Manila is no stranger to political storms, but even by its standards, the latest chapter involving Vice President Sara Duterte feels like a plot twist. On Monday, Duterte confirmed that she had received a copy of a sworn affidavit from the National Bureau of Investigation—a document prepared by Rodulfo “Rody” Gracioso Jr., a former official of the Office of the Vice President. The affidavit, she said, contains a long list of accusations against her. But Duterte was not about to let it stand. With the calm precision of someone who has spent time preparing a defense, she announced that she and her team had counted the statements in the affidavit and found twenty-nine that they believe are false. “Based on our count, Gracioso made 29 statements concerning me that we believe are false,” she said. The phrase “we believe” is important. It signals that this is not just a gut reaction; it is a studied response, one that presumably involved lawyers, aides, and a careful line-by-line reading of the document. In a political culture where public figures often respond to accusations with sweeping denials or angry counterattacks, Duterte’s approach was notable for its measured tone. She did not call Gracioso a liar, at least not yet. She simply said that the statements are false, and that she has the means to prove it. The fact that she chose to go public with her count rather than let the document speak for itself is also telling. It means she wants Filipinos to know exactly how many accusations she is facing, and how many of them she is prepared to dismantle. It is a way of taking control of a story that could otherwise spin out of control. By putting a number on the falsehoods—twenty-nine—she is giving the public a concrete measure of what she is fighting against. There is something almost mathematical in the approach, a sense that truth can be counted, weighed, and tested. In a country where political lies often blur into half-truths and rumors, that kind of clarity is both refreshing and defiant.
Beyond the headline number, Duterte offered specifics. She pointed to two dates and places that she says are demonstrably false. Gracioso allegedly claimed she and Jefry Tupas were in Marinduque during Holy Week in 2019. Duterte says they were nowhere near the province. She also rejected the claim that they were in Manila on September 21, 2019. Why these particular dates? Holy Week is one of the most sacred and widely observed periods in the Philippines, a time when families gather, travel, and attend church services. It is also a time when many people are away from their usual posts, which makes it a convenient backdrop for a fabricated sighting. But precisely because it is a holiday, it is also a time when records exist—flight manifests, tollway receipts, hotel bookings, text messages, even casual photos posted on social media. Similarly, September 21 is a date loaded with historical significance in the Philippines, as it marks the anniversary of Martial Law under Ferdinand Marcos Sr. For a vice president to be in Manila on that day would be a matter of public record, especially if she attended any commemorative event or had official duties. By citing these dates, Duterte is essentially saying: check the evidence. She is not asking for blind faith. She is asking for verification. This is the kind of response that a person gives when they know they were elsewhere, when they know their calendar can be reconstructed, and when they have nothing to hide. It is also a subtle jab at the credibility of Gracioso, who may have assumed that the passage of years—2019 was several years ago—would make such details hard to dispute. But memory is not the only record; paper trails are longer and more patient than any affidavit.
Duterte also found reason for hope in an unlikely place: the words of NBI Director Melvin Matibag. According to the Vice President, Matibag has acknowledged that a perjury case could be filed if the allegations in Gracioso’s affidavit are proven false. This is a significant legal development, though it is still just a possibility. Perjury is a serious offense in the Philippines, punishable by imprisonment. It occurs when a person willfully and deliberately makes a false statement under oath on a material matter. If Gracioso’s affidavit contains statements that he knows are false—or statements that he made with reckless disregard for the truth—then he could face prosecution even if the original allegations are never pursued. Duterte is clearly aware of this. In her statement, she expressed confidence that the NBI would eventually file a case against Gracioso once its investigation is complete and the evidence has been fully evaluated. “We expect a case to be filed by the NBI against Gracioso once the agency completes its investigation and the evidence is fully evaluated,” she said. The expectation is not a demand; it is a prediction. But it also serves as a warning. By publicly aligning herself with Matibag’s observation, Duterte is putting the NBI on notice that she is watching, that she expects justice, and that she will not simply walk away if the agency decides to let Gracioso off the hook. In the court of public opinion, this is a smart move. It frames her not as a defendant, but as a victim of false testimony. It also shifts the burden from “What did Sara do?” to “What did Gracioso lie about?” That is a powerful reframing, and it could shape how the rest of the story is told.
