Letter from Saclepea

By Musa Bility

I write to you today as I travel in the United States, from the City of Brotherly Love, Philadelphia. Yet though I am far away, my heart remains in Saclepea. My reflections, my burdens, and my commitments still rise from that soil, where memory and hope live side by side.

In these past few weeks, I have witnessed a deliberate effort to silence me, not through honest debate or superior argument, but through blackmail, misinformation, and an assault on the very work of my hands.

Those who once swore to serve Liberia now conspire to strangle the little that is built by Liberian sweat. They have whispered to the public that my company is the reason for stalled development, that I have enriched myself at the expense of my people, that I hoard the wealth of this country. These are lies. And yet, when left unanswered, lies take the shape of truth in the minds of the innocent.

I know the weight of sacrifice. For more than thirty years I have built and rebuilt my company, through losses, through pain, through debt, through failure and recovery. Twice it collapsed, twice I rose from the ruins, because I believed in Liberia. I built not in secret or in exile, but in the open, before the eyes of my people.

And what is my crime? That I said yes to a bridge in Bong County, because a community leader asked me to honor his people? That I agreed to build a high school in Margibi County, because that district has never had one before, and as a son of Liberia who once benefited from opportunity as a grantee, I could not deny those children their right to dream? That I committed to building a road in Lofa County to connect communities cut off from opportunity? That I pledged to build roads in Gbarpolu County and in Cape Mount County, because I believe every Liberian deserves access and dignity?

These are my plans. These are my promises. And yet these are twisted into accusations, as if development is a crime, as if generosity is treason. For this, they now try to break me. For this, emissaries come in the dark of night to say: “Change your tone, change your posture, and all this will end.”

But I will not.

I will not betray the people who trusted me with their hopes. I will not turn my back on the principles that guide me. Liberia has been blessed with resources beyond measure, yet it is shackled by greed beyond shame. Billions have passed through the hands of those in power, and yet they point to my small company, as if the future of our roads, our schools, and our hospitals could rest on less than five million dollars of gross revenue. The insult is almost laughable, if it were not so tragic.

I want you to know that what I face is not about me alone. It is about the larger struggle of whether Liberia will ever free itself from the grip of selfish men who believe leadership is ownership. They can seize accounts, they can plant falsehoods, they can harass, but they will not silence me.

I believe in the rule of law. I believe in the justice system, however imperfect. And I call upon our partners, the United States, the European Union, the United Nations, to watch carefully what is unfolding in Liberia. For when a state begins to use its power not to serve but to suffocate, democracy itself is in danger.

Here in Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love, I am reminded that even across oceans, truth cannot be silenced. And in Saclepea, where the soil is red and the air heavy with memory, I take my stand. If sacrifice is the price of change, then I am prepared. Liberia must change. Liberia will change. And I will not give up this fight in the middle of the storm.