I have reached a point in life where I no longer fight political battles on behalf of my friends. Not because I have suddenly become a supporter of every president who occupies State House, nor because I have developed a strange appetite for watching people lose their jobs. No. I have simply discovered that some friends want you to join them in fighting battles whose benefits they alone will enjoy, while you remain behind to count the bruises.
I used to believe that friendship meant standing together through thick and thin. If my friends were angry, I was expected to be angry. If they shouted, I was supposed to shout louder. If they declared that the government had become a national disaster, I was expected to provide the disaster management team with a microphone. Unfortunately, experience has taught me that political friendship sometimes comes with an unwritten job description: you must defend your friends even when you do not understand what they are defending.
My political education began after the last election, when the president settled into office and started reviewing appointments made by the previous administration. One morning, he would revoke an appointment. The following morning, he would announce a replacement. Before my friends could finish their breakfast, another appointment would be cancelled, and before they could finish complaining about it, another name would appear in the news.
It was as if the president had converted the appointments office into a revolving door. People entered through the front, others exited through the back, and the door never stopped turning. Unfortunately, my friends were among those shown the door.
The transformation was remarkable. Men who had previously spoken about national unity began to speak with extraordinary passion about tribalism. People who had once celebrated the president's victory began questioning whether he understood the meaning of fairness. Those who had defended the administration yesterday were suddenly constitutional experts today.
One friend, who had spent years telling us that the president was a visionary leader, called me in the evening. "My brother, have you seen what is happening?" he asked, his voice carrying the sorrow of a man who had just discovered that his salary had been buried without a funeral. "What has happened?" I asked innocently. "The president is appointing his tribal friends! He is removing qualified people and replacing them with his own people. Is this how a country should be governed?"
I listened carefully. His argument sounded reasonable, and I almost joined him in condemning the president. Then I remembered something important: my friend had also occupied his former position through a presidential appointment. I decided to ask a small question, the kind that can turn a peaceful telephone conversation into a national inquiry. "My brother," I said, "when you were appointed, did you arrive at the office through the window, or did somebody appoint you?" Silence. I continued, "And when you received the appointment letter, did you ask whether the president was choosing you because of your qualifications, your tribe, your friendship, or your excellent relationship with the people who served tea at State House?"
My friend was not amused. Apparently, questions are welcome in politics only when they are directed at your opponents. He reminded me that he was qualified for the position. I did not dispute that. A person can be qualified and still have been appointed through political connections. The two things are not mutually exclusive. You can possess the necessary education, experience, and competence while also benefiting from the fact that somebody powerful knows your name.
This is where our political conversations often become dishonest. We examine the qualifications of the person who has lost an appointment under a microscope, but we use binoculars when examining the qualifications of the person who has received it.
When our friend gets the job, we say the government has recognized talent. When another person's friend gets the same job, we say the government has promoted tribalism. When our people occupy the offices, we call it representation. When other people's people occupy them, we call it discrimination. Apparently, fairness is a wonderful principle, provided it does not interfere with our appointment letters.
As the president continued recalling officials, the situation became even more interesting. Some of my friends who had lost their positions began calling me regularly. They wanted me to join them in condemning the president. When appointments involving ambassadors came under review, the telephone calls became more frequent.
One would think I had been appointed the national chairman of the opposition in charge of consoling unemployed friends. "Surely, you cannot remain silent!" one of them protested. "Today it is us. Tomorrow it will be somebody else!"
I agreed with him on one point: tomorrow, it could indeed be somebody else. That is precisely why we should have discussed the issue before the appointments were made, not only after the people we knew had been removed. I politely declined to join their campaign.
I understood that a president arrives with a political team, just as a governor arrives with a team of people who helped him win an election. Members of parliament also have their political networks, and other elected leaders have supporters, advisers, loyalists, and people they trust. Elections do not merely change the people who give speeches at rallies; they can also change the people occupying public offices.
