Barely installed, the new President of the Republic, Bassirou Diomaye Diakhar Faye, anxious to avenge the little people, offers himself a heel kick in the truculent ant-hill of information: whistle-blowers, apparently indispensable to democratic transparency and good governance, deserve the Nation’s recognition, a status, special protection, a pedestal, what can I say, institutionalization.

Without this breed of intrepid heroes, apparently, Mamadou Bitiké’s country would be a permanent bamboula, where rascals and cronies would share the entrails of the people below and feast with impunity from generation to generation.

As proof of this, the former president of the public street, alias Pros, who reluctantly became Prime Minister, Pmos, set the tone for his conquest of power by publishing a pamphlet on Senegalese oil… In presenting this little masterpiece, he made it clear that he was almost forced to publish it, as the breed of journalists were so corrupt that none of these toads would dare publish such truths.

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Of course, no one in the press was offended: just think, it’s the President of the public street, Ousmane Sonko, alias Pros, himself, who’s talking…

And then, it’s common knowledge: we journalists are the sell-outs, the corrupt, the renegades who sold our souls, and maybe even more, for three bits. To put it simply, we are the complicit caste of the defunct regime who knowingly bury the scandals that they, then heralds of the opposition, denounce at the risk of their lives and their freedom; we do even worse by endorsing the sordid conspiracies that get them thrown in jail, in order to facilitate the illegitimate (and even illegal, depending on your point of view) third mandate of Macky Sall, the Supreme Corrupter.

In short, since April 2, 2024, the revolutionary tide carrying President Bassirou Diomaye Faye to the Palace has been promising to reinvent the wheel. This is undoubtedly the “Project” that everyone is talking about, but nobody knows much about…

Of course, among journalists, there are a few, the rare exceptions, whom social networks praise and elevate to the rank of living legends. The propaganda stalwarts, who have been squatting on a few platforms all this time, boldly defending all the victims of Mackyavélisme, denouncing the arbitrary and the indecent, corruption and nepotism alike, and even touch the unspeakable by delving beneath the belt, into the underpants of these perverse rulers and their minions. And all this while posing for posterity, the photogenic side of their faces in front of the camera, proud of their accomplished duty, certain of their rightful place.

To each his own, right? Let’s not make people jealous by naming names…

Yes, but this motley crew isn’t enough to control opinion. It doesn’t, even if you throw in a few dreaded psychedelic gossip-mongers, who find time to show off for the cameras in between selling pixie dust or performing tasteless gags.

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It’s true, the influencers are getting in on the act too… Failing to sell junk, like the first explorers to the natives, these traders of the new millennium are selling the frustrated Negroes of these fierce times in full regression, cheap comfort, cheap revenge, hatred galore…

It’s so easy to speak with epidermal emotion, when you’re talking to contemporaries whose understanding has seized up.

What can we say about the brilliant authors of “contributions”, “tribunes” and “opinions” who invade newspapers to… alert the general public to the dangers that lie ahead? Sophisticated pamphlets that undo and remake the world reveal that there are so many brilliant people (whose contact details can be found at the bottom of the article) who are not in the positions they deserve.

I almost forget the leaders of civil society…
Well, you know: the three peeled and two shorn who, from the top of their NGOs, defend human rights in such an original way… Resolutely on the side of the arsonists, they earn their living putting out the fires they encourage in their spare time. Of course, there will always be some incorruptible and complacent journalist to relay their nonsense, in the name of universal humanism, democracy and tolerance.

And the per diems for capacity-building seminars.
Now, with the Diomaye-Sonko revolution, it’s time to swell the ranks of those who illuminate obscurantism with “whistle-blowers”, so that these corrupt journalists shut their mouths and, on occasion, their stores. It won’t spit on revelations about the neighbour who’s too rich to be honest; or about the pretty boy who’s made a cuckold of you; or about the colleague who’s too brilliant to hold your dream job.

The most important thing is to alert public opinion.
In my little head, two whistle-blowers come to mind: the first, Zola, who wrote one of the most famous editorials in history, on the Dreyfus affair, under the title “I accuse”. The second, under the pseudonym “Deep Throat”, triggered one of the most resounding scandals in American history, ending with President Nixon’s resignation. He himself eventually revealed his identity, as the journalists with whom he collaborated never failed in their oath to protect their sources… Yet they were up against the monster of America.

These two famous whistle-blowers have one thing in common: they came to light through the press.

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Informing is, at worst, a banal profession that teaches journalists to discern what is in the public interest and how to serve it to a population with an uneven level of education.

At its best, journalism is a priesthood, a religion based on respect for the human person, the sacredness of facts and the publication of the truth, whatever the cost.

Want to know the difference between a whistle-blower and a journalist?
When the whistle-blower, points the finger at you, they do it so much and so well that instead of informing you, all you can do is contemplate their face, which will take the rounds of all the TV studios, exclaiming: “What a hero!”

Well, when the journalist reveals the same information to you, it’s done so simply that you’ll forget to look at the by-line, because the author does everything in their power not to exist, just so you don’t forget what they taught you…

By Ibou FALL 

  • Translation by Ndey T. SOSSEH