By Sherman C. Seequeh
If I were Boakai, I would leave the Capitol Hill applauses behind and walk straight into the streets; I would do so because that is where the post-SONA reality actually lives and is overwhelmingly visible.
The urgent, threatening realities are not in the Legislative chambers. Not in the communiqués. The realities are among Liberia’s youth.
If I were Boakai, I would understand that every serious conversation about Liberia’s future begins and ends with its young people. They are the majority, they are the labor force, they are the vote bank, they are the protest line, and—if mismanaged—they become the pressure point of instability.
If I were Boakai, I would accept a difficult truth: Liberia’s youth are not angry because they are impatient; they are angry because they are stalled. Educated but unemployed. Energetic but unused. Vocal but unheard.
If I were Boakai, I would look past moral panic and ask structural questions: Where is the national youth employment pipeline? Where is the post-school transition strategy? Where is the vocational absorption plan? Where is the rehabilitation architecture for those already lost?
If I were Boakai, I would stop talking about youth only during campaigns and crises. Youth policy cannot be episodic. It must be structural.
If I were Boakai, I would remember that Liberia has lived this movie before. Idle youth were once called “boys on the street.” Yana boys. Pickpockets. Later, they were called fighters. Now, the are called Zoogo. Names change. Outcomes repeat.
If I were Boakai, I would fear the silence of Liberia’s young people, more than the shouting in the chambers. Because shouting in the chambers can be engaged. Silence amongst youth can harden. And there is no guarantee that youth anger will wait infinitely.
If I were Boakai, I would stop mistaking calm for consent. The youth are quiet—not because they are satisfied, but because they are exhausted. They have heard the speeches. They have memorized the promises. They know the language of reform by heart. What they do not know is where they fit in the country that keeps talking about them.
If I were Boakai, I would recognize that youth anger is no longer forming. It has formed. It is only deciding when to speak.
If I were Boakai, I would understand this brutal truth: young Liberians are not angry because of politics; they are angry because of life. Degrees that lead nowhere. Skills that meet closed doors. Loyalty that earns no access. Hard work that competes with favoritism.
If I were Boakai, I would stop explaining hardship and start dismantling it. Youth do not need context—they need oxygen. They do not need reassurance—they need routes.
If I were Boakai, I would know that the post-SONA moment is dangerous. Speeches raise expectations. Expectations unmet become resentment. Resentment unmanaged becomes resistance.
If I were Boakai, I would admit that youth policy has been cosmetic. Programs are announced without pipelines. Committees are formed without budgets. Platforms exist without authority. This is not empowerment—it is postponement.
If I were Boakai, I would stop outsourcing youth engagement to party structures. Youth are not appendages of political machines. They are citizens with independent grievances. When they are treated as mobilization tools rather than partners, anger hardens.
If I were Boakai, I would fear manipulation more than protest. Idle anger is a currency. And in Liberia, there is never a shortage of people willing to spend it recklessly. When the state disengages, spoilers move in.
If I were Boakai, I would remember that youth anger does not announce itself politely. It shows up suddenly—on streets, online, in defiance, in silence, in migration, in contempt for institutions.
If I were Boakai, I would know this: the youth are watching who gets appointed, who gets protected, who gets prosecuted, and who gets forgiven. Selective justice is not lost on them. Hypocrisy educates faster than policy.
If I were Boakai, I would stop confusing patience with loyalty. Young people are patient because they are hopeful. When hope dies, patience mutates into rage.
If I were Boakai, I would open real doors—not forums, not consultations, not photo-ops. Doors with authority behind them. Doors with timelines attached. Doors that lead somewhere.
If I were Boakai, I would attack youth unemployment with the same urgency used to defend power. Agriculture without land access is a slogan. Infrastructure without youth contractors is a missed opportunity. Education without jobs is institutional dishonesty.
If I were Boakai, I would act now—because youth anger does not need leadership to exist. It only needs leadership to prevent it from turning destructive.
If I were Boakai, getting into the streets would compel me appreciate the enigma of a segment of the youthful population derogatorily called Zoogo:
I would recognize that what we now call Zoogo did not fall from the sky. It is not an accident. It is what happens when prolonged youth neglect mutates into survival culture. Zoogo is not the youth—but it is a warning flare from within the youth population.
If I were Boakai, I would stop pretending Zoogo is separate from national youth policy. It is its failure case.
If I were Boakai, I would ask myself this: what does a 22-year-old with no job, no skills pipeline, no mentorship, and no trust in institutions do with his days? Some wait. Some migrate. Some organize. Some fall into drugs. None of that is random.
If I were Boakai, I would understand that youth abandonment creates parallel realities. Some youth hustle legally. Others hustle informally. A few hustle destructively. Zoogo is where abandonment, addiction, and alienation converge.
If I were Boakai, I would know that policing Zoogo without rehabilitating youth is like trimming leaves while roots grow wild.
If I were Boakai, I would grasp the national danger—not because Zoogo defines the youth, but because a society that allows its youth to rot publicly is signaling institutional surrender.
If I were Boakai, I would understand that Zoogo is not only a health issue—it is also a governance mirror. It reflects how long young people can be excluded before they opt out.
If I were Boakai, I would stop pretending time is neutral. Time is political. Every year of delay reshapes youth identity away from the state.
If I were Boakai, I would confront this: the future will not wait for reforms to mature. Youth do not live in five-year plans. They live in now.
If I were Boakai, I would act not because youth are a threat—but because they are the only solution. And I would remember this above all: Zoogo is not the story. Youth abandonment is. Fix the youth question, and Zoogo shrinks. Ignore the youth question, and Zoogo multiplies.
That is the post-SONA reality. And history is never gentle with leaders who ignored the youth.
God bless.
