From London’s Fleet Street to New York’s Fifth Avenue, speculation and gossip have always been the fuel that powers the global media machine. Whether it’s the scandalous dalliances of a Capitol Hill power broker or the latest rumours from Buckingham Palace, no figure in public life is immune to a good old-fashioned tabloid takedown. 

Yet, the story published by The Voice—suggesting that President Barrow had chosen businessman Muhammed Jah as his political heir—was barely a ripple in the tempestuous sea of media muckraking. It was political conjecture at its most benign—a standard piece of reportage that wouldn’t even make it to Page Six in the New York Post, let alone catch the eye of the hard-nosed editors on Fleet Street. 

And yet, President Barrow’s response was an overblown display of indignation more suited to the tantrums of a medieval monarch than the measured demeanour of a modern democratic leader.

Just as King Henry VII cracked down on dissenters, Barrow is now wielding legal threats like royal decrees, trying to gag the press. If ever there was a moment to make the late Pa Nderry Mbai of Freedom Newspaper rise from his grave, this is it.

The fearless muckraker who made tyrants sweat would be back in a heartbeat, pen in hand, ready to rip into this brazen assault on free speech. It’s the kind of move that would have him churning out exposés faster than a Fleet Street editor chasing a royal scandal, exposing Barrow’s desperate bid to silence the media by relying on a rogues’ gallery of corrupt lawyers, shady laws, and a judiciary as shaky as a wobbly pub stool.  

Barrow’s legal assault is reminiscent of using a sledgehammer to crack a nut, considering that the story in The Voice was neither a breach of national security nor an exposé on his private life, but mere speculation—a political parlour game that plays out in democracies around the world.   

Simply put, The Voice’s report wasn’t some salacious tabloid scoop meant to sully the President’s reputation. It was political speculation—a standard exercise of free speech and a routine element of media coverage in any functioning democracy. 

Consider the treatment that leaders like Joe Biden endure in the United States. They are picked apart, lampooned, and speculated upon by the press to an almost absurd degree. The American media, like their British counterparts, have mastered the art of turning every political hiccup into a headline sensation. 

Remember when The New York Times ran multiple stories scrutinising Biden’s handling of the pandemic, or the constant speculation by Fox News and others about his mental acuity? These leaders shrug it off, recognizing that a free and critical press is an essential pillar of democratic governance.

The British tabloids, in particular, have taken this to another level. They’ve built an entire industry on transforming political gaffes into front-page sensations. Think back to when The Daily Mail speculated endlessly about the Queen’s supposed displeasure with Boris Johnson, or the relentless focus on his personal life. 

Leaders in mature democracies understand this scrutiny as part of the job description, knowing that confronting the press with lawsuits or threats only fans the flames of controversy.

For those familiar with the antics of the British tabloids, this is a tempest in a teacup. Imagine the Daily Mail or The Sun being sued every time they speculated on the future of the monarchy or the potential successor to No. 10 Downing Street. Their editors would be in court more often than they are in the newsroom. 

But Barrow, it seems, has misjudged the stakes entirely. Instead of letting the story fizzle out on its own—a mere footnote in the annals of political gossip—he’s escalated it into a full-blown crisis, unleashing his legal hounds with all the fury of a ruler under siege. In what could have been a fleeting blip on the radar of public discourse has now become a cause célèbre, with The Voice enjoying the kind of attention that Fleet Street editors would envy. 

The story in The Voice was no breach of national security, no exposé on his private life, but mere speculation—a political parlour game that plays out in democracies around the world. Had the President’s team issued a carefully crafted statement instead of a courtroom ultimatum, this whole episode could have been resolved in a matter of hours. Instead, they have turned a minor media mishap into a major political miscalculation.

Remember the News of the World hacking scandal? That was no ordinary case of journalistic overreach—it was a sordid saga of clandestine phone taps and illicit scoops that culminated in the dramatic downfall of a once-mighty tabloid. 

The relentless pursuit of a scoop cost the paper its reputation, its readership, and ultimately, its very existence. The Leveson Inquiry that followed was a grim reckoning for Fleet Street, a stark reminder that the Fourth Estate, for all its freedoms, must tread carefully on the line between investigation and invasion. 

