By Sherman C. SEEQUEH
This column is not new.
During the administration of President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, I wrote under the same refrain—If I were Ellen. The intent was not to diminish authority, but to interrogate it; not to insult leadership, but to insist on its highest possibilities. It was a form of civic engagement on my part rooted in patriotism, not partisanship. It was a mirror held up. It was not a stone thrown.
I return to the column now, under President Joseph Nyuma Boakai, for the same reason.
This is not an opposition column. It is not a cheerleading column either. It is a nationalistic intervention—written from the conviction that leadership in Liberia must be challenged honestly if the country is to move forward. Silence flatters power; scrutiny serves the people.
The premise is simple: sometimes the most useful advice to a president is not what aides whisper, not what partisans applaud; but it is what an independent voice is willing to say aloud—without fear, favor, or future calculation.
So this column proceeds on a hypothetical—If I were Boakai—not because I seek the revered seat, but because Liberia deserves leadership imagined at its boldest, sharpest, and most urgent expression.
And so, with respect for the office but no reverence for failure, I begin—at the moment the President mounts the rostrum of the Capitol to deliver yet another State of the Nation Address beneath thunderous applause.
Here I go.
If I were Boakai, I would stop listening to applause. Applauses at SONA would not amuse me.
Reason is, applause is cheap. Applause is automatic. Applause has never fixed a road, it has never lowered the price of rice, or kept the lights on. Applause is what leaders hear right before they fail. If applause had any real value, Liberia would not still be described—condescendingly—in regional and global reports as a nation of stalled potential and permanent excuses.
If I were Boakai, I would accept that the grace period is over.
The grace period is finished. Dead. Buried. Midway into governance, there can be no more “we just came.” No more inherited excuses. No more pointing backward while the people sink forward into hardship. Time has expired on explanations. What remains is performance—or exposure.
If I were Boakai, I would understand that age is not a shield—it is an indictment.
Age raises the bar. Age demands urgency. Age does not excuse delay; it condemns it. When time is limited, action must be decisive. History does not grant extensions.
If I were Boakai, I would reject the lazy lie whispered around town: that I have nothing to lose because I may not contest again. That is the logic of small leaders. Great leaders govern as if legacy weighs heavier than ambition. Liberia is not a retirement project.
If I were Boakai, I would remember this truth: I am not governing for comfort—I am governing for consequence. Every decision now carries weight. Every delay has a cost. And it is not ministers who pay it.
It is the market woman counting coins twice before buying pepper. It is the civil servant walking to work because transport has become a luxury.
It is the graduate at home—not lazy, not hopeless—just waiting for dignity to arrive.
I write this not from comfort, but from concern. Like millions of Liberians, I carry hope in one hand and worry in the other—and neither is light.
If I were Boakai, in my 3rd SONA oration, I would stop explaining hardship; I would start relieving it.
Hardship does not need interpretation; it needs oxygen. Citizens are not asking for speeches—they are asking for survival.
If I were Boakai, I would fire incompetence ruthlessly. No sentiment. No history. No friendship. Mercy toward failure is cruelty toward the people. And even under the endless applauses of partisans and well-wishers at SONA, the axe would speak—and speak loudly—for underperformers.
If I were Boakai, I would stop confusing loyalty with competence. Loyalty without performance is sabotage wearing party colors.
If I were Boakai, I would understand the cruelty of power: those who clap today will curse tomorrow if hunger persists. Politics is unforgiving. Applause evaporates faster than patience.
If I were Boakai, I would reflect deeply on the path being carved. Cruelty in governance does not disappear—it multiplies. Persecution plants seeds. Victimhood matures into vengeance. Power abused always returns as opposition.
If I were Boakai, I would think hard about 2029—not out of fear, but out of wisdom.
History does not forget. The hands you squeeze today may be the fists you face tomorrow.
If I were Boakai, I would govern—and speak—for Liberians at the 2026 SONA, not for partisans. Partisans can shout. Liberians must survive.
If I were Boakai, I would remember this: my success is not personal—it is national. And my failure will not be private—it will belong to Liberia.
If I were Boakai, I would not dare deliver another SONA filled with beautiful plans and borrowed hope.
Liberians are tired of ambition without execution. Tired of promises without pain on the side of power.
If I were Boakai, I would speak less—and act violently in policy terms: cutting waste, dismantling patronage, breaking comfort zones, disturbing entrenched interests. Those would be my pronouncements at SONA.
Leadership is heavy, and I do not envy the chair. But weight does not absolve responsibility—it magnifies it.
If I were Boakai, I would fear history more than critics. Critics write columns. History writes verdicts.
If I were Boakai, I would move now—fast, hard, unapologetic. Because the next year will not negotiate.
And as the pomp and pageantry of SONA fills the hall today, I would remember—above the applause—that hardship still has a face, and time no longer has patience.
