By Sidiki Fofana | Truth in Ink
By 2004, the air in Monrovia was thick with anticipation. The news had broken that George Manneh Weah, the football icon beloved by millions, would be flying in to answer the call of politics. The Liberia Citizen Movement, led by Joshua Sackie, was preparing to petition him, and he was expected to attend his first organizing committee meeting of a proposed political institution.
That institution, later christened the Congress for Democratic Change (CDC), was a vision birthed by the Liberian people from different countries, thirty-two men and women were entrusted to organize and lead the movement, among them Hon. Varfley Dolleh, who proposed the name after an earlier one was rejected by the National Elections Commission.
It was the moment when Liberia’s Lone Star captain was about to transform from a sports hero into a political leader. Excitement gripped the city. Yet even in that moment of political awakening, there were challenges.
The organizers soon realized that their humble 14th Street residence, then serving as the provisional headquarters, was far too small to host the thousands of Liberians expected to attend the petition ceremony. Worse still, the interim government, which at the time favored Cllr. Varney Sherman’s presidential bid, refused to grant the use of public facilities like the Antoinette Tubman Stadium or Tubman High School field.
When it seemed impossible, the unexpected happened. The Mayor of Monrovia broke ranks with the political elites and opened the doors of the Monrovia City Hall. That act not only gave the CDC its first historic gathering place, but it also symbolized how a movement, once dismissed, could find space in a system designed to shut it out.
Stigmatized Yet Strengthened
In those early days, there were no “Weahcians,” “Fallahcians,” or “Saahcians.” There were only CDCians, ordinary Liberians bound together by shared frustration and hope. Yet the establishment branded them with names meant to humiliate: “hooligans,” “societal rejects,” “remnants of the warring factions,” even “prostitutes.”
These labels, instead of weakening the movement, hardened its resolve. Ironically, they attracted even more Liberians who had long felt abandoned by their government. For the first time, the neglected found a home in politics.
A Vision Beyond Four Walls
After the petition program, and with George Weah’s continued presence at the cramped 14th Street headquarters, the organizers knew the space was inadequate for their vision. This was not just a movement fighting for legitimacy, it was one imagining itself as the political home of the masses.
The CDC’s survival through lawsuits, NEC registration battles, and even questions around Weah’s citizenship proved one thing: this movement was built to outlive adversity. What it needed next was a headquarters that would reflect that resilience. Three qualities guided the search:
- Size: large enough to host rallies and programs without begging for space.
- Visibility: a location whose mere presence would announce permanence.
- Accessibility: so ordinary Liberians could easily find and reach it.
Within Monrovia, these dreams materialized in Congo Town along Tubman Boulevard. Through George Weah’s connections, the CDC entered into a lease agreement with the Barnard family, represented by and through Mr. Archie Bernard, who would later become Legal Advisor to the presidency in 2017.
What stood there before was nothing but an abandoned property, overrun with weeds, snakes, and scraps of old machinery. What the CDC did was the beginning of its ” change” philosophy. It changed a relic of oligarchic neglect and turned it into one of Liberia’s most famous, vibrant and valuable properties within the Republic.
The headquarters became not just a structure, but a monument of struggle, survival, and hope. In this new home was also the famous “sycamore tree”, a resting place and a training ground for cadres of the revolution.
More Than Bricks, More Than Rent
For nearly two decades, that Congo Town residence embodied the CDC’s journey. It was where history was made, where voices of the voiceless were amplified, and where the neglected masses finally felt they belonged to the Liberian story.
That is why today, as talk of eviction clouds its walls, the pain runs deeper than legal technicalities. It is not just the loss of a building. It is the possible erasure of a legacy built on sacrifice, rejection, resilience, and belonging. And this is why the CDC fights not to claim the ownership of the property, but to ensure its right , as a law – abiding tenant, is protected inspired by the history of that place.
For the CDC, eviction is not only about rights of property, it is about the rights of history, memory, identity, and residence.
But history is never free from disputes. Enter Ibrahim Dempster, who, claiming heirship to the estate of Martha Stubblefield, challenged Archie Bernard’s ownership, to whom the CDC had been faithfully paying $25,000 annually for over a decade.
In 2016, a lower court affirmed Dempster as the legitimate owner, forcing the CDC into a new business relationship while setting the stage for years of legal uncertainty.
That settlement, however, was not the end, it was the beginning of a long legal war that placed the party in both a peculiar and indecisive position.
The Dempster claims and the courtroom wars continue,
to be told in Part II of “The CDC’s Eviction: A Journey of Rights & Residence.”