In contrast, The Voice’s story was an innocent lamb—no hacking, no subterfuge, just a bit of political prognostication. Thus, the President’s decision to pursue legal action against The Voice reflects a profound miscalculation, more emblematic of an insecure administration than a leader confident in his position.

Rather than opting for a measured, composed response to the speculation, the President chose to escalate the matter, thereby giving it more prominence than it would have otherwise had. This move has inadvertently fuelled public interest and speculation, making the administration appear intolerant of dissent.

In a well-functioning democratic dispensation, before unleashing a flurry of legal threats, one would assume the President sought counsel from his Justice Ministry or, at the very least, the Ministry of Information. A capable Justice Minister, versed in the principles of press freedom and the parameters of defamation law, would have pointed out that The Voice article was neither a threat to national security nor an intrusion into the private life of a public man. 

The story, however speculative, was within the boundaries of political discourse—a right enshrined in the very fabric of democratic dialogue. A prudent legal adviser would have recommended a tempered response: a statement to refute the claims, to reaffirm the President’s commitment to transparency, and to stress the importance of a free press in holding leaders accountable. After all, in the theatre of public opinion, it is not the claim but the response that often draws the spotlight.

A good communications adviser would have done even more. The Ministry of Information, under competent stewardship, would have recognised that escalating a non-story into a legal circus is a surefire way to amplify the very narrative the President sought to quash. 

A well-crafted rejoinder would have sufficed—a clear, concise message that addressed the public’s concerns without fanning the flames of controversy. This is Crisis Communications 101: Don’t feed the trolls. Instead, Barrow’s camp handed the story back to the media on a silver platter, complete with the garnish of legal drama and the inevitable speculation that follows.

In the world of tabloids, there’s an unwritten rule: never let a good story die. By escalating this non-issue into a public spectacle, President Barrow has played directly into the hands of the very media he sought to silence. 

Now, instead of quietly fading away, the story has grown legs, with the President cast not as the wronged party, but as a leader struggling to control the narrative. It’s a classic case of the hunter becoming the hunted, a miscalculation that has left the administration looking overbearing and out of touch in the eyes of a public accustomed to the rough-and-tumble of tabloid journalism.

And then we have Ida Drammeh & Co., the President’s legal team, who in their rush to defend the indefensible, displayed an ignorance of media law that is as staggering as it is alarming. To suggest that a piece of speculative journalism, however flawed, constitutes a legal violation is laughable, and it betrays a fundamental misunderstanding of both legal and journalistic principles. 

One might wonder if this team, along with the President, are even aware of the thresholds for defamation, especially concerning public figures, where the burden of proof is considerably higher. It is not enough to be offended; one must prove actual malice—a concept evidently as foreign to them as journalistic ethics are to the majority of the Gambian legal fraternity.

The letter they sent to the media wasn’t just riddled with grammatical howlers but was a shambolic display of incoherence, as if it had been cobbled together by a group of paralegal interns on their lunch break. But who’s really surprised, given the sorry state of legal writing from most lawyers in the Gambian press? 

Their published articles are littered with run-on sentences, subject-verb disagreements, and misused punctuation, showcasing a complete disregard for basic grammar rules. It’s the kind of writing that would have any English professor reaching for the red pen, as every paragraph descends into a tangled mess of muddled arguments and confusing prose, making their legal points as clear as fog on a rainy day.

In a nutshell, the letter from the Ida Drammeh & Associates, read more like a patchwork of clichés and buzzwords than a serious legal document. This reflects a broader malaise within the Gambian legal system, where the quality of legal practice often falls short of the expected standard. 

Many of these so-called “learned friends” are anything but, having coasted through a system that rewards mediocrity and punishes innovation. Few Gambian lawyers can write with any semblance of clarity or precision, and those who dare to venture into the realm of legal writing often do so with a heavy reliance on poorly synthesised precedents, inadequate articulation, and, yes, outright plagiarism. 

We know who you are, and we’ll be more than ready to expose your slipshod practices when the time is right. This isn’t a game of cat and mouse—it’s a ticking time bomb, and when it goes off, all the dirty laundry will be aired out for everyone to see. So, keep your eyes peeled, because when the scandal breaks, it’ll be front-page news with your names all over it.

