Remember You Are Mortal

In ancient Rome, the highest honors a brave military commander could receive after a successful campaign were those of a triumph. The title was rarely bestowed; therefore, recipients were granted a lavish parade through the city, with both friends and foes in attendance. The triumph’s convoy included some of his prized slaves walking in chains with their heads hanging low, as well as trophies from his conquest. This was his hour. As his convoy made its way across the city, hordes of people surrounded it, some cheering his achievement, while others plotted his ruin. The climb up Rome’s power structure was steep and treacherous. It could be likened to climbing Kilimanjaro while having boulders tossed down from the top by those who pretend to support you but secretly wish for your downfall.

Another curious addition to the parade was the slave whose only role was to stand behind the triumph throughout the procession and whisper in his ear, "Remember, you are mortal." At this time in history, Rome was thought to be the greatest civilization on earth, and being at the top of the country's political scene was the highest a man could climb before eventually becoming a god. The Romans, with their pantheon of pagan deities, believed some men could become so great as to discard their weak humanity—riddled with all the frailties we know too well—and step into the divine to judge all the other mere mortals. The challenge, however, was that there wasn't a clear-cut pathway to this divinity—who could tell what the capricious Jupiter and his horde might do? Many great Romans dared not insult the gods before becoming one.

The fall of the Roman Empire remains a topic of study precisely because the Romans themselves believed their empire was too great to fail. Nonetheless, a few vestiges of Roman thought and life remain, witnesses to what these great people knew that still baffles people today: the all-too-common tendency to believe in one’s own immortality mythology. Dismissing the wisdom of the past, African leaders have proven themselves incapable of resisting the sweet incense of power once in close proximity to it. Something about the ability to make grown men weak in the knees serves as an eternal siren song. These men, once lean and forgettable in their worn clothes, patched shoes, and nervous tics of hardship, quietly morph into the very thing they once denounced.

For the average African, the transformation is often quite astounding. This is when people huddle in small bars across the city, tracing their memories for anything that would have hinted at what they’re now witnessing. "Wasn’t this the man who said he didn’t want power just three years ago?" "Isn’t this the man who told us he was a lowly farmer like the rest of us and therefore understood our plight?" "Isn’t this the young man who bravely spoke out about past brutality?" The betrayal, like a lover catching their beloved in the throngs of passion with another, is immediately confounding. With no words left to describe it—and fear in their bellies if they dared express it—the African folk shrug their shoulders and carry on with their lives as usual, the hopeless refrain "this world is not my own" playing in the back of their minds.

Power corrupts. Yes, we’ve known this for a while. Yet, it remains curious to watch how even the best among us are unable to resist its allure. For instance, at the height of his power, Mobutu Sese Seko was just one of many parodies of what power can do to a mind unprepared for it. The luxury cars, clothes, trips, and real estate could be forgiven as the natural result of a man unaccustomed to wealth. It’s been said that those born with a wooden spoon often go to great lengths to make up for it. No, those can be forgiven. The truly stupefying attributes of his rule were the titles, the mandatory observance of obeisance, and the constant infringement upon the rights of others. Once called "The Father of the Nation, Messiah, and Leopard King," Mobutu expected nothing less than wholehearted devotion and worship on earth.

Unfortunately for Africa, her history is replete with examples of men who mistook themselves for gods. The consequences of having egomaniacs at the helm of power can be seen everywhere across the continent. Nothing works like it’s supposed to, and nothing ever will. It’s by design, for their divinization requires chaos, poverty, and loss. They need the chaos to feel useful; a subpar road here, a barely functional hospital there, all with beautiful gold plaques plastered in remembrance, and the mandatory self-congratulatory ribbon-cutting ceremony. The ordinary African has been sentenced to never-ending purgatory. On our soil, under our incredulous gaze, these men become gods and then revert to humanity with their last breath. While they are, in fact, mortal like the rest of us, the system isn’t. And so, not long after, another Hercules appears with the same siren song of liberty, equality, and opportunity, and the cycle is repeated.