When leaders forget their humanity

In Africa, the attainment of independence in the sixties was not merely a celebration of flags and festivities but represented a profound and often painful struggle.

For those who lived through it, independence was a fire burning within the chest. It demanded critical engagement, intellectual debate, and sometimes the ultimate sacrifice.

In that era that stretched into the nineties, student activism was hyper; a single copy of a newspaper would become the subject of passionate argument, with young people taking sides as though the conflict were occurring in their own villages.

I reflect on a personal near-death experience in Angola, driven by a deep hatred for Jonas Savimbi of UNITA. This journey, which took him through Tanzania and Zambia, ultimately ended in fear and retreat.

Yet, years later, I stood in Luena, Moxico, at the site where Savimbi was killed in 2002, witnessing firsthand the end of a man who believed himself invincible. The lesson is clear, when leaders forget their humanity, they end as dust.

After independence, many African leaders succumbed to a condition I call “Okufuuka Tembuzi,” or the disease of arrivism. Kwame Nkrumah adopted the title “Osagyefo,” meaning “He who excels above all others,” while Mobutu Sese Seko claimed a name that described him as an all-powerful warrior leaving fire in his wake.

As for Hastings Banda, he called himself the Lion King of Malawi. Back home, Idi Amin declared himself Conqueror of the British Empire. These titles reveal the belief that one has arrived and is no longer subject to human limitations.

In my native Buddu language, this is when a small man from Katooke acquires a minor position in Kampala and begins to think he is Tembuzi, the immortal god of the forest.

However, even Tembuzi perished when people stopped fearing the forest. Every leader who believes himself immortal is already preparing his own grave. Contrasting these figures is Vladimir Lenin, who, during the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917, rejected the people’s attempt to worship him as a god.

He insisted that he was human, capable of cooking his own food, and that anyone who could do so could be president. Lenin argued that leadership does not require superhuman qualities and that removing him might reveal a better successor.

To me, his humility gave the Bolsheviks a degree of discipline that many African revolutions lacked. By turning their leaders into gods, African nations ensured that those leaders would not listen, would not retire, and would demand blood.

Yet not all leaders succumbed to this disease. Julius Nyerere of Tanzania, despite holding absolute power, refused the title of Osagyefo and preferred to be called Mwalimu, meaning Teacher.

Kenneth Kaunda of Zambia left office peacefully when he lost the election. As for Nelson Mandela, in spite of spending 27 years in prison, refused to be worshipped as a saint, served only one term.

I recall my professor of soil mechanics who once paused his lecture to warn students that academic success often leads to arrogance. This lesson extends to all positions of authority, whether one becomes an MP, a local council chairman, a headmaster, a doctor, or a manager.

So, whether one becomes an MP, a local council chairman, a head teacher, a doctor, an engineer, a pastor, or a hardware manager, one must remember their humanity. Leaders still need to cook their own food, admit when they are wrong, accept criticism, and experience the ordinary pains of life.

The moment one begins to think of themselves as Osagyefo, Sese Seko, Lion King, or Conqueror, they have already begun digging their hole. The only title that never expires is that of being human.

The author is an investor, contractor, and football enthusiast.

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