It is also worth mentioning that a vast majority of Gambian lawyers are unqualified to deal with the complexities of media law. They are more accustomed to handling the mundane cases of land disputes and minor infractions than grappling with the nuanced requirements of defamation and press freedom. 

This lack of expertise is apparent in the shoddy quality of legal documents they produce, which are often more embarrassing than enlightening. The document sent to The Voice was a prime example of this incompetence—a cobbled-together, poorly articulated threat that did more to undermine the President’s credibility than the original story ever could.

One has to wonder if the President realises that by engaging such a team of solicitors, he has done more damage to his own image than The Voice ever could. A competent legal adviser would have known that no law was broken here, that the story was neither a threat to national security nor an intrusion into the private life of a public figure. 

A more seasoned legal team would have advised restraint, recognising that sometimes the best course of action is to let a story die a natural death. Instead, Ida Drammeh & Co. have shown themselves to be as clueless about media law as the administration they serve is about democratic principles.

Rather than acting as the first line of defence for reason and legality, these lawyers have embraced a “get-rich-quick” mentality, chasing fees instead of justice. In their haste to cash in, they’ve overlooked the fundamental question: Does this matter even belong in court?

It seems they couldn’t care less, as long as the client is willing to pay the right amount. This transactional approach to law has reduced their role from legal guardians to mere mercenaries, ready to go to battle over any trivial slight if the price is right.

Let me put this on record: Ida Drammeh & Co., along with their client, President Barrow, have not only made Musa Sheriff and Justice Darboe famous, but they have also inadvertently made themselves notorious. In their bid to clamp down on The Voice newspaper, they’ve turned its editor and his legal defender into symbols of defiance, catapulting them to a level of recognition and respect they might never have achieved otherwise. 

In doing so, Drammeh and Barrow have etched their own names into the annals of Gambian history, not as defenders of the law, but as mercenary lawyers and a misguided leader trying to stifle the free press.

The question of press freedom and defamation is not new. In international law, Article 19 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights both protect freedom of expression and, by extension, a free press. Regionally, the African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights underscores these freedoms. 

The New York Times Co. v. Sullivan (1964) case in the United States set a crucial precedent, making it clear that public figures must prove actual malice to win defamation suits, thereby giving the press the latitude to investigate and critique those in power without undue fear of retribution. 

Similarly, in Hustler Magazine v. Falwell (1988), the U.S. Supreme Court upheld the protection of even offensive speech, emphasising the importance of safeguarding the press’s role in democratic discourse.

In the UK, similar principles were reinforced in the landmark case of Reynolds v. Times Newspapers Ltd [2001] 2 AC 127, where the House of Lords established the “Reynolds Privilege.” 

This doctrine allowed journalists to report on matters of public interest without being liable for defamation, provided they had acted responsibly and with due diligence. 

The case involved former Irish Prime Minister Albert Reynolds, who sued The Sunday Times for defamation. The court’s ruling underscored the necessity of a free press in a democratic society, acknowledging the press’s duty to inform the public on matters of political and social significance.

This principle was further solidified in Jameel v. Wall Street Journal Europe [2006] UKHL 44, where the House of Lords applied the Reynolds defense to protect the newspaper from defamation claims. The Wall Street Journal Europe had reported that Saudi businessman Mohammed Jameel’s company was being monitored by U.S. authorities for terrorist funding. 

Despite the sensitive nature of the report, the court ruled in favor of the newspaper, highlighting the importance of a free press and the right to report on matters of significant public interest without being unduly constrained by defamation laws.

These cases from the UK, alongside the American precedents, illustrate a global judicial recognition that while the reputation of individuals, particularly public figures, must be protected, the media’s role in fostering transparency and holding power to account is paramount. 

The Defamation Act 2013 in the UK has further codified these protections, providing a clear public interest defence and thereby ensuring that journalists can report robustly on issues of significance without the constant threat of legal action stifling their voices.

In countries like the United States, these protections are enshrined under the First Amendment, which forms the bedrock of press freedom, ensuring that the press can scrutinise the powerful and report on public matters without undue interference. 

