By Alimatu Koroma
It’s 7:30 in the morning. My son has already left for school, and it’s time for me to prepare for my reporting trip. My source is only available in the morning, so after waiting another hour for my colleague, who doesn’t show up, I decide to go alone.
I slip into my jumpsuit and a cobra-print T-shirt to keep my body covered, wrapping a large maroon headband around my head. It’s about a 45-minute ride from my house to the midwife center. With the reckless driving and frequent accidents on this route, I tell the bike rider to go gently. He nods silently, and we move.
When I arrive, the midwife I’m supposed to interview has just gone to attend to patients. I wait a while until she returns, visibly anxious about speaking. She worries that someone might overhear us or that a colleague might report her. Our discussion is about female genital mutilation (FGM), a topic that still makes many medical workers uneasy, especially women midwives.
Many of them refuse to speak openly about it without permission from their superiors, and most of those in management positions don’t want the practice to end. I’ve been turned down several times by health professionals who simply didn’t want to get involved. But this midwife, when I called, had agreed immediately to talk.
When she finally sits with me, she begins with a quiet introduction before explaining the dangers of FGM, the pain, the complications, the lives lost in silence. By midday, the heat is unbearable. Sweat runs down my back as we stop at a small shop for cold water. On our way home, I stop by the District Health Management Team (DHMT) office to follow up on another story, the ‘Kush’ epidemic that has claimed thousands of young lives in Sierra Leone and across West Africa. I want to understand what measures the DHMT and the government are taking to combat this growing crisis. Outside the gate, a local stakeholder approaches me. “The fight against Kush isn’t as easy as they say,” he tells me. “If the importation of this drug is not banned, then let’s be ready to bury more of our youth. They talk on the radio, but nothing changes.” His words weigh heavy on me as I head home.
I began my career in journalism with great enthusiasm but little experience. I was inspired by the country’s prominent journalists, but I didn’t yet understand the vital role women play in this field, or how easily our voices can be buried beneath the noise. Too many stories are lost because no one dares to tell them.
Being a female journalist in Sierra Leone demands more than courage. It’s persistence, patience, and faith in your own voice. It means facing resistance, rejection, and sometimes even danger. But for me, journalism is more than a job, it is a calling. A responsibility to ask hard questions, to tell untold stories, and to make sure the forgotten are seen.
So tomorrow, I will wake up before the sun again.
I will call the bike rider again.
I will listen again.
And I will write again.
Because journalism is my life.
I am a journalist.
