By Sherman C. Seequeh
Monrovia is being unmade in the name of order.
Homes are falling. Livelihoods are collapsing. A pervasive, state-sponsored demolition campaign is unfolding across the city, and with every fallen structure, the social fabric thins further. Tears are forming seas.
If I were Boakai, I would understand that order pursued without justice is not stability—it is violence administered with paperwork.
Children are wandering between rubble and uncertainty. Some are school-going; others are preparing to sit national examinations this year. They are perplexed, displaced, and emotionally disoriented—unsure whether they will be relocated far from their original homes, far from their schools, far from the fragile routines that sustain learning.
If I were Boakai, I would refuse to let children become collateral damage in the enforcement of urban policy.
Schools are already strained. Families are already stretched. The state is now adding trauma.
If I were Boakai, I would ask how a government can credibly champion education while destabilizing the very conditions that make learning possible.
Single parents—mostly women—and the urban poor are being pushed into what can only be described as social crucibles. For them, a demolished home is not simply lost shelter; it is lost income, lost safety, lost dignity, and lost stability.
If I were Boakai, I would recognize that when the poor lose their homes, they do not simply relocate—they unravel. Authority is being asserted. Notices are being issued. But humanity appears absent.
If I were Boakai, I would know that authority exercised without humane transition is not governance—it is institutional cruelty.
Yes, the state has the right to regulate land use. Yes, public spaces must be protected. Yes, illegality cannot be permanent.
If I were Boakai, I would also know that order enforced without proportionality becomes oppression by another name.
Development cannot be measured only in cleared spaces and reclaimed land.
If I were Boakai, I would reject any vision of order that modernizes the city by impoverishing its residents.
The demolitions are ongoing. The suffering is immediate. The silence from the highest levels is loud.
If I were Boakai, I would order an immediate moratorium on residential demolitions affecting vulnerable communities—not to excuse illegality, but to restore humanity, proportionality, and justice to the process. Policy must be accountable.
If I were Boakai, I would demand a transparent public audit of every demolition order—who authorized it, under what law, with what notice, and with what resettlement or compensation framework.
Cities are not governed by bulldozers alone.
If I were Boakai, I would bring educators, social workers, community leaders, planners, and human-rights voices to the table—because order without consent breeds resistance.
Strength is not demonstrated by how hard the state can strike.
If I were Boakai, I would demonstrate leadership by how carefully the state handles the suffering of the powerless.
A president must not govern from a distance.
If I were Boakai, I would go where the dust still hangs, where families sleep in uncertainty, and declare clearly: order will not be built by breaking citizens.
History is watching this moment.
If I were Boakai, I would ensure it remembers whether, when power was at its peak, the presidency chose justice over haste and humanity over force.
Because Monrovia must never be rebuilt on the tears of its poorest citizens.