When a new administration takes over, some officials leave, others remain, and new appointments are made. This is a familiar feature of political life, particularly where senior positions are subject to political appointment or the incoming administration has lawful authority to make changes.
However, understanding this political reality does not mean accepting every decision made by a president or governor. There is a difference between explaining why political appointments happen and defending every appointment as right. That distinction is important.
A president is not the private owner of a country. A governor does not inherit a county as a family farm. An elected leader is entrusted with public authority, and public offices exist to serve citizens, not merely to reward friends and political allies.
There are positions where an incoming administration legitimately needs people who understand its policies and can help implement its programme. But that does not give leaders permission to ignore the law, undermine independent institutions, discriminate unlawfully, or turn public employment into a private arrangement among friends.
The question should not simply be whether the president has appointed his friends. It should also be whether those appointed are qualified, whether the process is lawful and transparent, whether constitutional requirements have been followed, and whether the public is receiving value from the people paid with public money.
After all, a person does not become incompetent merely because the president knows him. Neither does a person become competent merely because the president knows him.
We can spend three hours debating the tribe of a newly appointed ambassador without spending three minutes asking what that ambassador is expected to achieve. We can organize a public demonstration because our favourite person has been removed from a board, yet remain completely silent when the same board fails to perform its duties.
It is almost as if we believe that the most important qualification for public office is the ability to make our friends happy.
My friends did not appreciate my new political philosophy. They interpreted my silence as betrayal. One even suggested that I had been compromised by the government. I laughed. If refusing to fight every political battle makes me compromised, then perhaps I have been compromised by common sense.
I have never been appointed an ambassador, a nominated leader, a cabinet secretary, or a chairman of a public board. I have therefore not experienced the special pain of receiving a letter informing me that my services are no longer required. Perhaps I would sing a different tune if I were the one packing my office belongings into a cardboard box. But I hope that even then, I would remember that a public appointment is not the same thing as a permanent personal inheritance.
The real problem begins when people confuse public office with personal ownership. Someone is appointed and begins to behave as though the office belongs to his family. His friends celebrate because one of their own has entered the building. They feel represented, protected, and politically powerful. They forget that the building belongs to the public, and that the office exists for a purpose beyond maintaining their social circle.
Then an election happens. The political wind changes direction, and the new administration begins rearranging the furniture. Suddenly, the people who once praised the system begin calling it unfair.
This is why I have become suspicious of political outrage that appears only when personal interests are threatened. If we truly believe in fair appointments, we should demand fairness when our friends are being appointed and when they are being removed. If we believe in merit, we should examine merit even when the successful candidate belongs to our tribe. If we believe in constitutionalism, we should defend the Constitution even when it prevents our favourite leader from doing what we want. Principles are not principles if they disappear whenever our friends lose their jobs.
There is also a lesson here for anyone who wants to maintain genuine friendships. You do not have to inherit every opinion your friends hold. You can sympathize with a friend's disappointment without accepting every accusation he makes. You can listen to his complaints without becoming a member of his political choir.
Friendship should permit honest disagreement. If a friend expects you to condemn every person he dislikes and praise every person he supports, then perhaps what he wants is not friendship but a personal public-relations department. And the position is unpaid! I have decided that I will no longer volunteer for that job.
When my friends complain about appointments, I will ask questions. Were the appointments lawful? Were the people qualified? Was the process transparent? Were constitutional requirements respected? Is the public being served? If an official was unfairly removed, I will support a fair process. If a new appointee is unqualified, I will say so regardless of the person's tribe or political connections. But I will not condemn a president merely because my friend has lost an appointment. Nor will I praise a president merely because somebody from my community has received one.
The same standard must apply to governors, members of parliament, and other elected leaders. Their friends may enter offices with them, but their responsibilities extend far beyond their friends. They owe the public competent leadership, honest administration, and respect for the law.
There is another reason I refuse to fight these battles blindly: today's political winner can become tomorrow's political loser. The person celebrating an appointment today may be explaining its unfairness tomorrow. The official who is being removed may return to office under a future administration. Political fortunes change, but the country remains.
