I reached Dr Rasuawahi’s suite earlier than usual that evening, though I told myself it was because of KL traffic and not because my curiosity was defeating my common sense. When the door opened, I saw three unfamiliar men in the room—two elderly, one middle-aged, all dressed in traditional Juburtian attire.
They looked nervous.
They looked desperate.
And they looked at Rasuawahi the way pilgrims look at a saint’s relic.
“Lawyer,” he said, “meet the delegation from Juburti.”
Delegation?
I thought it would be a couple of political operatives.
Not three men who looked like they had spent the day weeping.
The eldest among them stepped forward. His hands trembled as he held a folder wrapped in cloth.
“Your Excellency,” he said in heavily accented English, “we bring news… and signs.”
I immediately sensed trouble. Any sentence containing “news” and “signs” rarely ends with logic.
They began speaking rapidly in Juburtian.
Rasuawahi nodded gravely, occasionally glancing at me as if to ensure I was absorbing the emotional choreography.
Finally, he turned to me.
“They say the people are praying for my return,” he translated. “The situation has become unbearable. Prices are soaring. Businesses are collapsing. The military is divided. And…,” he paused for emphasis, “they believe heaven is giving signs.”
“Signs?” I repeated.
He nodded.
“Yes. Apparently, Juburti had a sudden dust storm last week. The clerics interpreted it as divine displeasure at the current leadership.”
My eyebrows rose on their own.
“And yesterday,” he continued, “a lightning bolt struck the Presidential Palace gate. The people say it is a warning. Some believe it is a call for change.”
I swallowed.
I could see very clearly where this was going.
The middle-aged man stepped forward, speaking slowly as if choosing each word with spiritual care.
“In the mosques, the imams are saying our suffering is because we turned away from the leader chosen by God. They say Juburti will not heal until you return.”
He looked at Rasuawahi with teary devotion.
“They say you are the one sent to restore balance.”
I wanted to ask:
Which balance? The corrupt balance? The manipulative balance? The balance of power that benefits him?
But I held my tongue. Wisdom, I am learning, sometimes means selective muteness.
Rasuawahi remained composed.
He lowered his head slightly, as if humbled by divine mention.
But his eyes—his eyes glowed with the satisfaction of a man whose script was unfolding perfectly.
“Lawyer,” he said gently, “this is what you must understand. Religion is the heartbeat of society. When people are afraid, they look to heaven for answers. And when heaven is silent, they choose a human symbol.”
“You?” I asked.
“No,” he said, placing his hand on his chest modestly.
“A symbol of hope. If that symbol happens to be me, then I must bear the responsibility.”
The responsibility.
This man could turn a coup into charity work.
The oldest of the delegation now opened the folder wrapped in cloth. Inside was a petition—handwritten signatures covering page after page after page. The first line read:
“In the name of God, we ask Dr Rasuawahi to save our nation.”
I felt cold.
“These signatures,” the man said, “were collected outside mosques after Friday prayers. People cried as they signed. They believe your return is not political… but spiritual.”
Spiritual.
The word hung in the air like incense.
I suddenly realised why authoritarian leaders throughout history love religion—not for God, but for legitimacy. God does not vote, but His name is politically priceless.
“Sir,” I whispered, “is this… ethical?”
He smiled sympathetically at my middle-class moral anxiety.
“Ethical? My dear lawyer, ethics is a luxury reserved for those outside the battlefield. In politics, ethics is whatever keeps the nation from tearing itself apart. And if the people need a spiritual narrative to unite… who am I to deny them?”
I blinked.
He continued.
“Religion is powerful because it reaches the heart faster than logic. When the heart moves, the nation moves. A leader only rides the wave Heaven already sent.”
I almost coughed out loud at that theological acrobatics.
The delegation spoke again, pleading with him to return.
One of them began to cry softly as he described children eating scraps, and mothers skipping meals to feed their families.
Then he said the line that froze my spine:
“Your Excellency… when the lightning struck the palace gate, the people said it was God calling His true leader home.”
I looked at Rasuawahi instantly.
His expression did not change, but his shoulders rose slightly—as though accepting a divine appointment letter.
He took a deep breath.
“My beloved Juburti,” he said to them, “has always been under divine guidance. If what you say is true… then perhaps destiny is speaking.”
The delegation dropped their heads, whispering prayers.
As I left the suite that night, I felt something far heavier than before.
Not fear.
Recognition.
I realised that political manipulation through religion works because:
- people are frightened,
- people want meaning,
- people crave saviours,
- and people mistake emotion for revelation.
And I finally understood the most frightening truth of all:
A desperate people will see God in any man who promises relief.
Even if that man once caused their suffering.
The fickleness I once blamed on ignorance was now clearer:
People forget because pain erases memory.
People believe because fear reshapes truth.
People surrender because hope, even false hope, is comforting.
And the most dangerous leaders are those who know exactly how to weaponise all three.
Next: Chapter 10 – The Return Strategy
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