What does the Evidence Act 1994 say about whether secret recordings count as electronic records and their admissibility? How is it treated when an electronic record—like an audio file, tape, or video capture — is presented on secondary media instead of the original recording device?

Having reported from Gambian courtrooms earlier in my career, I still deeply respect the law and the institutions entrusted with administering justice. Yet I approach this subject neither as a lawyer nor as a legal vulture.

Instead, I write as a citizen and former court reporter to ask one central question: how should The Gambia’s legal system respond to digital evidence in a changing age? The Gambia’s Evidence Act guides the admission and evaluation of evidence, but the digital age is creating new realities that legislators of previous generations could scarcely have imagined.

From secret audio recordings and screenshots to encrypted messages and artificial intelligence, profound questions are emerging about authenticity, privacy, fairness, and truth.
This article doesn’t answer those questions definitively; it focuses on that central question and invites a broader national conversation.

Who owns the truth in the Digital Age? Questions the Evidence Act must answer. As smartphones, screenshots, secret recordings, WhatsApp messages, and digital surveillance become increasingly common in Gambian society, fundamental legal and ethical questions arise.

The central issue is whether courts can balance the search for truth against the right to privacy while fairly addressing electronic evidence. This article places that question at the center of the discussion. It does not seek to provide definitive legal answers. Instead, it invites Gambian legal scholars, practitioners, judges, and policymakers into a national conversation about electronic evidence in the twenty-first century.

The digital revolution has transformed ordinary citizens into potential record-keepers. Every phone is now a camera. Every conversation can be recorded. People can capture, forward, copy, edit, share, or preserve every message forever.

Yet technology often outpaces the law.
Across The Gambia, citizens increasingly encounter audio recordings circulating on WhatsApp, screenshots appearing on social media, and secretly recorded conversations being deployed in political disputes, family disagreements, business conflicts, and public controversies.

These developments raise a central question: is the country’s legal framework adequately prepared for the age of digital evidence? Rather than offering legal conclusions, it may be more useful to ask questions that follow from these realities.

What exactly constitutes Electronic Evidence? When someone secretly records a conversation on a mobile phone, what evidence does the court actually receive? Is it the original conversation? Is it merely a digital file? Or is it a reproduction whose authenticity must first be established?

Likewise, when a screenshot is produced in court, should the image itself be presumed reliable, or should the court require access to the original device from which it was obtained? As these questions move from recordings to screenshots, how should the court establish authenticity?

Should secret recordings be treated differently? Suppose an individual records a conversation without informing the other party. Should secrecy alone make the recording inadmissible? Or should the court focus primarily on whether the recording reveals relevant facts?

If a secretly recorded conversation exposes corruption, fraud, extortion, blackmail, or serious misconduct, should the public interest outweigh privacy concerns? Conversely, if the same recording merely captures a private conversation between friends or family members, should different principles apply? Where exactly should the law draw the line?
When does privacy become more important than evidence?

Every democratic society must balance competing values. One value is the search for truth. Another is the protection of privacy. But what happens when those values collide? If a recording clearly proves wrongdoing but was obtained through intrusive conduct, should the evidence still be admitted? Would admitting such evidence encourage citizens to record one another secretly? Would excluding such evidence allow serious misconduct to go unpunished? As the balance grows harder to strike, how should judges decide?

What about screenshots? Screenshots are increasingly presented as proof of allegations. But what does a screenshot actually prove? Does it prove that a message existed? Does it prove who sent it? Does it prove the conversation hasn’t been altered? What safeguards should courts require before accepting screenshots as reliable evidence? Should a screenshot alone be sufficient? Or should courts insist upon verification through original phones, computers, service providers, or digital forensic experts?

The question of editing and manipulation. How should courts address allegations that a recording has been selectively edited? Suppose only thirty seconds of a twenty-minute discussion are presented. Should the court insist on hearing the complete conversation? If portions have been deleted, does that undermine credibility?

What legal standards should govern allegations of manipulation, splicing, cropping, or artificial intelligence enhancement? As these methods become easier to use, will AI-generated voices make authentication even harder in the future? From there, what does chain of custody look like in the WhatsApp era?

Traditional evidence law often emphasizes chain of custody. But how does chain of custody work when digital files are instantly shared among dozens, or even hundreds, of people? Suppose an audio recording begins on one phone but later passes through several WhatsApp groups before reaching investigators. How can anyone confidently establish that the version ultimately presented in court is identical to the original? In such circumstances, should courts require forensic verification?

Public Interest Versus Personal Rights

Consider a hypothetical scenario. A civil servant secretly records a superior demanding a bribe. Should the recording be excluded because it was secretly made? Or admitted because it exposes corruption? Now consider a different scenario. An individual secretly records a private family conversation and later uses selected excerpts to embarrass another person. Should identical legal principles apply? Or should courts distinguish between evidence obtained in the public interest and evidence obtained for personal advantage?

Are existing laws sufficient? Perhaps the most important question is whether existing legislation adequately addresses modern realities. When many evidentiary principles were first developed, smartphones, encrypted messaging applications, cloud storage, and artificial intelligence did not exist. Can statutes drafted in an earlier era effectively regulate digital evidence today? Or is legislative reform necessary?

As the discussion turns to reform, should Parliament consider clearer provisions on electronic records, digital authentication, screenshots, metadata, deepfakes, AI manipulation, privacy rights, and evidentiary standards for secret recordings?

An invitation to debate: These questions deserve careful reflection, not simplistic answers. The objective should not be to weaken privacy protections or obstruct the pursuit of truth. Rather, the challenge is to create a framework that protects both. With that in mind, Gambian legal scholars, judges, practitioners, journalists, civil society organizations, policymakers, and legal carpenters may need to engage more deeply with these questions.

The issue ultimately extends beyond secret recordings or screenshots. It concerns something larger and more central: how a democratic society should define truth, privacy, fairness, and justice in the digital age. That is the central question this article poses for The Gambia’s evolving democracy.

By Alagi Yorro Jallow