In Liberia, the halls of power echo with something more than political debates. They now reverberate with the sound of slammed doors—those being shut firmly in the face of transparency. As citizens demand answers and reformers call for sunlight, lawmakers are drawing the blinds, digging in their heels, and making clear that, when it comes to openness, they’re not ready to play ball.
It all began with a simple request—an entirely reasonable one at that. Civil society groups and a growing chorus of citizens had been pressing for clarity on how much lawmakers earn, how those funds are used, and whether spending aligns with national priorities. But when the Public Financial Management Committee proposed measures to increase legislative transparency, they hit a brick wall, one constructed with the kind of political mortar only insiders know how to mix.
What followed was equal parts predictable and infuriating: committee members balked, debate was derailed, and the proposal was shelved indefinitely. As one insider put it, “They killed it before it could grow legs.” And just like that, the effort to shed light on the inner workings of Liberia’s legislature was quietly buried—no funeral, no ceremony, and certainly no explanation.
This resistance has reignited a longstanding tension between Liberia’s elected officials and the public that puts them in office. For years, allegations of lavish perks, murky allowances, and unaccounted travel budgets have dogged the National Legislature. Yet efforts to scrutinize the finances of parliamentarians often meet a strangely unified wall of bipartisan silence. It seems transparency, unlike budget hikes, rarely gets across-the-aisle support.
President Joseph Boakai’s administration had hoped to shift that narrative. Sweeping into office earlier this year on a platform of anti-corruption and accountability, Boakai promised to clean up government, starting with his own house. But even as the executive branch opens its books, it appears the legislature didn’t get—or didn’t like—the memo. And now, critics say, the credibility of Boakai’s entire governance reform agenda hangs in the balance.
What’s most galling for many Liberians is the sheer audacity of the legislature’s move. While the average citizen grapples with skyrocketing prices, fuel shortages, and underfunded schools and hospitals, lawmakers are perceived as sitting atop golden thrones built on the backs of taxpayers. A proposal that would simply disclose how those taxpayer funds are spent shouldn’t be controversial—but in Monrovia, it’s revolutionary.
Opposition lawmakers insist their resistance is grounded in principle, not paranoia. They argue that disclosure rules could be used as a political weapon, unfairly targeting dissenters and stifling parliamentary independence. But transparency advocates aren’t buying it. “It’s the oldest trick in the book,” says Trokon Koffa, a civil society activist based in Buchanan. “When people are afraid of being watched, it usually means they’ve got something to hide.”
It’s not just activists making noise. Liberia’s youth—long disillusioned but increasingly vocal—have taken to social media and the streets to decry what they see as institutional arrogance. Memes mocking lawmakers’ reluctance to open their books have gone viral. One popular image shows a cartoon parliament building wrapped in chains, guarded by oversized dollar signs.
But there’s more at stake than internet satire. Transparency is not a luxury; it’s the foundation of good governance. Without it, the public trust erodes, policy loses legitimacy, and corruption thrives. Liberia, still recovering from the twin traumas of civil war and the Ebola epidemic, can ill afford another crisis of confidence in its democratic institutions.
The international community is watching, too. Liberia remains heavily dependent on donor funding, and development partners have increasingly tied support to governance reforms. Several diplomatic sources say they’re “closely monitoring” the legislature’s actions, and some have warned that stonewalling transparency could jeopardize future aid packages.
Still, hope lingers. A few brave lawmakers have broken ranks, speaking publicly in favor of greater openness. “We must lead by example,” said one junior legislator during a recent radio interview. “If we cannot show the people how we spend their money, we do not deserve their votes.” It was a rare moment of candor—and a reminder that all is not lost.
The bigger question now is whether these lone voices can build momentum—or whether the fortress of secrecy will hold. For President Boakai, the next steps are critical. If he presses too hard, he risks alienating the very lawmakers he needs to pass reforms. If he backs down, he could lose the moral high ground he campaigned on. It’s a high-wire act with no safety net.
One thing’s certain: the Liberian people are watching. And while the legislature may be hiding behind procedural excuses and parliamentary privilege, the pressure is mounting. Because sooner or later, even the most well-fortified curtain gets pulled back. And when it does, what’s revealed may not just embarrass a few lawmakers—it could shake the entire system.
