There are times in the life of a nation when concern is no longer enough. There are times when a citizen, a lawmaker, and a patriot must admit that what lies ahead is frightening.
This is one of those times.
As I reflect, following the President’s call for us to address what have been described as three very important national issues, one matter stands above them all in urgency and consequence: the apparent determination to expel our colleague, Hon. Yekeh Kolubah. The House has already opened a formal probe into him over his controversial remarks, and the matter is rapidly moving toward what many now fear could become a politically driven expulsion.
Let me be very clear, I am not a fan of Yekeh Kolubah’s style. I do not support his insults against the Supreme Court, and I believe his attacks on the Chief Justice were wrong and unnecessary. This is where I believe freedom of speech should not extend to reining insults and wild allegations against our Justices. Respect for institutions matters. Respect for the Court matters.
Respectful disagreement is one thing. Wild and baseless allegations are another. And it is simply unacceptable.
But this moment is no longer just about Yekeh Kolubah.
It is about measuring wrongdoing in our country. It is about the selective tolerance of those in power. It is about a government that appears willing to use a man when his aggression is politically useful, and then suddenly punish him when that same aggression is turned in a direction they do not like.
That is not a principle. That is not justice. That is power in its most dangerous form: selective, self-serving, and punitive.
And that is why I am worried. I am worried because what is unfolding before us does not look like discipline. It looks like a warning. It looks like an attempt to silence not just one lawmaker, but the rest of us. It sends a message to every member of the House that there are consequences for speaking too loudly, questioning too boldly, or refusing to fall in line.
Today it is Yekeh. Tomorrow, it may be anyone else. That is how democracies begin to erode.
Not always with soldiers in the streets. Not always with one dramatic decree. Sometimes democracy is weakened quietly, through the abuse of procedure, the manipulation of institutions, and the growing fear that state power is no longer neutral.
And if we are honest with ourselves, the warning signs are already around us.
The battle over the National Elections Commission is one such sign. President Boakai’s March 30, 2026, nomination of Jonathan K. Weedor as Chair of the NEC has triggered public backlash and growing concern from opposition voices and civil society actors who fear the erosion of public trust in the neutrality of the electoral referee. Whether supporters defend the nomination or not, the central issue remains the same: elections can only be credible when the institution managing them is seen as independent, impartial, and above party suspicion. 
The pressure on civic space is another warning.
Last month, Human Rights Watch reported that armed men raided the office of the Global Justice and Research Project in Monrovia, assaulted a security guard, and threatened Hassan Bility, the group’s director. That was not just an attack on one office. It was a chilling signal to activists, rights defenders, and those who dare to pursue accountability in Liberia.
The pressure on free expression is yet another signal. In March, the Press Union of Liberia warned that proposed legislation on online abuse and harassment could criminalize broad categories of speech, including messages considered insulting or obscene online. A democracy must protect people from abuse, yes, but it must also be careful not to turn laws into weapons against criticism, satire, dissent, or unpopular opinions.
These things do not happen in isolation. They form a pattern.
A lawmaker is threatened with expulsion.
The referee of future elections becomes the subject of distrust.
Rights defenders face intimidation.
Speech comes under growing legislative pressure.
And slowly, quietly, dangerously, the democratic space begins to shrink.
What worries me most is that this may be intentional.
I fear that the Unity Party is consolidating power in a way that may leave very little room for genuine challenge tomorrow. I fear that institutions meant to protect the Republic may instead be bent toward protecting political power. I fear that the police, the election authorities, and other state institutions may increasingly be expected not to defend neutrality, but to align with the wishes of those who control government.
That is not democracy. That is managed power.
And Liberia has suffered too much to walk down that road again.
For twenty years, we have tried, however imperfectly, to build a democratic culture rooted in elections, debate, constitutional order, and peaceful disagreement. We have struggled, stumbled, and argued, but we have kept faith with the idea that no one should dominate the state so completely that the rest of the country becomes powerless.
Now I fear that this hard-won progress may be at risk.
If Yekeh Kolubah is expelled through a process that ignores fairness, proportion, and consistency, it will not only damage the House. It will deepen the belief that the rules are no longer rules at all, but tools to be used against opponents and critics.
That would be a tragedy for the Legislature.
But even more, it would be a tragedy for Liberia.
This is why stakeholders across our country must speak now. Civil society must speak. The church must speak. The Muslim community must speak. Traditional leaders must speak. The media must speak. Friends of Liberia beyond our borders must also pay attention. Because silence in moments like this is not neutrality. Silence becomes permission.
I pray that wisdom prevails.
I pray that those in authority remember that political power is temporary, but the damage done to democratic institutions can last for generations.
I pray that we do not wake up one day to realize that what we dismissed as ordinary politics was, in fact, the slow dismantling of our democracy.
I am worried.
I am scared.
And I believe many Liberians, quietly and privately, feel the same way.