Bongolistically,
It was 31st March 2014, and there I stood in Stockholm at Karolinska Institute, about to share a stage with Bill Gates—the richest man in the world at the time. The contrast could not have been more striking: me, from Sierra Leone, one of the poorest countries globally despite its diamonds, gold, and other natural resources; and him, the embodiment of wealth and technological innovation, from USA, the richest and most powerful.
In the blue room of the conference hall before our appearance, my mind raced with thoughts and questions. I wondered what I could possibly say in those precious moments to draw his attention to Sierra Leone. How could I make an impression that would stand out amongst the countless people he meets? Perhaps I should share a story about our innovative local health initiatives that were showing promise despite minimal resources. Or maybe highlight the untapped potential that existed in our country if only the right investments and attention were directed our way.
As we waited, I contemplated the vast gulf between our worlds. How does one man amass such immense wealth? What needs could someone like Gates possibly still have when he could afford almost anything? What can’t money buy for him? I thought about how even the world’s richest person must confront mortality—perhaps that’s why some wealthy individuals invest in *longevity research, seeking to extend life or even cheat death altogether.
When we finally took the stage, discussing topics that intersected his foundation’s interests and global development, these thoughts continued to linger in my mind. The irony wasn’t lost on me—here was a man whose personal wealth exceeded my entire country’s GDP, and yet both Sierra Leone and Gates shared complex challenges that money alone couldn’t solve.
After our discussion concluded, I found myself in a moment of clarity. I realised that Gates meets thousands of people each year. There’s simply too much need in the world for him to personally address each situation or remember every individual he encounters. This is precisely why he created the Gates Foundation—to organise and systematise his philanthropy, to ensure his resources could be directed thoughtfully rather than reactively.
In that moment, I made peace with a humbling truth: Sierra Leone likely wouldn’t benefit from this encounter, nor would Gates remember anything discussed in the blue room in Stockholm. But perhaps our country would, in some small way, see improvements in health, education, or economic opportunity through his foundation.
There was consolation in this realisation—that impact doesn’t always follow the path of personal connection, but might find its way through institutional channels to those who need it most. Standing beside the world’s richest man had taught me something about wealth beyond money: the wealth of perspective that comes from accepting both the limitations and possibilities of such encounters.
As I left the stage that day, I carried with me not expectations of personal gain, but a deeper understanding of how change happens in our complex world—sometimes in ways we can’t predict or control, but always building upon moments of human connection, however brief they may be.
What would you have done in my position? Standing before one of the world’s most influential figures, representing a nation rich in resources yet poor in prosperity, what words would you have chosen to make a lasting impression? Would you have made a bold, personal appeal, or recognised, as I did, the systematic nature of large-scale philanthropy? In those fleeting moments in the blue room before taking the stage, what strategy might have bridged the vast gulf between Sierra Leone’s needs and Gates’ capacity to help? And in reconciling yourself to the reality that one brief encounter rarely changes the world, what consolation would you have found?
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It’s Easter Sunday today; remain blessed.
Mallam O.