The case law developed in both the U.S. and the UK demonstrates a shared legal heritage that values a free and independent press as a cornerstone of democratic society, with courts consistently defending the right of the media to challenge and critique those in power while balancing the rights of individuals against unwarranted defamatory attacks.

Locally, the courts have occasionally taken a similar stance. In the case of Sanna Ticks Manneh versus the Jawara regime, the editor of the Torch Newspaper published a series of articles critical of the government, leading to his arrest and the subsequent closure of his newspaper.

Despite the repression, Manneh’s tenacity and the support of the international community highlighted the importance of a free press. It underscored the principle that even in the face of government overreach, the role of the press is to challenge authority and provide a platform for public discourse, no matter how uncomfortable it may be for those in power.

Similarly, during the Jammeh era, journalists faced severe repression, but there were notable legal victories. One notable case involved journalist Abdoulie Ceesay, the managing director of Teranga FM, who was arrested and detained multiple times in 2015 on charges of sedition and “publication of false news.” 

After enduring months of imprisonment and even torture, Ceesay was unexpectedly released in April 2016 following a court decision. His case was significant because it drew widespread attention and condemnation from international human rights organisations, putting pressure on the Jammeh regime to release him. 

Despite this rare victory, Ceesay had to flee the country for his safety, underscoring the precarious situation for journalists even when they managed to win in court​.

But let’s not let The Voice off the hook so easily. Despite their role as the supposed underdog in this saga, the newspaper has also failed in its duty as a responsible media outlet. Joseph Pulitzer, the Hungarian-American publisher who revolutionised modern journalism, famously equated accuracy to virtue in a woman. His words serve as a timeless reminder to journalists everywhere: “When in doubt, don’t publish.” 

Had The Voice adhered to this principle, cross-checking their sources and verifying the claims more thoroughly, this entire debacle could have been avoided. The story’s lack of due diligence has not only caused an unnecessary political stir but also undermined the credibility of a press already struggling to establish itself in a nascent democracy.

So here we are, with both sides playing the victim but in reality both are culprits. The Voice, in its eagerness to break a story, neglected its journalistic responsibilities. The President, in his haste to silence what he perceived as an affront, misjudged the appropriate response. What should have been a minor blip on the political radar has now spiralled into a full-blown crisis, with the media and the government each digging in their heels.

Now let’s address why President Barrow’s response was not only heavy-handed but also fundamentally flawed. For one, the story was not entirely false. It’s no secret that political circles in The Gambia have long speculated about Barrow’s succession plans. 

While the article may have lacked the concrete evidence to substantiate its claims, it touched on a topic that has been a subject of public discourse for some time. Instead of acknowledging this and using it as an opportunity to clarify his position, Barrow chose to go on the offensive, effectively validating the public’s perception that he is intolerant of scrutiny.

Furthermore, the notion that Barrow has, at times, shown favoritism towards businessmen like Muhammed Jah is not entirely baseless. Jah’s visible support for Barrow and his prominent role in the business community have fueled speculations about their relationship and the potential political implications. Barrow’s administration would have been better served by addressing these speculations head-on, rather than dismissing them with legal threats.

However, this kind of overreach by the presidency is not a novelty in The Gambia. From Jawara to Jammeh and now Barrow, the press and the presidency have periodically locked horns in a tug-of-war that feels more like a ritualistic duel than a genuine clash of ideals. 

It’s a narrative that plays out with the predictability of a well-worn script, where presidents, ever-sensitive to criticism, lash out at the media, and the media, undeterred, continues to poke the bear. 

However, unlike his predecessors, Barrow’s approach to dealing with the media is perplexingly incoherent, lacking the calculated intent that characterised the actions of Jawara and Jammeh.

Jawara, with his paternalistic governance style, would occasionally clamp down on the press under the guise of maintaining stability and safeguarding the nascent democracy. 

His measures, while restrictive, were often presented as necessary evils, cloaked in the language of national unity and public good. Jammeh, the quintessential strongman, had no such qualms about appearing authoritarian. 

He wielded the machinery of the state with brutal precision, his actions guided by a ruthless logic that saw any dissent as a direct threat to his stranglehold on power. The suppression of journalists under his rule, though horrific, followed a grimly predictable script.

