Sleep did not come easily that night. My mind kept replaying Dr Rasuawahi’s declarations about “destiny”, “narrative”, and “public perception”, each phrase sounding uncomfortably familiar to anyone who has lived long enough in a democracy that behaves like a theatre troupe.
The next evening, I found myself knocking on his suite door again. It opened instantly, as though he had been standing behind it waiting—not for me specifically, but for an audience.
“Come, my friend,” he said warmly. “Tonight we talk about the most important asset any leader must control.”
“What asset is that?” I asked.
He smiled.
“The people’s love.”
He said it the way someone might speak of a private bank account.
He handed me a glossy magazine filled with photos of himself:
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hugging children,
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comforting villagers,
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inaugurating bridges,
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waving regally from balconies.
Each photograph was clearly staged, yet strangely convincing.
“You took these for your autobiography?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “These were taken to give the people what they need—an image. They must see you as their hero before they can believe you are their hero.”
He tapped the page showing him embracing a crying woman.
“Look at her,” he said. “She wasn’t crying because she was sad. A stage light fell on her foot. But the photo went viral with headlines like ‘President Comforts Grieving Widow’. That image alone increased my approval rating by twelve percent.”
“Twelve percent? From one photo?” I asked. People cannot be that gullible, or can they?
“People don’t follow policies,” he said. “They follow feelings. The quickest way to manipulate a nation is not through laws or speeches—it is through emotions.”
He paused, then added:
“And emotions are much easier to manufacture than reason.”
I felt a knot forming in my stomach.
He continued talking as if reading my thoughts.
“You Malaysians are familiar with this. Your leaders hug flood victims only when cameras are present. They kiss babies but never read a policy paper. They resign dramatically, then reappear as special advisors. A scandal erupts, people scream for a week, then everyone forgets because a concert, controversy, or celebrity distracts them.”
He chuckled at my expression.
“Do not look so shocked. This is not a Malaysian problem. It is a human problem. Juburti, Malaysia, America—people everywhere are addicted to political theatre.”
I wanted to argue, but I knew he had a point.
He leaned forward.
“Let me explain what the masses really want,” he said.
I braced myself.
“First, they want to feel safe. Not be safe—feel safe. There’s a difference.
Second, they want entertainment. Give them concerts, scandals, dramas, handouts, social media fights—anything that makes their small lives feel momentarily large.
Third, they want someone to blame. A villain. A traitor. A scapegoat.”
“And what about truth?” I asked.
“Truth?” he laughed. “Truth is the least popular product in politics. It doesn’t sell. It doesn’t excite. It doesn’t comfort. People reject truth the moment truth demands courage.”
I pressed him further.
“But don’t people realise they are being manipulated?”
He gave me a sympathetic look, as though explaining adulthood to a child.
“My dear lawyer, the masses don’t want to rule. They don’t want responsibility. They want leaders who make decisions for them so they can blame those leaders later if things go wrong. That is the secret pact between people and power.”
He sipped his coffee and continued.
“Democracy only works when citizens think. Most prefer to feel. Feeling requires no sacrifice.”
He pointed to the magazine again.
“You see these crowds waving flags? Half of them were paid. The other half came because they were afraid to look disloyal. And everyone else came because it was easier than thinking about why their lives never improve.”
“And this,” he said, lowering his voice,
“is why I will be called back soon.”
“Called back?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “Back to Juburti. The economy is collapsing again. Factions are at war. People are hungry, angry, disillusioned. When suffering grows, nostalgia grows with it. They will remember me—not as I was, but as they need me to have been.”
He smiled with satisfaction.
“The people create their saviour out of desperation. I only need to appear.”
“And when you return?” I asked.
“Oh, when I return, there will be cheering, crying, fireworks, declarations of hope. They will forget my flaws. They will forget their pain. They will worship the illusion they have created.”
He leaned in until I could smell the Havana cigar on his breath.
“And the corruption, nepotism, oppression? It will all return too. But they will clap anyway.”
As I left his hotel that night, I felt a strange heaviness.
Not from fear, but from recognition.
Why do people cheer so loudly for leaders who ruin them?
Why do citizens willingly surrender their power?
Why do the masses prefer spectacle to substance?
Why do they choose comfort over dignity, illusion over truth?
I realised something painful:
Leaders like Dr Rasuawahi thrive not because they are exceptional,
but because the people allow them to be.
And perhaps worse—
the people often prefer it that way. And that reminded me why I did not want to join politics.
Next: Chapter 8 – The Call from Juburti
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