There is a profound, almost poetic irony in a group of individuals whose entire existence is predicated on 'representation' failing to physically represent themselves at a conference dedicated to the very things that keep a society from sinking into the mud. In Ganta, Nimba County, the air at Jackie’s Guest House was reportedly thick not with the scent of progress or the heavy musk of industrial ambition, but with the vacuum left behind by Liberia’s lawmakers. They boycotted the opening sessions of the post-war Infrastructure Conference, proving once and for all that while you can lead a politician to a guest house, you cannot make him think about anything more complex than his own per diem.

To be clear, we are talking about infrastructure—the skeletal system of a functioning nation. Roads, bridges, power grids—the boring, tangible stuff that allows a country to pretend it isn’t just three or four bad harvests away from the middle ages. But for the Liberian political class, 'infrastructure' is apparently a dirty word, or perhaps just a confusing one. They stayed away, presumably because there is very little immediate profit in discussing the structural integrity of a bridge that won’t be named after them for at least another decade. Or perhaps they simply couldn’t find Ganta. Given the state of the roads they were supposed to be discussing, one could hardly blame them for getting lost in a pothole the size of a sovereign wealth fund.

The venue itself, Jackie’s Guest House, evokes the kind of high-stakes international diplomacy usually reserved for regional sales meetings for mid-tier paper products. Yet, even this modest threshold was too high for the luminaries of the Liberian legislature. Their absence is a masterclass in performative negligence. In any other profession, failing to show up to the primary meeting regarding the primary function of your job would result in an immediate cessation of salary. In politics, and especially in the parasitic ecosystem of Monrovia’s elite, it is framed as a 'boycott'—a word that suggests a principled stand rather than what it actually is: a petulant refusal to sit in a room where work might accidentally happen.

What, exactly, were they boycotting? The reality of their own incompetence? The crushing weight of 'post-war' expectations that have been dragging on for two decades like a tiresome houseguest who refuses to leave? Liberia has been 'post-war' for so long that the term has lost all meaning; it has become a permanent shield against accountability. Every failure, every crumbling road, every dark village is excused by the echoes of a conflict that ended before the current crop of TikTok influencers was born. The lawmakers’ boycott is just the latest chapter in this saga of perpetual excuses. They don’t want to talk about infrastructure because infrastructure requires math, physics, and a distinct lack of embezzlement to function. It is much easier to stay in the capital and argue about protocol than to go to Nimba County and face the physical manifestation of your own failure to govern.

Let us not pretend there is a 'good side' here. The organizers of the conference are likely just as embedded in the cycle of NGO-funded talk-shops that produce plenty of colorful brochures but very few miles of paved asphalt. The 'infrastructure' being built at these conferences is rarely made of concrete; it’s made of 'synergy,' 'frameworks,' and 'capacity building'—the triple-threat of buzzwords used to mask the fact that everyone is just waiting for the lunch buffet. The lawmakers, in their cynical wisdom, have simply decided to skip the middleman and go straight to the doing-nothing part of the day. It is an efficiency of laziness that is almost admirable in its purity.

When a bridge collapses or a road turns into a river during the rainy season, the politicians will be the first to lament the tragedy, standing on the muddy banks for a photo-op while wearing boots that cost more than the average citizen makes in a year. They will call for investigations and demand 'urgent action' on infrastructure. But when the time comes to actually sit in a room at Jackie’s Guest House and map out the future, they are nowhere to be found. They are ghosts haunting the machine of state, invisible when the work starts and deafeningly loud when the credit is being handed out.

Ultimately, the Ganta boycott is a perfect microcosm of the modern state. It is a world where the people in charge are so disconnected from the physical reality of their country that they view a conference on roads as an optional social event. They have built a magnificent infrastructure of graft, a sprawling network of patronage, and a rock-solid foundation of apathy. Who needs bridges when you’ve already figured out how to walk on water—or at least, how to stay dry while everyone else drowns in the results of your neglect? The void at Jackie's Guest House wasn't just empty chairs; it was the visual representation of a government that has checked out, leaving the people to navigate the ruins of a post-war dream with nothing but a map of broken promises and a very long walk home.