23/10/2025
Letter from Saclepea
With Musa Hassan Bility
Written in Maryland, USA.
The Little Girl from Ganta
It was a Saturday morning in Saclepea. I was getting ready to attend the Solidarity Rally in Ganta. The day was already heavy with plans, guests to meet, people to inspire, and a movement to push forward. I climbed the stairs, debating whether to step out onto the back porch for air, when a small voice called out from behind me.
“Papa,” she said softly, “I came for you to please help me. Can you help me with something to feed my son and myself?”
She was a little girl, hardly beyond her teens, standing there with courage in her eyes and sorrow on her face. I asked her gently, “Who is the father?”
She looked down, her voice trembling. “He is gone, Papa. He left me and the baby. He is in America now.”
I froze. “Where do you live?” I asked.
“In Ganta,” she said. “But I came all the way here just to see if you could help me. I am hungry. I do not have food. I am sorry.”
Her apology pierced through me. I looked at her, her little boy restless in her arms, eyes wide open, searching the world for comfort he had not yet known. Tears welled in her eyes, and they glimmered with that strange mix of pain and hope that only the truly broken can carry.
At that moment, my entire world stopped. I was born the son of a trader and a woman who spent her whole life farming just to survive, yet I have never known a pain that struck as deep as what I saw in her eyes.
I called my niece and said, “Take this little girl and her son to your auntie, tell her to speak with her. I want us to help her.” We gave her something to eat and told her to rest while I went on to the rally. But throughout that rally, through the crowds, the cheers, the promises of change, my mind never left that little girl and her child.
When I returned, I asked Mrs. Bility about her. She told me a story too painful to imagine, a young mother living in a dark cellar, sleeping in corners, without family, without food, and without hope. Her mother was gone. Her father was also gone. The man who gave her a child had abandoned and gone to America, leaving her to face the world alone.
That night, my wife and I decided to take her into our care. Find a place for her and her baby, put them in school, and create a future for them. We promised to look after her as one of our own.
But this story, this one story, is only a fragment of a much larger tragedy. There are thousands of girls like her across our country. Hungry. Homeless. Forgotten. And each one is a reflection of our national failure to protect the vulnerable and give dignity to people experiencing poverty.
As I sat thinking that night, I realized our problem is not the absence of wealth or opportunity. It is the absence of care. We have lost the ability to see ourselves in the eyes of the suffering.
That little girl from Ganta has become the voice that speaks to my conscience. Her tears have become the mirror of our nation’s wounds. Her story has reignited in me the fire to fight for change, not the change that comes through slogans, but the change that touches lives.
Liberia must change, for her, for her son, and for the hundreds of thousands of children whose dreams are buried beneath our silence.