If I Were President For A Day

True or false: The 90s were the last decade where hope tasted real.

Even if we were too young to name it, or not even born yet, floating in our mother’s womb or just a wish in our father’s loins, we could feel it. That hope. Thick. Making the air around it heavy with the possibilities of a good future. A future where anything feels possible. Flying cars. Silver suits. Everyone would be glowing in that Afrofuturist glam with the aura of tight leather pants and really cool eye make-up, as was promised in all those dystopian movies from the 80s.

The 2000s were meant to be that decade, the time of arrival. We had passed Y2K, the world hadn’t ended at the turn of the century, and this new millennium spelt promises, progress, peace, and pleasure. It was meant to be a forward movement into a world that worked for everyone. Instead, we got a new era of wars, recessions, surveillance, calamity, COVID-19, and vibes held together by trauma, TikTok and Wi-Fi. I am convinced that we skipped into a more terrible timeline when we entered the 2000s. I wish we could go back. At least we had Walkmans then.

Nostalgia is now big business. Many people are cashing in on that nostalgia train. Why? Because the past is the only place where dreams still make sense. The past is where someone would ask you, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” and you would have the temerity to shout: “Doctor! Lawyer! Pilot! President!” And believe it.

I believed it too.
But now? Not quite. I’m none of the things that I used to yell out when I was that toddler unstained by the difficulty of life.

Lawyer? I’m too shy, too reluctant, too tired to argue with people. If what you argue is what you believe, then you do you. That’s not the kind of lawyer you want to defend you.

Opposing Counsel: “Your Honour, the defendant is guilty.”
Me: “Fair enough.”

Unlike Alexander Hamilton, my clients would not be acquitted.

Pilot? Me, who gets panic attacks just looking out the plane window? Who needs to feel the earth under my feet to breathe? Let’s not do that to people.

Doctor? Once upon a time, maybe. My name even means doctor in my native language. But doctors failed my family, and then I didn’t want to be near them. Plus, doctors have needles, and needles hurt. Hospitals echo too much grief. So no. Not that either.

President?

Well… That dream feels the most distant of all. Not because it’s impossible (but it is impossible. I have a better chance of becoming a lawyer than a president). But because I know myself now. I know how easily power seduces. And how fast a saviour becomes a tyrant. The whole of Dune is a cautionary tale of how the saviour can also be the devil.

So, would I lead? Or would I rule?

Lately, I’ve been wondering what I’d do if I somehow – by fate, accident, or an unexpected coup -took over a country for a day. These thoughts, I’ll admit, are mostly powered by escapism. By my own little fantasies of being Supergirl, the saviour that comes to fly in and save the world, solving every problem, and basking in the warm glow of self-satisfaction and adoration from the grateful populace. As a maladaptive daydreamer, I build elaborate mental worlds where I’m the lone saviour, the hero, and the fixer. And once the day is saved, I get to walk away feeling like I mattered.

But if I put aside the ethical and moral dilemmas and imagined nobility of being the sole saviour, what would I really do if I seized power, even for just one day? I’d like to believe I’d be noble, valiant, even. But deep down, I know better.

We’ve all seen what happens when people sit on the throne of swords. The weight of power warps you, seduces you. I can’t promise I’d be any different. I’d probably declare myself ruler, not leader, and begin rewriting laws before the ink on my new title dried. Like the queen mother of incest once said, “Power is power.”

I know morality can’t be legislated. But I’d try anyway. Not to make things right, necessarily.
But to make them mine. The more I think about it, the more I realise that I’d probably be just as bad. Just as power-drunk. And just as dramatic.

If I were president of a country, any country, even just for a day, I would turn the presidential address into a music video. I would have autotuned speech, a choir, dancers, and I would make it so that all TV stations have to show my talent.

I would ban Mondays because, let’s face it, we all hate Mondays. Only psychos love that day. Monday would become No Hustle Day. Pyjamas only. No work. Everyone would have to carry visible food stains on their clothing, and nothing was to be done.

I would hire a Prophet as my Official Advisor, and every decision would first be approved by the Prophet’s dreams. I would also create a National Ministry of Gossip. This ministry would be staffed exclusively by aunties from church WhatsApp groups. I am so sure I would know everyone’s business by the end of the day.

I would launch a Presidential TikTok/OnlyFans with no Nudity, just straight up unhinged cooking videos. All of this would be monetised. I would release a voice note to the Nation that begins with, “My fellow Africans, let me not lie to you, I will bring back the colonisers if you people don’t behave.”

Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Lord Acton, 1887

Still, if I could anchor the chaos with even a drop of good, I’d do two things seriously, with intention:

First, I’d prioritise mental health as a national emergency, not just clinics and meds, but dignity. I would try to create real and structured support woven into every school, workplace, and village. I’d want people to know it’s okay not to be okay and to still be seen as human.

Second, I’d put education back in the hands of dreamers. I’d strip it of fear and shame, and rebuild it around curiosity, creativity, and relevance. No more memorising things just to pass. I’d want kids to grow up learning who they are, not just who the system wants them to be. And I would also put in place protections for women. Anyone who crossed these things would be put in front of a firing squad, by crossbows.

Because of my insanity, like Julius Caesar, I’d get stabbed, probably by my own hype team.

The truth is power is intoxicating. The crown feels comfortable, not heavy. It’s only heavy for those who feel the weight of responsibility for a people.

I understand the ones who succumb to the seduction of power.
But I don’t forgive them. Because I know that ruling a country, or even just surviving a dream, is not about grand gestures or dramatic decrees. It’s about the daily choice to care when apathy is easier. To stay human when power seeks to turn you into a god.