"I didn't plan any of this. I just kept saying yes to what mattered."
— Isata
I was born in Rural Village, Ribbi Chiefdom, Moyamba District — a place of red earth, resilient people, and a community that never let you forget you belonged to something bigger than yourself. My roots are there. They will always be there.
Growing up, I watched the women around me carry extraordinary weight — physical, emotional, economic — with a grace that I have spent my career trying to honour and protect. I watched them hold families and communities together while having almost no formal power of their own. That image never left me. It became my compass.
I left Moyamba to study, to grow, to build a career. But I have never left Moyamba in the ways that count. Every policy I write, every speech I give, every fight I take on — I take it on for the women and children I grew up watching. That's where my story starts. And it never stops starting there.
I didn't come from wealth or connections. I came from curiosity and determination. Education was how I built the tools to do what I needed to do.
My doctoral research gave me the framework to understand how economies create — or destroy — opportunity for the most vulnerable. It's the lens I use every day in the Ministry.
This degree opened my eyes to how global systems affect local lives — and how the right international partnerships can lift entire communities.
Where it all started. The foundation that taught me to ask better questions. Education was the first door I opened for myself.
"Atunda Ayenda" was a radio drama that reached across Sierra Leone — into homes, markets, and communities that no policy document ever reached. I played Mammy Saio: a woman of wisdom, warmth, and community leadership. And I loved every moment of it.
What I didn't expect was what it would teach me. I discovered that a story — told with care, with truth, with love for the people listening — can change minds faster than any law. I saw it happen. People would hear Mammy Saio explain a governance issue and finally understand why it mattered to their lives. That power humbled me deeply.
Mammy Saio wasn't a character I left behind when the show ended. She lives in the way I communicate, the way I connect with communities, the way I believe that every person deserves to understand the world that shapes their life. When I speak as Minister today, I'm still, in many ways, Mammy Saio.
As National Network Coordinator for WANEP-Sierra Leone — the West Africa Network for Peacebuilding — I spent years doing the kind of work that rarely makes headlines. Sitting in rooms with communities carrying deep wounds. Facilitating conversations between people who had every reason to stay silent or stay angry.
That work taught me things no university could. It taught me that peace is never just the absence of violence — it's the presence of justice, dignity, and the feeling that someone is listening. It taught me that women are almost always the ones holding communities together during conflict — and almost never the ones invited to build the peace.
Those years at WANEP are why I fight so hard for Women, Peace and Security today. Not because it's a UN agenda. Because I was there. I saw it. And I promised myself I would never stop working until the women doing the peacebuilding work get the recognition, resources, and power they deserve.
The West Africa Network for Peacebuilding — coordinating early warning, mediation, and human rights work across Sierra Leone's communities.
Not a straight line. Never a straight line.
The work I was always building toward — using everything I've learned in the room where it counts most.
Teaching the next generation of economists and policy thinkers. Some of my proudest work.
The years that taught me what peace really means — and why women are essential to it.
Building the evidence base, understanding the systems, designing the arguments.
The role that reached millions and taught me that story is the most powerful policy tool ever invented.
Being a lecturer was never separate from being an advocate — it was the same work at a different scale. I was shaping future policymakers, future economists, future leaders.
Quantitative tools for understanding how economies actually work — and who they work for.
How do we grow in ways that don't cost us our future? That question sits at the heart of everything I do.
Teaching people to ask better questions. Possibly the most important skill I can pass on.
Every decision I make, I ask: does this reach the people who need it most? If not, I'm asking the wrong question.
Data without compassion is just numbers. Compassion without data is just hoping. I use both.
You cannot build development on unstable ground. Peace, justice, and inclusion are not nice-to-haves — they are the foundation.
I mean this literally. Not as a slogan. Every programme I design, I ask: who is this missing? Who is not in this room?
If you've read this far — thank you. Truly. I know there are a hundred things competing for your attention and you chose to spend a few minutes with my story. That means something to me.
I'm not a perfect person or a perfect minister. I'm someone who grew up in Moyamba, made a thousand mistakes, learned something from every one of them, and kept going because the work is too important to stop.
If anything I'm doing resonates with you — whether it's the work on gender equality, the peacebuilding, the memory of Mammy Saio, or just the story of a woman who refused to give up — I'd love to stay connected.