The dream man

In the rest of the world, the combination of time and money is the elixir everyone is chasing freedom from the clock and freedom from the bill. But one man has already achieved this: the Somali politician. He has both. And yet, he is still restless. 

In general, politicians everywhere are, more than most, closest to attaining this elusive freedom. They enjoy high salaries, public status, and healthy pensions—mostly while doing relatively little. Politics, in most of the world, is the shortcut to the good life. 

But even within this global fraternity of privilege, the Somali politician stands apart in the sheer extent of his indulgence. He enjoys all the perks of power—and none of the pressures. In office, he is not tethered—however lightly—to the machinery of accountability. His calendar is not filled with legislating, policy battles, or crisis management. Out of office, he doesn’t publish books, give lectures, or sit on boards. He simply disappears into comfort: a villa, a few household servants, fancy suits & sunglasses and nice cars in Nairobi or his village of origin.  

In office, he does very little. Out of office, he does even less. 

Think of recent Somali presidents and prime ministers: Sheikh Sharif, Mohamed Farmaajo, Hassan Sheikh during his years out of office. Think of Puntland and Somaliland leaders. Abdiweli Gaas. Abdirashid Sharmarke. Muse Bihi. The current cabinet. The MPs. Every one of them has secured the highest rewards for the least effort—minimal responsibility, maximal comfort, and a career that runs on status without substance for life.  

They’ve inverted the old maxim: ‘fake it till you make it’ and have given us the new and better: ‘fake it for life’. It is much easier.  

The presidents retreat to exclusive residences in foreign capitals—an indictment in itself. They can’t be seen too often, lest the myth of their importance wear thin. Former ministers and MPs do the same, though not all can afford the same level of luxury. But the routine is familiar: silence, entitlement, and an obsessive need to appear relevant without doing anything meaningful. Many don three-piece suits simply to sit in cafés and chat. They’ve inverted the old maxim: ‘fake it till you make it’ and have given us ‘fake it for life’. It is much easier. 

Like Adam and Eve in paradise, their greatest challenge is figuring out what to do with an abundance of time. Despite the comfort that surrounds them, they are burdened by a boredom they cannot name and do not know how to escape. So they bury themselves deeper into Somali politics—like sports fans obsessing over league tables. They follow every shift, comment on every appointment, scheme a return—not out of new ideas, or even necessity, but for the thrill of performance, the appearance of motion, the hunger for something that feels like meaning.

Their escape is constant travel: Nairobi, Dubai, London, Toronto, back to Mogadishu, and around again. The grass is always greener in the next hotel. Each new city brings a flicker of excitement—for a day or two. Then the sinking feeling returns. Nothing is happening. Nothing will happen. So, they manufacture urgency, instruct a travel agent—yes, they still need one—and book another flight, usually to Nairobi.

The problem is that public life requires ideas—that politics needs an ideological framework, a governing philosophy, and a sense of historical purpose.

There, the pattern resets: a couple of tea meetings, some café conversations, a brief illusion of purpose. Then, once again, it fades. Nairobi, too, is boring.

The problem isn’t Mogadishu. It isn’t Nairobi. It isn’t even politics. The problem is that public life requires ideas—that politics needs an ideological framework, a governing philosophy, and a sense of historical purpose. It cannot run on self-interest and ambition alone. It cannot work on performance and imitation.

Without that, politics becomes an intellectual desert: and the men in it become men stranded in it.

The Somali politician has everything the world chases: time, money, and security. What he lacks is the one thing that gives those things meaning—introspection.

What if, instead of flying from city to city, he stayed still? What if time wasn’t something to kill, but something to sit with?

What if he used it to think—about how he got where he is, what he has given up, and what he has forgotten? What if he read more, listened more, talked less? What if he stopped trying to matter, and simply lived with purpose, on his own terms?

Boredom isn’t a void. It’s the space where meaning is supposed to be.

The Somali politician is the dream man. He has time. He has money. And he has nothing to do.