By Oumar Farouk Sesay
According to the local lore, the song “Koko Ros” was composed by Dr. Orloh, in the wake of a personal rupture—his divorce. On the surface, it is draped in melody and rhythm. Beneath that, it is an allegorical jab at his former wife’s preferences and, more pointedly, her character. The song hides its bitterness in the folds of harmony, embedding insults in art.
“Koko Ros” is hardly unique. Other wedding “diss tracks” like “Awl you compin den dae na man ose, you jis dae pass en sell sawa sawa” belong to the same informal tradition—vulgar, sometimes misogynistic, and aimed more at humiliating rivals than entertaining guests. In the private space of street corners and dance floors, such songs are socially tolerated—sometimes even laughed off. In polite company, their whole meaning is better left unexplored.
But something unsettling has happened. What began as a private taunt has metastasized into a political anthem. Once confined to weddings, “Koko Ros” found its way into the State Opening of Parliament—one of Sierra Leone’s most solemn and symbolically charged national ceremonies.
This was not a slip of the DJ’s playlist. It was deliberate—performed live on national television, in full view of the citizenry and the world. A day meant to reaffirm democratic principles and unity was hijacked by partisan theatrics. And this was no neutral choice of music—it was a song laced with misogyny, personal vendetta, and political mockery, pumped into the heart of a constitutional ritual.
“The sanctity of Parliament must never be compromised for the convenience of party theatrics.”
Even some opposition members reportedly joined in this choir of shame. And when the First Lady refused to stand for the protocol and symbolism of the House, the ultimate casualty was not a political figure—it was the dignity of the Sierra Leonean state itself. Had she stood, she would have been taller than those who dwarf the Republic with petty behaviour.
Some will dismiss this as party culture, pointing to the SLPP convention where the same song was sung and quickly brushed aside. But this is not harmless folklore. It is institutional vandalism performed under the false banner of free expression.
When party theatrics are spliced into state solemnity, the danger is not merely indecorum—it is erosion. It collapses the vital boundary between partisan loyalty and national responsibility. When the music of mockery becomes the soundtrack to state functions, the state itself becomes the punchline.
This was not an “oops” moment. It was a calculated, televised humiliation. And while some may call it trivial, the implications are profound. A government that came to power promising a “New Direction” and a rebranding of Sierra Leone’s image has instead paraded unseriousness, disrespect, and internal decay before the world.
Rather than polishing our global reputation, we dragged it through the mud—like a cow on ice, flailing gracelessly. The message to the world was not one of progress but of pettiness and decline.
A nation can not take flight with its head buried in the sand: So yes, “Ar dae fly, for rebrand de kontry.” But the question is not whether we are flying—it is “where” we are going, “how” we are flying,” and “what” we are dragging behind us. Right now, we are circling in turbulence, weighed down by partisanship, pettiness, and performative politics.
We cannot claim to modernize while trivializing the institutions that anchor our democracy. We can not sell the world a narrative of reform while turning our national ceremonies into political music videos. We can not elevate our global image while dragging our national dignity through the dirt.
This is not about a song—it is about a culture of carelessness, a creeping indifference to symbolism, solemnity, and the sanctity of public office. Parliament is not a stage for party antics. It is not a playlist for internal grudges. It is the seat of our collective conscience. When it is desecrated, it is not only the chamber that suffers—it is the soul of the republic.
If the government truly believes in a “New Direction,” it must turn away from spectacle and toward humility, accountability, and respect for state institutions.
History will not remember the hit song or the chant. It will remember who stood for the dignity of our institutions—and who danced as they crumbled.
Mr. President, as I said in my previous open letter, you still have time to turn this around. Do it now—or history will not be kind.
Lonta!
