Turjumaad ayaa la diyaarinayaa

By Osman A. Hassan

Every morning there is a ritual known only to those who live inside power too long. Before advisers arrive, before guards clear the corridors, before ministers rehearse their praises, before citizens line up with their grievances, there is the mirror. The mirror hangs quietly on the wall, but it is more dangerous than an army and more deceptive than a conspiracy. It does not speak with a voice, yet it whispers. It does not vote, yet it influences decisions. It does not hold office, yet it shapes the mind of the ruler. In that mirror President Hassan Sheikh sees not glass, not silver, not his own aging face, but confirmation. He sees himself as the only pillar still standing in a collapsing house. He sees himself as the irreplaceable center of a nation of shifting circles. He sees his reflection as destiny, while all others appear distorted, reduced, suspicious, and hungry.

This is the oldest trap of leadership: when a leader stops seeing reality and starts seeing only reflections. The mirror tells him he is still strong, still beloved, still feared, still necessary. It tells him that the crowd outside is confused but loyal. It tells him the constitution bends where history requires it. It tells him that critics are merely jealous, rivals merely impatient, opponents merely enemies of progress. And because the mirror flatters, he listens. Yet mirrors are imperfect servants. They reverse direction. They enlarge vanity. They hide what stands behind the viewer. They can only show the front, never the back. They cannot display the wounds of the nation, the lack of service delivery the anger in distant villages, the exhaustion of soldiers, the bitterness of unpaid workers, the frustration of youth, the distrust among clans, the silence of disappointed supporters, or the slow ticking of time.

A mirror cannot show tomorrow. It only repeats today. In the morning reflection, Hassan Sheikh himself, alone on the stand, the sole survivor among lesser politicians. Others appear to him like migraine mirages, circling vultures waiting to snatch what he holds. Their ambitions seem predatory, their smiles rehearsed, their alliances temporary. He suspects every handshake hides a knife, every meeting hides a plot, every criticism hides a campaign. This mindset is common in leaders who have spent too long in competitive politics. They no longer distinguish between legitimate opposition and sabotage. Everyone outside their circle becomes a scavenger. Everyone inside their circle becomes an echo. But the tragedy of this vision is that sometimes the vultures are not circling because of greed. Sometimes they circle because they smell weakness. Sometimes they gather because the throne itself has become unstable. Sometimes the danger to a leader is not conspiracy but decline. When a term nears its end, when promises remain incomplete, when institutions remain fragile, when alliances grow transactional, the political sky fills with wings.