If we build our principles around the temporary interests of individuals, we will spend our entire lives changing our opinions every time power changes hands.
One day we will defend the revolving door. The next day we will demand that it be abolished. The following day, when our own candidate wins, we will ask the carpenter to repair it quickly.
I would rather support a system in which public offices are filled and vacated according to the law, with appropriate safeguards, fair procedures, and a commitment to public service. Where political appointments are permitted, leaders should exercise that authority responsibly. Where independent commissions or other institutions have a role, their independence should be respected. Where people have been treated unlawfully, they should have access to appropriate remedies. That is a more useful political conversation than simply asking whose friend has been sent home.
So, when my telephone rings and a disappointed friend asks me to join him in condemning the president, I will listen. I will offer sympathy if he has suffered an injustice. I may even buy him tea as he explains how the nation has collapsed since his appointment letter was withdrawn. But I will not automatically join his political crusade.
I have learned that the loss of a friend's job does not necessarily mean the loss of justice. Equally, the appointment of another person's friend does not automatically mean the arrival of justice. Each case must be examined on its merits.
My friends may call me disloyal, but I would rather be loyal to principles than be recruited into every temporary political disappointment.
After all, when the next election comes, the president may bring another team, the governor may introduce another group of trusted people, and the revolving door may begin turning again. Some of today's winners will become tomorrow's complainants. Some of today's critics may become tomorrow's appointees. And when that day arrives, I do not want to discover that I have spent my entire political life fighting for people who were not defending justice, but merely defending their seats.
My conclusion is simple: I no longer fight for my friends merely because they have lost power. I fight for fairness, accountability, constitutional government, and the public interest.
Friends may lose their appointments, leaders may change their teams, and political fortunes may rise and fall. But if our principles change with every appointment letter, then we are not defending democracy. We are merely campaigning for the next group of friends to occupy the chairs. And in a country where the chairs keep changing owners, perhaps the wisest citizen is the one who remembers that the chairs belong to the public in the first place.
I used to believe that friendship meant standing together through thick and thin. If my friends were angry, I was expected to be angry. If they shouted, I was supposed to shout louder. If they declared that the government had become a national disaster, I was expected to provide the disaster management team with a microphone. Unfortunately, experience has taught me that political friendship sometimes comes with an unwritten job description: you must defend your friends even when you do not understand what they are defending.
My political education began after the last election, when the president settled into office and started reviewing appointments made by the previous administration. One morning, he would revoke an appointment. The following morning, he would announce a replacement. Before my friends could finish their breakfast, another appointment would be cancelled, and before they could finish complaining about it, another name would appear in the news.
It was as if the president had converted the appointments office into a revolving door. People entered through the front, others exited through the back, and the door never stopped turning. Unfortunately, my friends were among those shown the door.
The transformation was remarkable. Men who had previously spoken about national unity began to speak with extraordinary passion about tribalism. People who had once celebrated the president's victory began questioning whether he understood the meaning of fairness. Those who had defended the administration yesterday were suddenly constitutional experts today.
One friend, who had spent years telling us that the president was a visionary leader, called me in the evening. "My brother, have you seen what is happening?" he asked, his voice carrying the sorrow of a man who had just discovered that his salary had been buried without a funeral. "What has happened?" I asked innocently. "The president is appointing his tribal friends! He is removing qualified people and replacing them with his own people. Is this how a country should be governed?"
I listened carefully. His argument sounded reasonable, and I almost joined him in condemning the president. Then I remembered something important: my friend had also occupied his former position through a presidential appointment. I decided to ask a small question, the kind that can turn a peaceful telephone conversation into a national inquiry. "My brother," I said, "when you were appointed, did you arrive at the office through the window, or did somebody appoint you?" Silence. I continued, "And when you received the appointment letter, did you ask whether the president was choosing you because of your qualifications, your tribe, your friendship, or your excellent relationship with the people who served tea at State House?"
