The Republic Journal, Truth, Representation, and the Future of Our Democracy

By Aminata Diamond

On the 25th of October 2025, the University of Sierra Leone announced the abolition of class representatives across its constituent colleges, effective this November. The decision, according to the university authorities, was necessitated by reports of misconduct, extortion, and abuse of power among some class representatives. The measure was immediate, sweeping, and final.

At first glance, the decision appears corrective. However, upon deeper reflection, it reveals a worrying disregard for the historical, administrative, and sociological significance of the class representative structure. What is at stake is not merely the removal of a position, but the quiet dismantling of one of the most enduring models of student governance and classroom communication in African higher education. In a continent where universities still struggle to develop efficient technological interfaces for student engagement, the class representative has long served as the human bridge between analog administrations and our collective digital aspiration, a role performed with quiet precision and one that technology has yet to replace.

The class representative is not an accidental figure within the educational hierarchy. The structure evolved gradually from the school and class prefect system of primary and secondary schools, a colonial inheritance designed to instill obedience and hierarchy. Over time, as educational systems expanded and student populations diversified, the prefect’s authoritarian role transformed into the class representative’s participatory one at the varsity level.

This evolution marked a significant transition from institutional control to peer accountability, from top-down obedience to horizontal communication. The class representative became the democratic nerve of the classroom, chosen by peers to serve as a bridge between students and lecturers, with more critical roles executed daily within respective classrooms, departments, and the university hierarchy. It was, in many respects, the earliest form of micro-level student democracy within tertiary institutions.

Beyond symbolism, the class rep system played a crucial administrative role. It served as the primary feedback mechanism between students and faculty, facilitating a smooth exchange of information on assignments, scheduling, attendance, and academic grievances. In many African universities, where administrative support is limited and teaching staff are overstretched, class reps quietly filled an essential logistical gap. Lecturers, particularly in public institutions, often operate within environments of resource scarcity and high teaching loads.

Many teach multiple courses across different campuses, manage large class sizes, and have little institutional support for classroom management. For such faculty, class representatives served as the connective tissue that kept classrooms functional. They managed attendance, coordinated communication, relayed updates, and assisted in maintaining decorum. These tasks, though invisible, are indispensable to academic continuity. The removal of this structure is therefore not a disciplinary measure against student misconduct alone. It represents a structural rupture that will affect teaching efficiency, administrative coordination, and the overall rhythm of classroom life.

The decision also emerges within a larger ecosystem of politicized student governance. Across many African universities, student unions have historically been entangled with national politics. In Sierra Leone, as in several post-conflict democracies, student unions have often mirrored the country’s broader political divisions. They have been infiltrated, co-opted, and sometimes mobilized as instruments of state or partisan influence. Against this backdrop, the class representative system stood apart. It was the only leadership model that sustained student participation while remaining insulated mainly from partisan politics. Its authority derived from proximity, not ideology, and from trust among peers rather than allegiance to external actors.

It represented the depoliticized essence of academic citizenship and the idea that leadership within learning spaces could be functional rather than performative. With the ban, that neutral ground has been lost. There is now a genuine risk that student unions, in an attempt to fill that void, will replicate the class-rep structure and infiltrate classrooms through political proxies. If that occurs, the decision intended to curb misconduct could instead institutionalize politicization within the very space that should remain apolitical, the classroom.

Compounding this concern is the escalating crisis of synthetic drug use within Sierra Leone’s tertiary institutions. Substances such as kush, tramadol, codeine syrup, and other synthetic opioids have penetrated campuses, creating a public health emergency that threatens academic stability. In this context, class representatives have served, albeit informally, as the first line of observation and peer intervention.

Their daily proximity to students allowed them to notice early behavioral changes such as absenteeism, agitation, fatigue, or cognitive decline that often precede full-blown addiction. They should be trained to function as an organic early-warning system, capable of quietly alerting faculty or the University administration long before intervention becomes disciplinary. By abolishing the class rep role, universities have inadvertently weakened their own ability to detect and respond to the social and psychological distress affecting their students. The decision, while administrative on paper, carries real public health implications.

There is also the question of faculty morale. In African universities, teaching is rarely a profit-driven profession. It is an act of service anchored in duty, mentorship, and moral conviction. Yet even the most dedicated academics require structural support to sustain their effectiveness. The class representative system provided that support, and its absence will make the already demanding task of teaching in under-resourced environments even more exhausting.

Without class reps, lecturers will have to manage attendance, resolve minor disputes, communicate administrative changes, and monitor class progress on their own. Over time, this will erode morale, diminish teaching quality, and accelerate the migration of skilled educators to private or international institutions.

The response to misconduct within the class rep system should have been reform, not abolition. What the system required was a more precise definition, ethical regulation, and training. Universities could have instituted transparent elections, written codes of conduct, and recall mechanisms to hold representatives accountable. They could have formalized collaboration between class reps, faculty, and counseling units to create a comprehensive academic support network. Instead, a sweeping ban has replaced discipline with erasure. It has silenced the very voices that once humanized the classroom.

If this policy endures, it will accelerate the slow but steady decline of tertiary education in Sierra Leone. The class rep system, though humble, was the bloodstream of academic coordination. Its removal will suffocate communication between faculty and students, as well as between learning and governance. The immediate outcome will be disorganization, apathy, and administrative fatigue. The long-term consequence will be systemic decay. Student unions, emboldened by the vacuum, will expand their influence into classrooms and lecture halls, turning academic spaces into arenas of political competition.

The rising tide of synthetic drug use, already devastating student performance and populations, will deepen unchecked as universities lose their informal peer monitors. Faculty, deprived of logistical support, will grow weary, demotivated, and disillusioned. The exodus of teaching talent, already visible in other sectors, will intensify. In time, universities will become quieter, not because they are disciplined, but because they are dying.

The energy of academic life will flatten into bureaucratic silence. Students will attend classes without engagement, lecturers will teach without conviction, and administrations will govern without empathy. The death of the class rep, therefore, is not a minor administrative episode. It is a symptom of a more profound institutional fatigue and a surrender of imagination in the face of dysfunction. What was once a vibrant ecosystem of participation and shared responsibility will devolve into a culture of avoidance, where silence replaces dialogue and compliance replaces commitment. And from that silence, decline will emerge.

The class representative system was never perfect, but it was profoundly human. It taught leadership without politics, service without privilege, and communication without fear. To abolish it is to erase one of the few democratic instincts left within our educational framework. If the university does not reconsider this conclusion, history will record this decision not as reform but as retrogression. For a nation still struggling to rebuild trust in its institutions, this act may well be remembered as the moment when the classroom, the last sanctuary of order and dialogue, finally fell silent.