When Vice President Jeremiah Koung personally ordered the release of a young man jailed for using artificial intelligence to mock him on Facebook, many Liberians breathed a sigh of relief. But the episode should not be celebrated as an act of magnanimity. It should be mourned as evidence of a deeper malady: Liberia has enacted a law that criminalizes speech the nation’s own Constitution and hard-won press freedom reforms expressly protect.
Jerry Nyantee Wratto should never have been arrested. No Liberian should face imprisonment for poking fun at a public official. Yet under the Cybercrime Act of 2025, that is precisely the fate our laws now permit.
In February 2019, Liberia achieved a landmark victory for democratic expression. The Kamara Abdullah Kamara (KAK) Act repealed Sections 11.11 (criminal libel against the President), 11.12 (sedition), and 11.14 (criminal malevolence) of the Penal Law of 1978. This reform aligned our nation with the Table Mountain Declaration and Article 19 of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights. It was a moment of pride — a declaration that in Liberia, the pen would no longer be answered with the prison cell.
The Cybercrime Act, signed into law in August 2026, threatens to erase that achievement.
Consider the provisions. The Act criminalizes the distribution of data messages that “incite damage to property or violence,” punishable by imprisonment for not more than one year or a fine double the gain realized. It further punishes the distribution of “harmful data messages” — threats, intimidation, harassment, or that which is “inherently false and aimed at causing mental, psychological, physical, or economic harm” — with imprisonment for not more than three years.
On their face, such provisions may appear reasonable. But in practice, they resurrect the very criminalization of speech that the KAK Act buried. The “harmful data messages” clause contains a “falsity-and-harm” standard that is dangerously elastic. Who determines what is “inherently false”? Who measures “mental harm”? In the hands of an overzealous prosecutor or a thin-skinned official, these phrases become weapons against satire, criticism, and dissent.
Liberia’s 1986 Constitution guarantees freedom of expression. Article 15 affirms the right to hold opinions without interference. But it also states that every person shall be “fully responsible for the abuse thereof.”
The Supreme Court has interpreted this caveat clearly: while speech is not absolute, the punishment for its abuse must be civil, not criminal. The Cybercrime Act’s criminal penalties for speech-based offenses stand in direct tension with this constitutional interpretation. Ultimately, it may take judicial resolution — but Parliament should not force the courts to rescue the nation from bad lawmaking.
Liberia need not look far for cautionary tales. In March 2022, the ECOWAS Court of Justice ruled that Section 24 of Nigeria’s Cybercrimes Act — which criminalized sending offensive, insulting, or annoying messages — violated the African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights and the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights. That provision was used to detain journalists, activists, and ordinary citizens. It has no place in a democracy.
While Liberia’s cyberstalking provision requires an actual fear of death, violence, or bodily injury — a narrower standard — the harmful-data-message provision’s falsity-and-harm branch remains vulnerable to the same abuse.
The timing is ominous. The Cybercrime Act comes into effect just a few years ahead of Liberia’s 2029 general election. Campaign seasons are heated, messy, and full of claims that may be exaggerated, misleading, or false. Under this law, such speech could invite prison time.
Already, we have seen the danger. The police mobilized significant resources to arrest Wratto for mocking the Vice President. If that is how the law is applied in peacetime, what will happen during an election?
Media expert Samuka V. Konneh rightly questioned why the government failed to educate the public before arresting citizens under a law passed only a month prior. Legal tradition holds that ignorance is no excuse — but neither is government negligence in civic education.
Former Finance Minister Samuel Tweah put it bluntly: “If politicians do not want to be cyber-bullied, let them leave politics and go to private life.” The right to critique and mock leaders is not a luxury; it is a cornerstone of accountability.
The Legislature must revisit the Cybercrime Act. Specifically, it should:
First, decriminalize speech-based offenses that do not constitute genuine threats, incitement to imminent violence, or fraud. Satire, ridicule, and criticism of public officials — however sharp — must remain protected.
Second, narrow the “harmful data messages” provision to require intent to cause imminent, specific harm and a likelihood of such harm occurring. Vague standards like “mental harm” have no place in criminal law.
Third, align the Act with the KAK Act and the Table Mountain Declaration. Liberia cannot claim to be a regional leader in press freedom while maintaining a law that resurrects criminal libel in digital form.
Fourth, invest in public education. A law this sweeping cannot be enforced fairly without widespread awareness.
President Boakai has promised that under his leadership, Liberia will have “no political prisoners and no press suppression.” He has called the KAK Act “a monument to press freedom.” If those words are to mean anything, he must urge the Legislature to amend the Cybercrime Act before it becomes a monument to something far darker.
Liberia has fought too hard, and come too far, to let fear of a Facebook post send a citizen to jail. The Cybercrime Act must be revisited — and the sooner, the better.