My friend was not amused. Apparently, questions are welcome in politics only when they are directed at your opponents. He reminded me that he was qualified for the position. I did not dispute that. A person can be qualified and still have been appointed through political connections. The two things are not mutually exclusive. You can possess the necessary education, experience, and competence while also benefiting from the fact that somebody powerful knows your name.
This is where our political conversations often become dishonest. We examine the qualifications of the person who has lost an appointment under a microscope, but we use binoculars when examining the qualifications of the person who has received it.
When our friend gets the job, we say the government has recognized talent. When another person's friend gets the same job, we say the government has promoted tribalism. When our people occupy the offices, we call it representation. When other people's people occupy them, we call it discrimination. Apparently, fairness is a wonderful principle, provided it does not interfere with our appointment letters.
As the president continued recalling officials, the situation became even more interesting. Some of my friends who had lost their positions began calling me regularly. They wanted me to join them in condemning the president. When appointments involving ambassadors came under review, the telephone calls became more frequent.
One would think I had been appointed the national chairman of the opposition in charge of consoling unemployed friends. "Surely, you cannot remain silent!" one of them protested. "Today it is us. Tomorrow it will be somebody else!"
I agreed with him on one point: tomorrow, it could indeed be somebody else. That is precisely why we should have discussed the issue before the appointments were made, not only after the people we knew had been removed. I politely declined to join their campaign.
I understood that a president arrives with a political team, just as a governor arrives with a team of people who helped him win an election. Members of parliament also have their political networks, and other elected leaders have supporters, advisers, loyalists, and people they trust. Elections do not merely change the people who give speeches at rallies; they can also change the people occupying public offices.
When a new administration takes over, some officials leave, others remain, and new appointments are made. This is a familiar feature of political life, particularly where senior positions are subject to political appointment or the incoming administration has lawful authority to make changes.
However, understanding this political reality does not mean accepting every decision made by a president or governor. There is a difference between explaining why political appointments happen and defending every appointment as right. That distinction is important.
A president is not the private owner of a country. A governor does not inherit a county as a family farm. An elected leader is entrusted with public authority, and public offices exist to serve citizens, not merely to reward friends and political allies.
There are positions where an incoming administration legitimately needs people who understand its policies and can help implement its programme. But that does not give leaders permission to ignore the law, undermine independent institutions, discriminate unlawfully, or turn public employment into a private arrangement among friends.
The question should not simply be whether the president has appointed his friends. It should also be whether those appointed are qualified, whether the process is lawful and transparent, whether constitutional requirements have been followed, and whether the public is receiving value from the people paid with public money.
After all, a person does not become incompetent merely because the president knows him. Neither does a person become competent merely because the president knows him.
Unfortunately, our political discussions rarely reach this level of maturity. We spend more time discussing whose tribe has occupied which office than asking whether the office is performing its intended function.
We can spend three hours debating the tribe of a newly appointed ambassador without spending three minutes asking what that ambassador is expected to achieve. We can organize a public demonstration because our favourite person has been removed from a board, yet remain completely silent when the same board fails to perform its duties.
It is almost as if we believe that the most important qualification for public office is the ability to make our friends happy.
My friends did not appreciate my new political philosophy. They interpreted my silence as betrayal. One even suggested that I had been compromised by the government. I laughed. If refusing to fight every political battle makes me compromised, then perhaps I have been compromised by common sense.
I have never been appointed an ambassador, a nominated leader, a cabinet secretary, or a chairman of a public board. I have therefore not experienced the special pain of receiving a letter informing me that my services are no longer required. Perhaps I would sing a different tune if I were the one packing my office belongings into a cardboard box. But I hope that even then, I would remember that a public appointment is not the same thing as a permanent personal inheritance.
The real problem begins when people confuse public office with personal ownership. Someone is appointed and begins to behave as though the office belongs to his family. His friends celebrate because one of their own has entered the building. They feel represented, protected, and politically powerful. They forget that the building belongs to the public, and that the office exists for a purpose beyond maintaining their social circle.
