It is either in the news or slithering through Mogadishu’s rumour mills — President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud has done what all corrupt power brokers eventually do when faced with noisy opposition: he bought them. Not through persuasion, not through policy, but with the oldest currency in Somali politics — cash in briefcases, land titles in dusty folders, and hollow promises of ministerial chairs.

The so-called Mogadishu opposition — those who once roared like lions in front of microphones — have now been reduced to house cats purring on the lap of Villa Somalia. The revolutionary fire that once burned in their speeches has been extinguished by envelopes and title deeds. Their once-defiant slogans now sound like whispers of gratitude.

WDM warned about these men long ago. We told you their principles were not rooted in ideology or patriotism but in opportunity cost. We said their loyalty was not to the people but to the highest bidder. We told you that Somali politics has perfected the art of turning opponents into waiters at the presidential table. Now, it has happened — live and unashamed — before your eyes.

What does this mean for Somalia? It means the so-called democratic checks and balances have been reduced to cheque and balance transfers. It means the opposition’s “political struggle” was never about state-building, justice, or accountability — it was a long and tedious job interview for government posts. It means Hassan Sheikh has bought himself a choir of praise singers dressed up as reformists.

Villa Somalia, once the symbol of Somalia’s fragile hopes, is now the largest livestock market in the Horn — except here, the cattle walk in wearing suits and come out chewing their cud of privilege. And as for the Mogadishu streets, they are quieter now, not because the people are happy, but because their “leaders” have traded protest placards for personal benefits.

In the end, WDM’s prophecy stands vindicated: Somalia does not have an opposition. Somalia has a waiting list.

International diplomacy is supposed to be a dignified ballet — polite, precise, and subtle. What we have here is more like a drunken wedding dance: a Senator from a superpower openly scribbling to his President, “Hey boss, let’s break up Somalia — should be fun!” while the Somali ambassador writes back, “Dear Mr. Trump, we love your joint strikes and your friendship, please don’t forget we are a steadfast partner.”

One letter is a sledgehammer to the sovereignty of a so-called ally, the other is a thank-you note for the sledgehammer.

Let’s be clear: Ted Cruz isn’t just “expressing an opinion” — he is lobbying his own President to dismantle another UN-member state, in writing, on official U.S. Senate letterhead, dated and signed like a high school permission slip. This isn’t a side whisper in a diplomatic corridor — it’s a neon sign reading: We hereby invite chaos to the Horn of Africa.

And the Somali Embassy’s reply?
No outrage. No calling it a violation of the UN Charter. No telling Washington that meddling in Somalia’s internal affairs is unacceptable. Instead, they’re busy praising joint drone strikes like a client praising his barber: “Twenty strikes this year, sir, even better than last year!” The elephant in the room — an American Senator calling for Somalia’s dismemberment — is politely ignored like an unpaid bar bill.

This is the problem with modern African diplomacy: When a superpower steps on your neck, you thank them for polishing their boots. Somalia’s so-called “steadfast partnership” reads less like a defense of sovereignty and more like an audition for “Best Loyal Sidekick” in a Hollywood war movie.

If international law were a living person, it would have choked on its coffee reading these two letters. One openly undermines a sovereign state; the other avoids saying anything that might be construed as standing up for itself. The result? The message to Washington is loud and clear: Somalia won’t even raise its voice when you carve it up.

The art of diplomacy used to be about protecting national interests. Now, it’s about making sure your colonial babysitter doesn’t get offended when you cry — so you don’t cry at all.

Said Abdullahi Deni was elected to lead Puntland State — a fragile, strategic territory balancing on the knife-edge between resilience and collapse. Instead, he has turned Puntland into his personal political launchpad for the coveted Villa Somalia seat, leaving his own state exposed to the very dangers he swore to protect it from.

As he redirects resources, attention, and state machinery toward his second presidential run in Mogadishu, Deni leaves Puntland to the mercy of ISIS cells in the mountains, Al-Shabab infiltration in rural districts, and an economy bleeding out from neglect and mismanagement. The man who vowed to defend Puntland’s unity has allowed SSC to be bartered away to Mogadishu power brokers and Somaliland’s secessionists, even striking quiet understandings with Abdirahman Ciro while Puntland’s eastern flank disintegrates. Sanaag and Haylaan came perilously close to falling under the banner of a so-called “North East State,” a separatist fantasy that grew in the cracks of Deni’s political absenteeism.

Deni is a master of policies that never see daylight. Announcements are made with fanfare, projects are launched on paper, then buried in the dust of unkept promises. He governs from behind closed doors, shutting out Puntland’s brightest thinkers, civil society voices, and diaspora expertise. In his mind, consultation is weakness, intellectual challenge is disrespect, and elders — the backbone of Puntland’s traditional legitimacy — are simply props to be discarded when inconvenient.

His leadership has taken on the character of a family business franchise — opaque, insular, and insulated from accountability. When he travels abroad, the “official delegation” is often his immediate family, while qualified state officials are left at home to watch the news like everyone else. The state’s resources are now tools for his personal vendetta against Hassan Sheikh Mohamud, as if political revenge were a developmental policy.

Meanwhile, Puntland’s infrastructure — especially in Mudugh — has deteriorated to a level that borders on abandonment. Roads crumble, port stagnates, and no functional system exists to regulate the quality of goods entering the market. From toxic foodstuffs to counterfeit medicines, the absence of quality control is a silent killer stalking Puntland’s population. The health sector has withered into a skeletal institution, underfunded, mismanaged, and incapable of meeting even basic standards.

Deni has yet to grasp the simple truth that governance is not a one-man show. A state leader must juggle multiple priorities — security, economy, diplomacy, social cohesion — all at once. His style is the opposite: monofocused, vindictive, and allergic to scrutiny. He presides over a Puntland increasingly fragmented, disillusioned, and exposed to existential threats.

If Puntland falls further into disarray, history will not remember Deni as the leader who tried and failed — it will remember him as the man who walked away from his post in broad daylight, leaving the gates open for every wolf at Puntland’s borders.