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“Public office is not a reward for winning. It is a duty that begins the day you win, not ownership.” Professor Amina Mohamed
There is a quiet sickness in politics. It begins on the day a person is handed an office. The suit is pressed, the title is announced, the car arrives, and slowly something changes inside them. They stop feeling like servants entrusted with a task and start feeling like owners. The chair becomes theirs. The ministry becomes theirs. The country becomes theirs.
This article is a reminder, written with love for Somalia and honesty about our pain, to everyone who holds public office: this nation is not yours alone. It belongs to all of us, and you work for us.
Anyone can wear a suit, sit behind a desk, and be greeted with respect. These are the decorations of politics, not its substance. Real leadership is measured by its impact on other people’s lives: a child who can finally go to school, a mother who can reach a clinic, a graduate who finds honest work, or a family that sleeps without fear.
So ask yourself one simple question: When you leave a room, is anyone’s life better because you were in it? If the honest answer is no, the title is merely clothing.
Too many people confuse being important with being useful. They are not the same. A person can be very important yet useless to the nation, while someone with no title at all can be a pillar of their community. Our people can always tell the difference.
Somalia does not belong to a clan, a party, a family, or an officeholder. It belongs to the nomad in the interior and the trader in Mogadishu, the fisherman on the coast and the student abroad who dreams of coming home. It belongs to those who stayed through the hardest years and to those who left but never stopped loving it. It belongs to the dead, whose sacrifices helped build what stability we have, and to the unborn, who will inherit whatever we leave behind.
Those who work in government are employees of this nation. Their salaries come from the people’s resources. Their authority is borrowed from the people. When an employee behaves as though the employer exists to serve him, something has gone badly wrong.
A civil servant who makes citizens beg or pay bribes for services they are already entitled to has forgotten who pays his wages. A minister who treats a ministry like a private estate has forgotten whose ministry it is. A member of parliament who appears only at election time has forgotten who sent him. Public office is not a reward for winning. It is a duty that begins the day you win.
In our faith and culture, one word carries great weight: amanah, a trust. Authority is not a gift to enjoy. It is a trust to account for. Whoever holds it will be asked what he did with it. Did he protect the weak? Did he spend public money honestly? Did he tell the truth? Did he make decisions for the nation or for his own pocket and circle?
Our elders understood this long before modern constitutions. A traditional leader was respected not merely for his power but for his responsibility. He settled disputes fairly, protected the vulnerable, and spoke for those who could not speak for themselves. When he stopped serving, his standing disappeared.
Amanah changes how a leader sees everything. A budget is no longer “my money” but the people’s money. An office is no longer a prize but a heavy responsibility. Those who understand this are humbled by power, not hungry for it.
For ordinary Somalis, every failure of leadership has a face. When leaders fight over power instead of solving problems, a hospital runs short of medicine. When public money disappears, a school remains without teachers. When institutions are weak, a young person loses hope and risks a dangerous journey abroad. When quarrels at the top go unresolved, insecurity spreads into places where families are simply trying to live.
Trust suffers too. When people stop believing in their leaders, they slowly stop believing in each other. A nation that cannot trust itself cannot rebuild.
Ordinary people, with almost nothing, have kept communities alive through years when the state could not. Imagine what could be achieved if those with real authority served with the same dedication.
Serving the people is practical. It means doing the work you were chosen to do, answering letters and calls, and visiting the places that are suffering, not only those that are safe. It means hiring fairly, refusing gifts that buy favours, and spending public money as though the whole nation were watching, because it is.
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Before every major decision, ask: Who does this help, and who does this hurt? If the only honest answer is “me,” stop.
The Somali people are not asking for perfection. They are asking for a few basic things.
Honesty. Tell the people the truth about where the country stands. Stop making promises that are forgotten when the cameras leave.
Humility. You are not above criticism, and you are not above the people. A leader who hears only praise is being deceived by those around him.
Competence. Good intentions are not enough. Appoint people for their ability and character, not merely their connections.
Accountability. Explain your decisions. Show how public money is spent. Leaving office does not erase responsibility for what was done while holding it.
Unity. Put the nation before the clan, the faction, and the personal grudge. A leader who cannot compromise for stability is not strong, only stubborn.
This message is also for us. A nation gets the leadership it demands. If we celebrate wealth without asking where it came from, excuse corruption because the offender is from our own community, or remain silent because speaking up is uncomfortable, we help build the very system we complain about.
Citizens have power too: our voices, our votes where we can use them, our questions, and our refusal to accept less than we deserve. Every time we insist that officials are servants and not masters, the country moves a small step closer to what it should be.
Every office has an end. Every title will eventually be forgotten, and every motorcade will pass. What remains is what was done with the time and trust that were given.
Some leaders will be remembered for the clinics they opened, the institutions they strengthened, and the dignity they restored to their people. Others will be remembered for what they took and what they allowed to fall apart. History keeps careful records, and it is not easily bribed.
To every Somali who holds public office: you are not the owner of this country. You are its servant. Wear the suit if you wish, but remember who you are wearing it for.
Remember that the trust you hold was given by people who have suffered enough, and they are watching how you use it.
Serve the people, and the people will remember you. Serve only yourself, and history will remember that too.
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About the Author
Professor Amina Mohamed is a Health Regulatory Affairs Specialist, and the president of the Dr. Hawa Abdi Foundation.
The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Dawan Africa.