Then an election happens. The political wind changes direction, and the new administration begins rearranging the furniture. Suddenly, the people who once praised the system begin calling it unfair.
This is why I have become suspicious of political outrage that appears only when personal interests are threatened. If we truly believe in fair appointments, we should demand fairness when our friends are being appointed and when they are being removed. If we believe in merit, we should examine merit even when the successful candidate belongs to our tribe. If we believe in constitutionalism, we should defend the Constitution even when it prevents our favourite leader from doing what we want. Principles are not principles if they disappear whenever our friends lose their jobs.
There is also a lesson here for anyone who wants to maintain genuine friendships. You do not have to inherit every opinion your friends hold. You can sympathize with a friend's disappointment without accepting every accusation he makes. You can listen to his complaints without becoming a member of his political choir.
Friendship should permit honest disagreement. If a friend expects you to condemn every person he dislikes and praise every person he supports, then perhaps what he wants is not friendship but a personal public-relations department. And the position is unpaid! I have decided that I will no longer volunteer for that job.
When my friends complain about appointments, I will ask questions. Were the appointments lawful? Were the people qualified? Was the process transparent? Were constitutional requirements respected? Is the public being served? If an official was unfairly removed, I will support a fair process. If a new appointee is unqualified, I will say so regardless of the person's tribe or political connections. But I will not condemn a president merely because my friend has lost an appointment. Nor will I praise a president merely because somebody from my community has received one.
The same standard must apply to governors, members of parliament, and other elected leaders. Their friends may enter offices with them, but their responsibilities extend far beyond their friends. They owe the public competent leadership, honest administration, and respect for the law.
There is another reason I refuse to fight these battles blindly: today's political winner can become tomorrow's political loser. The person celebrating an appointment today may be explaining its unfairness tomorrow. The official who is being removed may return to office under a future administration. Political fortunes change, but the country remains.
If we build our principles around the temporary interests of individuals, we will spend our entire lives changing our opinions every time power changes hands.
One day we will defend the revolving door. The next day we will demand that it be abolished. The following day, when our own candidate wins, we will ask the carpenter to repair it quickly.
I would rather support a system in which public offices are filled and vacated according to the law, with appropriate safeguards, fair procedures, and a commitment to public service. Where political appointments are permitted, leaders should exercise that authority responsibly. Where independent commissions or other institutions have a role, their independence should be respected. Where people have been treated unlawfully, they should have access to appropriate remedies. That is a more useful political conversation than simply asking whose friend has been sent home.
So, when my telephone rings and a disappointed friend asks me to join him in condemning the president, I will listen. I will offer sympathy if he has suffered an injustice. I may even buy him tea as he explains how the nation has collapsed since his appointment letter was withdrawn. But I will not automatically join his political crusade.
I have learned that the loss of a friend's job does not necessarily mean the loss of justice. Equally, the appointment of another person's friend does not automatically mean the arrival of justice. Each case must be examined on its merits.
My friends may call me disloyal, but I would rather be loyal to principles than be recruited into every temporary political disappointment.
After all, when the next election comes, the president may bring another team, the governor may introduce another group of trusted people, and the revolving door may begin turning again. Some of today's winners will become tomorrow's complainants. Some of today's critics may become tomorrow's appointees. And when that day arrives, I do not want to discover that I have spent my entire political life fighting for people who were not defending justice, but merely defending their seats.
My conclusion is simple: I no longer fight for my friends merely because they have lost power. I fight for fairness, accountability, constitutional government, and the public interest.
Friends may lose their appointments, leaders may change their teams, and political fortunes may rise and fall. But if our principles change with every appointment letter, then we are not defending democracy. We are merely campaigning for the next group of friends to occupy the chairs. And in a country where the chairs keep changing owners, perhaps the wisest citizen is the one who remembers that the chairs belong to the public in the first place.