But Barrow’s heavy-handedness seems almost farcical in comparison. His erratic swings between appeasement and aggression suggest a leader who is less in control than he is being controlled. His actions are not born out of a Machiavellian strategy but rather from the confusion of a leader who seems to be taking direction from a motley crew of political opportunists, the so-called “Banjul Mafias,” who are more concerned with their own survival than with any coherent vision for the country. 

It is as if Barrow, lacking the intellectual pedigree to navigate the complexities of governance on his own, has surrendered his agency, becoming a puppet to be manipulated by those who whisper in his ear.

His reaction to the press is symptomatic of this larger issue. Unlike Jammeh, who would justify his repression as necessary for state security, or Jawara, who would lean on the moral high ground of unity, Barrow’s actions lack both a clear cause and a coherent justification. 

His attempts to silence the media do not stem from a place of strategic necessity but from a knee-jerk reaction to anything that threatens the precarious balance of power that keeps him afloat. In essence, Barrow’s presidency is a muddle of contradictory impulses, where the media is less an enemy to be vanquished and more a scapegoat for his own inadequacies.

One must ask, who is really pulling the strings? Barrow’s actions against the press suggest a man more concerned with placating his handlers than with upholding the principles of democracy. 

It’s a sad spectacle—an administration swayed not by policy or principle but by the shifting allegiances of a shadowy inner circle. His legal onslaught against The Voice is not the mark of a strong leader asserting control, but rather a sign of a leader flailing, desperate to appear decisive even as he is being led by the nose.

Evidently, Barrow’s treatment of the press reveals a president who, far from being the master of his own fate, is ensnared in a web of his own making. His heavy-handed response to criticism is not a show of strength but a desperate attempt to shore up his crumbling authority. 

He has become a caricature of leadership, a figurehead who lashes out at the media not because he believes in the necessity of doing so, but because those around him have convinced him that it is his only option.

As such, no one should lose sleep over this current kerfuffle—not even those who champion the independence of the free press. It’s a storm in a teacup, a choreographed circus that has seen many an act before. 

Neither Barrow nor The Voice is a victim here, despite both parties playing the victim card with the gusto of seasoned actors on a political stage. If we are to learn anything from history, it’s that these media-government skirmishes are part and parcel of the democratic process. They are messy, they are noisy, but they are essential.

There are no winners here—just a host of losers, and the biggest of them all is the Gambian taxpayer, whose hard-earned dalasis are now being funneled into this legal circus. Make no mistake, Ida Drammeh & Associates are raking in millions from this case, regardless of any claims that it’s pro bono. 

In the African context, proximity to power is more lucrative than any fee structure could reveal. Representing the President, even in such a convoluted matter, grants a veneer of credibility that can be wielded like a golden ticket, allowing them to hoodwink the public into believing they are competent legal minds.

But let’s be clear: this is all smoke and mirrors. This entire case is nothing short of mutually assured destruction. For argument’s sake, let’s say the matter goes to court and the President wins. 

What then? A journalist is jailed, or worse, The Voice is shut down. What message does that send? Instead of fostering employment, the President will have succeeded in creating unemployment, shuttering an entire newsroom. 

It’s counterproductive, to say the least. Last time I checked, newspapers pay taxes too. So, in the grand scheme of things, the state’s coffers will be lighter, not heavier. The government gains nothing but a hollow victory, while the press, instead of being silenced, will only grow louder in its defiance. 

Closing down a newspaper does not erase the voices of dissent; it amplifies them. It’s a PR disaster in the making, an own goal of the highest order. And as for the taxpayer, well, they’re left holding the bill. Because in the end, this legal debacle isn’t about justice or press freedom—it’s about a power play gone wrong. 

The only thing being gained here is a payday for a law firm that, thanks to its newfound association with the Presidency, has garnered a level of prestige that far outweighs its legal acumen. 

This isn’t just a legal case; it’s a stage show, and the audience—every Gambian citizen—is paying the price for a performance they never wanted to see. 

See part 2 in the subsequent edition. 

By Arfang Madi Sillah, 

Washington DC