By Thomas V. Sengeh
In the mosaic of Sierra Leone’s cultural resistance, Emmerson Bockarie once held court as its fiercest lyrical prosecutor. His music was more than entertainment—it was indictment, revelation, and rebellion. Tracks like “Borbor Belleh,” “Two Foot Arata,” and “Munku Boss Pan Matches” didn’t just top charts; they pierced through the fog of political rhetoric and laid bare the contradictions of statecraft.
In the turbulent post-civil war years of the 2000s and early 2010s, as Sierra Leone grappled with recovering institutions and a string of corrupt incumbents, Emmerson’s music became both archive and alarm bell. He was a voice for the voiceless, a musical machete slashing through the thick brush of official deception. He rose to fame as a fearless critic of corruption and economic mismanagement under previous regimes. He sang what the people whispered. He shouted what the hungry felt. And he reminded us that patriotism isn’t blind loyalty—rather, it is demanding better.
But now, Sierra Leoneans are left wondering—where is Emmerson? The silence is deafening. His pen has gone dry. The mic is cold. His lyrical mirror once held to the face of power now hangs untouched. It’s as if the rebel bard has laid down his sling in the presence of new Goliaths.
Meanwhile, Sierra Leone burns.
Under the Bio administration, the nation has stumbled from one crisis to another. From the botched handling of Ebola remnants and COVID-19 response gaps, to rolling blackouts under ESDA and rising fuel prices that starve both generator and gut. House fires rage from poorly wired tenements. The youth? Unemployed, restless, and teetering on despair despite being educated and eager. The economy? Choked by over $3 billion in debt, while the price of staple foods like rice has ballooned sixfold. Even as the government spent millions importing luxury SUVs and expanding bureaucracies, the average Sierra Leonean is reduced to calculating every grain of rice.
And then there’s the darkness few dare to fully confront:
The Kush Crisis.
It is no longer rumor. The synthetic drug “kush” has become a national scourge, leaving a trail of zombie-like youth in its wake—burned-out, hollowed, ruined. President Bio was forced to declare a national emergency. But beneath the surface of this declaration lies a deeper rot: widespread allegations that the drug trade has penetrated the highest corridors of power.
Investigative whispers point not just to low-level operatives or rogue officers, but to members of the President’s own household and close government associates. These aren’t tabloid tantrums; they are widespread street-level truths demanding answers. And yet, Emmerson remains mute.
In another era, such a scandal would have inspired a full album. He would’ve named names, drawn metaphors sharp enough to scar, and reawakened a nation’s outrage. But now? Emmerson offers no riddim. No rebellion. Just reticence.
Has the revolutionary been bought?
Has the firebrand turned fireproof now that he’s warmed by the flames of proximity to power?
Or has the glitter of Strawberries on Ice and the VIP tables of the big boys’ club dulled the edge of his convictions?
The public’s patience is waning. The youth—the same ones who once played his tracks as protest anthems—are beginning to ask the uncomfortable question: Are you on a payroll, Emmerson?
Is this silence a choice, or a condition of new loyalties? Because Sierra Leone’s present demands a reckoning—and its most celebrated musical conscience has gone curiously quiet.
And so, we end not with condemnation, but with a plea wrapped in a provocation:
Where is our “Savior,” who was once known for Borbor Belleh, Two Foot Arata, Munku Boss Pan Matches?
Is the Bio administration so great that it is immune from public scrutiny? Or… are the “Kenema Boys”—a rising elite faction rumored to enjoy both political favor and street influence—the resurrected Moses?
The Youth Dem Want for Know!!!