Three days passed without a word from Dr Rasuawahi.
Three peaceful, blessed days where I did not have to listen to philosophies about “destiny”, “narratives”, or why the masses supposedly despise thinking.
I almost convinced myself that our strange association had ended.
Then, as I stepped out of court one evening, a young hotel staff approached me with surprising familiarity.
“Sir, Dr Rasuawahi wants to see you. Urgently.”
Urgently? My instinct to run and my instinct to comply wrestled briefly, and—unfortunately—compliance won.
In his suite, I found him pacing like a man preparing to reclaim a throne rather than a deposed leader in exile.
“Lawyer!” he exclaimed. “It has begun.”
“What has begun, Sir?”
He thrust his phone into my hands.
The screen displayed a Juburtian news portal with headlines screaming crisis:
ECONOMY IN COLLAPSE
FOOD RIOTS IN MAJOR CITIES
GOVERNING PARTY FRACTURED
MILITARY LOYALTY IN DOUBT
SUPPORTERS OF EX-PRESIDENT RALLY IN CAPITAL
I scrolled further and my eyebrows lifted involuntarily.
There were photographs of crowds holding banners—many with Rasuawahi’s face.
One read:
“BRING BACK THE MAN WHO SAVED US.”
Another:
“WE WANT DR RASUWAHI.”
I looked at him.
He pretended to be humble. Pretended.
“The people miss me,” he said softly, like a man accepting a national award.
I resisted saying, Or someone paid for those banners.
“Is it truly that bad in Juburti?” I asked.
“Bad?” he replied. “Juburti is falling apart. Inflation at 37%. Bread lines kilometres long. Ministers stealing openly. The President has lost control of the military. People are desperate. Angry. Full of fear.”
He paused, then added with satisfaction:
“And desperation always resurrects old heroes.”
I wanted to ask why people would forget the reasons they rejected him in the first place. But he anticipated my thought—again.
“You are confused,” he said.
“I am,” I admitted. “I cannot understand why people have such short memories. Why they are so fickle. Why they run back to leaders they removed.”
He smiled the way a teacher smiles before revealing a formula nobody wants to accept.
“Because remembering requires thinking,” he said. “And thinking requires courage. Most people are frightened of both.”
He continued, pacing slowly.
“The masses remember corruption only when their stomach is full.
But when their stomach is empty, they remember only hunger.
Hunger erases history far more efficiently than propaganda.”
He held up a finger.
“This is why failed leaders come back. The pain of today always feels heavier than the betrayal of yesterday.”
It was terrifying how accurate that sounded—not just for Juburti, but for many nations I knew.
Including my own.
“Sir,” I said, “don’t people learn?”
He laughed softly.
“People do not learn. They survive. They choose whatever gives immediate relief. Familiar leaders feel safer than unfamiliar solutions. A failed leader is still a leader they already know. The unknown terrifies them more than past betrayal.”
He leaned closer.
“And do not underestimate pride. To remember why they rejected me, they must admit they were fooled. The masses would rather forget than admit they made a mistake.”
A painful truth.
A universal truth.
Then his phone vibrated.
A video call.
Three elderly citizens appeared on screen, looking exhausted and tearful.
They spoke in Juburtian.
I could not understand the words, but I understood the emotion.
Rasuawahi translated:
“They are asking me to return. They say the nation needs me. They say only I can restore order.”
The woman on the screen nodded vigorously, wiping her tears.
“And what will you tell them?” I asked.
He placed a hand dramatically on his chest.
“I will consider.”
The relief on their faces was heartbreaking.
Or frightening.
I wasn’t sure which anymore.
When the call ended, he turned to me, eyes gleaming.
“Do you see? The call has begun. Destiny calls softly at first… then loudly.”
I hesitated before asking the next question.
“Sir… if you return… will anything change? Will corruption end? Will nepotism be reduced? Will people live better lives?”
He looked genuinely puzzled, even amused.
“My dear lawyer,” he said gently, “corruption is simply the lubrication of governance. Without it, nothing moves. Nepotism? That is loyalty with blood ties. The people understand this. In fact, they expect it.”
“And their suffering?” I pressed.
He waved his hand lightly.
“People always suffer. The difference is whether they believe their suffering is meaningful. When I return, I will give them meaning again. They will clap as they always clapped. They will forget as they always forgot.”
He smiled.
“That is the nature of the masses. And the masses are the same everywhere.”
As I left his suite, I felt something heavy in my chest.
Not fear.
Recognition.
For the first time, I realised something unsettling:
People are not fickle.
They are predictable.
They run back to familiar chains because unfamiliar freedom frightens them.
And leaders like Dr Rasuawahi return not because they deserve to.
But because the people themselves open the door.
Next: Chapter 9 – The Delegation Arrives
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