One Year Later....

The line “Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken” haunts me differently now. One year later, those words from Kipling’s “IF” echo through the corridors of our near-empty pharmacy, where once thousands of patients found hope in affordable, quality medications.

One year later, I still wake up in cold sweats, remembering the Thursday afternoon of February 1st, 2024. The day when eight MCA inspectors descended upon our facility, their phones eagerly capturing images of expired medications on our quarantine shelves — medications that never reached a single patient in our five years of operation. The same inspectors who paused their raid only to pray, before continuing to dismantle what we had built.

One year later, the events of February 2nd, 2024, reveal themselves for what they truly were — a masterfully orchestrated plot by those with divergent economic interests. They gathered outside our premises like spectators at a theater performance they had written, directed, and staged. Business competitors, their aligned interests thinly veiled behind feigned concern for public safety, watched with barely concealed satisfaction as our medications were loaded into trucks. The speed with which celebration followed closure spoke volumes — barely fifteen minutes after the padlock clicked shut, fireworks burst in the sky above our pharmacy. It wasn’t spontaneous joy; it was a choreographed victory lap, a premature celebration of our anticipated demise. While these architects of our closure reveled in their momentary triumph, our staff huddled together in circles of shared despair, watching helplessly as years of dedication to healthcare innovation were sealed behind locked doors. The contrast was jarring — fireworks illuminating the tears on our employees’ faces, the sound of celebration drowning out their whispered prayers.

One year later, I carry the weight of impossible choices. In my sleepless nights, I see the faces of patients we lost — not to their conditions alone, but to the sudden unavailability of medications that only Innovarx brought into the country. These were medications that kept chronic conditions manageable, that gave people a chance at normal lives. Now, since December 8th, quality medications worth millions sit in limbo at Banjul International Airport, hostage to a regulatory framework that seems designed to suffocate innovation rather than protect public health.

One year later, our balance sheet tells a story that defies business logic. With total revenue plummeting by 50% in 2024, and 56 employees still on payroll, every business consultant would say Innovarx should have closed its doors months ago. The numbers paint a clear picture of financial devastation — but how do you measure the cost of abandoned hope? How do you abandon a mission that touches 21,928 lives? How do you walk away when you know that for many Gambians, your service isn’t just a convenience — it’s the difference between life and death? In the cold arithmetic of business, we should have failed. But some equations can’t be balanced on spreadsheets alone.

One year later, the numbers haunt me: 2,000 documented missed doses in December alone. A medication adherence rate that has plummeted from 92% to 78%. Behind each percentage point are real people, real families, real suffering.

One year later, we still maintain our D300 per month medication program, even as our resources stretch thinner. We watch our innovative last-mile delivery system, which reaches from Banjul to the farthest regions of The Gambia, operate at a fraction of its capacity. Yet we persist, because leaving was never an option then, and it isn’t now.

One year later, we witness the painful irony of our situation. While US FDA-approved medications — the highest quality standard in the world — sit untouched at our airport, the very regulatory body meant to protect our citizens creates barriers that force many to seek medications from less reliable sources.

One year later, we stand as the only Gambian-owned pharmacy with a digital tracking system for every prescription since 2019. One of two pharmacies offering US-grade medications at locally sustainable prices. The only one reaching patients in every region of the country. And yet, we are the ones whose entire inventory was confiscated, whose reputation was publicly smeared, whose mission to serve was treated as a threat.

One year later, the rage I’ve tried to temper through months of prayer still simmers. Not for myself, but for every patient who has suffered needlessly, for every family that has lost a loved one due to medication unavailability, for every Gambian who sees this story as yet another reason not to invest in their homeland.

But one year later, we remain. Innovarx keeps its doors open, not because it’s profitable, but because it’s necessary. Because sometimes, the measure of success isn’t found in balance sheets but in the lives you touch, the hope you maintain, and the change you represent.

One year later, we continue to fight. Not just for our survival, but for the principle that Gambians deserve access to quality healthcare. That our people shouldn’t have to choose between affordability and quality. That returning home to invest in your country shouldn’t mean watching everything you’ve built be torn down.

One year later, we stand ready to rebuild, to serve, to heal. Because some missions transcend business, some causes are worth the sacrifice, and some fights must be fought — not just for ourselves, but for every Gambian who dares to dream of a better healthcare system for our nation.

One year later, this reflection serves not to point fingers, but to raise a mirror to ourselves as Gambians. In that reflection, we must confront an uncomfortable truth: our propensity to break rather than build, to tear down rather than lift up. The question before us isn’t about survival or blame — it’s about who we choose to be as a nation. Will we continue to celebrate the fall of our fellow brothers and sisters, or will we finally heed the call of our better angels? The path forward lies not in the rubble of what we’ve broken, but in the bridges we choose to mold. For in the end, the true measure of our nation’s progress won’t be found in how effectively we can destroy each other’s dreams, but in how willingly we extend our hands to help each other rise.