Published: April 13, 2026
From civil society to the frontlines of law enforcement, Mariam Francis is pushing to reshape policing culture, expand opportunities for women, and reframe how citizens view the Liberia National Police.
She is two years into her service with the Liberia National Police, and already she moves with the confidence of someone who arrived with a plan.
MONROVIA — For generations, the police force in Liberia has carried an image that felt exclusive by design — rugged, hierarchical, and overwhelmingly male. Women who entered did so quietly, often navigating a culture that measured competence by tenure rather than qualification. But a new generation of female officers is changing that equation, and Mariam Francis is among its most deliberate voices.
She is two years into her service with the Liberia National Police, and already she moves with the confidence of someone who arrived with a plan. A graduate of Cuttington University with a degree in Criminal Justice and a master’s in International Relations, she also holds a certificate in Public Policy from the Liberia Institute of Public Administration and is an alumna of both the Young Political Leadership program and the Young African Leaders Initiative. She currently serves as Special Assistant to the Chief of Staff, working in close proximity to the Inspector General. On Saturdays, she hosts a radio program, Strong Women in Security, where she uses the airwaves to encourage young women to consider careers in the security sector and to educate citizens on their rights and responsibilities.
Her résumé reads like someone who mapped the destination before beginning the journey.
A Calling, Not a Detour
When asked what drew her to the Liberia National Police, Francis does not reach for the conventional answer. She traces the decision back further, to years spent in civil society work and community development before she ever put on a uniform.
“I was striving to become a young leader even before joining,” she says. “I went through civil society and community development programs before joining the Liberia National Police. And the fact that I had a degree in criminal justice, joining felt like giving back, being part of the solution, not just seeing the problem.”
But the motivation ran deeper than personal ambition. She describes watching women within the force and recognizing a gap between their potential and the space they were given to express it. That observation became a mission.
“The motivation came in to rebrand the police, to be part of the reform process, where women can lead, where women can partake in whatever the men are partaking in,” she explains. “So that young people like myself can see the security sector as a real career path.”
Was this always the plan, or did life redirect her here? “It has always been a plan,” she says, without hesitation.
The Invisible Wall
Francis is careful and precise when the subject turns to challenges. She does not trade in grievance, but she does not sanitize reality either.
“Honestly, I haven’t really faced a challenge that people might think others are facing,” she says. “I haven’t been marginalized in any way. I haven’t been downplayed because I am a woman.”
But she is quick to identify a structural problem that is harder to name and harder to fight than outright discrimination. The Liberia National Police, she explains, rewards longevity over qualification, a system that disadvantages talented newcomers regardless of what they bring through the door.
“The way the system is structured, it doesn’t give those who have the qualifications the room to really explore,” she says. “In here, the longer you stay, the more edge you have. I came in with a master’s degree. I came in with work experience. But people will say that I just came in, so I shouldn’t be given certain tags to perform.”
It is a quiet but significant frustration — the kind that does not make headlines but shapes careers.
A Day at the Office
Her day-to-day role as Special Assistant to the Chief of Staff is demanding in ways that are less visible than street patrol but no less consequential. She describes it with an almost businesslike efficiency.
“I supervise the IG’s daily activities. I schedule his meetings, his appointments. If you want to see the IG, you have to set an appointment — and you have to go through me,” she says. Beyond that, she tracks official correspondence flowing in and out of the office from agencies and individuals across the sector, ensuring that nothing is lost and nothing is delayed. “I keep track of documents that come into the office,” she adds, “and I assist with other work as necessary.”
It is a role that demands discretion, precision, and institutional trust — qualities she describes not as constraints but as disciplines she has chosen to master.
What Citizens Do Not See
When the conversation turns to public perception of the police, something shifts in Francis. The measured tone gives way to something more urgent, more personal.
“I want citizens to understand that the Liberia National Police is working for them,” she says. “Every day of our lives, we leave our homes. We leave people who have children, people who have families. They leave their families and come to work not really knowing when they will get back home.”
She describes a growing number of young people who have cited her as a reason they considered joining, a ripple effect she tracks with quiet pride.
She recalls working 24-hour night shifts before moving to the IG’s office — shifts where she was the officer on duty at 2 a.m. when a frightened parent arrived at the station with a missing child, or when someone needed help that could not wait until morning. Those experiences stay with her.
She speaks plainly about the economic reality behind the badge. Officers standing traffic posts for an entire month, she notes, may earn less than the cost of their children’s school fees.
“The risk is more than the benefit,” she admits. “But they still come. They still stand there.”
Her point is not complaint. It is a plea for recognition — for citizens to meet officers with something closer to understanding.
“We can all work together and make our country a brighter, more peaceful place,” she says. “Security is something we overlook here, but it attracts investors, it attracts business people; once your security is steady and moving smoothly, every good thing follows.”
She believes citizens have a role to play in that stability, and she uses her radio platform to say so directly.
“Every right comes with a responsibility,” she tells The Liberian Investigator’s Women & Grit. “The citizens themselves need to change their approach — the way we handle each other, the way we talk to one another.”
Strength Is Not Solo
Ask Francis what the police force has taught her about strength, and she gives an answer that surprises with its honesty.
“When I left the academy, my entire life changed,” she says. “The discipline that comes with it builds you differently; there are certain things you cannot say, certain things you cannot do.”
But the deeper lesson was not about toughening up in isolation. It was about understanding that real strength is distributed.
“You don’t have to be strong on your own, even as much as you are strong as an individual,” she explains. “Within the force, you don’t walk alone; you always have a partner. You share the responsibility. The strength is distributed. It doesn’t have to be carried alone.”
It is a philosophy that translates beyond policing. For Francis, emotional intelligence and the willingness to lean on others are not weaknesses. They are survival tools.
The Legacy She Is Already Building
Five years from now, Francis sees herself as a sectional head within the LNP — perhaps leading the Women and Children unit or the Public Affairs division. But when asked about legacy, she answers in the present tense.
“I think even right now, if I leave the police, I already have a legacy,” she says. “I am the first. I believe I opened the eyes of many in how to make the police feel like any other career.”
She describes a growing number of young people who have cited her as a reason they considered joining, a ripple effect she tracks with quiet pride.
But the legacy she is most deliberate about building is institutional. She wants the government of Liberia to invest in young women within the security sector, not as a gesture, but as a generational strategy.
“When you invest in one young woman, you build a whole generation,” she says. “It’s not just one person. It’s a whole generation of professional young people. Someone inspired me. I inspire another person. That person inspires another person. Just like that, we build.”
To the Girls Watching
Her message for young women is constructed carefully — part encouragement, part honest counsel.
“You can be who you want to be. Just believe in yourself,” she says. “Discipline pays a lot. But being disciplined should not limit your potential. You can be humble and also show your potential. You don’t have to be disrespectful about it; that doesn’t get you anywhere. But you have to know that you can do whatever you want to do once you put your mind to it.”
Outside the uniform, Francis invests in herself with the same intentionality she brings to work. She is active in business and committed to physical fitness, habits she frames not as hobbies but as extensions of the same discipline that defines her professional life.
“You have to train your brain and also your body,” she says.
It is, ultimately, the same message she carries into every interview, every radio broadcast, every interaction with a young woman weighing her options: that the security sector has room for her, that the uniform does not diminish her, and that the women who came before her left the door open on purpose.
Mariam Francis intends to hold it there.
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