roasts cassava. Bargaining with a smile hiding the pain in her chest. She is mother. She is sister. She is nation. Let us be honest. The economy is a trap. The cost of living is high. Salaries are low. Opportunities are rare. Unemployment is high. Public services are weak. And the government? They are either busy campaigning or making speeches. Electricity comes like a visitor. Water is either dirty or missing. Healthcare is a gamble. Education is a struggle. Inflation is dancing with no shame. Food prices are rising faster than government lies. And in the midst of it all, the Sierra Leonean woman is surviving. But for how long? How long can a mother stretch what she does not have? How long can a woman be both parent and provider? How long can a society survive when its strongest pillar is exhausted? What we are seeing is not only poverty. It is abandonment. Abandonment by the state. Abandonment by institutions. Abandonment by the very leadership that promised to make things better. The Sierra Leonean woman does not need charity. She needs justice. She needs infrastructure. She needs safety. She needs a fair market. She needs real support, not symbolic gestures. It is shameful that in 2025, women still give birth on floors. That girls still drop out of school to hawk. That widows still fight for land. That female traders are still harassed at checkpoints. That women still die of preventable causes while billions are stolen. My Sierra Leone is not just the flag or anthem. My Sierra Leone is the tired mother who still smiles. The hungry child who still hopes. The youth who still dreams in darkness. This is a broken country pretending to be a functioning state. A state that keeps failing its people, especially its women, who have done everything to keep hope alive. We cannot continue like this. In Part Two, we will address education. The myths, the failures, and the gap between the policy papers and the schoolyard reality. But for now, we close with this truth. Sierra Leone owes its very survival to the resilience of its women. They are the silent engines of this bleeding nation. But even engines need fuel. Even pillars need rest. Even mothers deserve better. My Sierra Leone. Our Sierra Leone.