Who is Rodulfo Gracioso Jr., and why should anyone take his affidavit seriously? The answer is complicated. Gracioso is a dismissed police officer, which means he was once in a position of authority and trust. He also served as a security aide to former House Speaker Lord Allan Velasco, a figure of considerable political influence. Those two facts make him a dangerous witness: he has inside knowledge of how powerful people operate, but he also has a blemished record that raises questions about his credibility. In his affidavit, Gracioso did not accuse Duterte of something vague like “poor governance” or “political missteps.” He accused her of receiving suitcases filled with millions of pesos, allegedly delivered by him on Velasco’s instructions to Duterte and her family. If true, this would be a bombshell—a direct allegation of corruption involving the Vice President and a former Speaker. But Duterte’s response suggests that it is not true, or at least that it cannot be proven. The image of a former cop carrying cash-filled suitcases through the corridors of power is almost cinematic. It appeals to the public’s worst suspicions about politicians. But cinematic images are not evidence. Duterte’s team has likely already begun collecting documents and witnesses to counter the story, and the specific dates she cited in her statement are probably just the beginning. The larger issue is trust. Why should anyone believe a dismissed police officer with ties to a political rival over a sitting Vice President? Gracioso’s past does not automatically make him a liar, but it does mean he has a history of falling from grace. That is exactly the kind of detail that defense lawyers love to highlight, and it is exactly the kind of detail that juries and the public use to decide who to believe.
Beyond the legal details, this controversy has a deeply human dimension. Duterte is not just a public figure; she is a person who must wake up every day and read or hear accusations about herself. The experience of being falsely accused—or of being accused before the facts are known—is one of the most isolating experiences in public life. It creates a pressure that few can understand. In the Philippines, where political rivalries are often fought through proxies, leaked documents, and sworn statements, the line between justice and character assassination can blur. Duterte’s decision to respond immediately and specifically is therefore more than a legal strategy; it is an act of self-preservation. She knows that in a media-saturated age, a story can go viral in hours, and a rebuttal that comes too late might as well not come at all. By speaking out on Monday, she ensured that her side of the story was part of the first wave of headlines, not an afterthought. She also connected with something universal: the need to be heard. Anyone who has ever had their word questioned, their integrity doubted, or their reputation attacked can understand the particular anger that comes from watching a lie gain traction. Duterte is channelling that anger into a disciplined legal response. It is a reminder that, for all the talk of power and politics, the fight over an affidavit is ultimately a fight over a person’s name. And in a culture where honor is deeply valued, that fight matters.
For now, the story is far from over. The NBI has not yet completed its investigation, and the question of whether Gracioso will face perjury charges remains open. Duterte has confirmed receipt of the affidavit, identified what she says are twenty-nine false statements, and provided specific dates and places that she believes will dismantle the allegations. She has also made her expectation clear: she wants the NBI to hold Gracioso accountable if the evidence shows he lied. But this is not just about one case or one person. It is about the broader principle that sworn statements should be truthful, that power should not be able to weaponize an affidavit for political purposes, and that the truth, however slow, has a way of emerging. In the meantime, Duterte has given Filipinos a glimpse of how she intends to navigate the turbulent waters ahead. She will not hide. She will not retreat into silence. She will meet accusations with facts, numbers, and dates. Whether she succeeds is for the courts and the public to decide. But she has already won an important battle: the battle to be heard. In the sweltering heat of Manila, where rumors often outrun the truth, Sara Duterte has planted her feet and refused to move. It is a stance that anyone, regardless of political affiliation, can recognize. It is the stance of someone who knows that an accusation, no matter how dramatic, is not the same as a verdict. And it is a reminder that in the long, exhausting fight for justice, the most human thing a person can do is refuse to let a lie have the last word.