Garowe, Puntland, Somalia — Said Abdullahi Deni did not come to Puntland’s presidency to make Puntland stronger. He came to make himself bigger.
For too long, that was the operating logic of his administration. Mogadishu shaped his political imagination, and Mogadishu remained the measure of his ambition. Puntland gave him the office, the security structure, the public budget, the political platform, and the parliamentary influence needed to pursue national power. Yet he often governed as if Garowe were merely a temporary headquarters for a future campaign in Villa Somalia.
Puntland was not treated as the mission. It was treated as the machinery.
That is why the first half of Deni’s presidency often felt politically busy but institutionally thin. The cabinet functioned less like a forum for serious collective government and more like an extension of the presidency. Ministers were expected to execute rather than deliberate. Independent judgment became risky. Policy coordination depended too heavily on the president’s immediate circle, while capable officials and experienced political figures were left outside the room.
That is not a cabinet. It is a chain of command.
Puntland’s parliament, meanwhile, has too often been treated as an obstacle to manage rather than an institution to respect. A legislature exists to scrutinize budgets, question ministers, investigate failures, and force the executive to explain itself. But a government that sees scrutiny as hostility will always prefer compliant legislators to independent ones. It will seek acquiescence rather than accountability.
That is not stability. It is institutional suffocation.
The same pattern has affected Puntland’s regional administrations. Mudug, Bari, Nugaal, Karkaar, Sanaag, Haylaan, and the other regions cannot be governed permanently by instructions issued from Garowe. Local authorities need predictable mandates, administrative capacity, transparent funding, and enough political space to respond to their communities. Yet the presidency has repeatedly favored central control over durable local empowerment.
A state cannot be built from the capital alone.
The federal presidential campaign exposed the weakness of this political model. When Deni sought the presidency of Somalia, he expected the federal parliamentarians associated with Puntland to stand behind him. He expected political allies elsewhere to repay support with loyalty. But at the critical hour, they did not.
The result was not merely defeat. It was exposure.
Deni had invested in politicians. He had not built political conviction. He had cultivated a network of transactions. He had not created a constituency prepared to defend a shared national project. When the calculations changed, the alliances changed with them.
This is the truth he had to learn: political loyalty purchased through patronage is temporary by design.
Since then, Deni has changed—at least in appearance, and perhaps in part by conviction. He has traveled more widely. He has met traditional elders in Mudug and Bari. He has spoken more cautiously and reacted less explosively in public. His administration has put greater emphasis on the Puntland Defence Forces, an institution that deserves sustained investment, professional command, clear civilian oversight, and reliable support for its personnel.
These are positive signs. But they are not enough.
The Puntland Defence Forces cannot become another instrument of presidential politics. A serious security sector requires professional recruitment, accountable command structures, regular pay, logistical planning, parliamentary oversight, and a clear separation between state security and factional loyalty. If security institutions serve a president rather than the law, they may protect power for a while—but they will not protect the state.
Puntland’s public finances require the same seriousness. Citizens have a right to know how revenue is raised, how contracts are awarded, how budgets are spent, and whether public resources are advancing public priorities. The administration cannot demand public trust while treating budget transparency as a privilege granted at its convenience. A state that collects revenue must also account for it.
Puntland also needs more than road tours, speeches, and carefully managed gatherings. It needs functioning schools, dependable health services, viable local councils, water infrastructure, job opportunities for young people, and an economic strategy that turns its coastline, livestock, fisheries, trade routes, and potential natural resources into public prosperity rather than elite advantage.
The president’s regional visits matter only if they produce institutions that remain after the motorcade leaves.
Deni’s deeper problem is that he appears to trust loyalty more than competence. Experienced civil servants, respected elders, capable politicians, and independent policy professionals complicate presidential power because they ask questions. They challenge assumptions. They insist on procedures. They remember past failures. They do not always clap on command.
That is why they are indispensable.
Instead, the administration has too often elevated inexperienced aides and political messengers whose strongest qualification is personal loyalty. Energy is useful; youth is valuable. But neither is a substitute for judgment, expertise, or institutional memory. Puntland cannot be governed through an echo chamber of people whose careers depend on never telling the president “no.”
This is not strength. It is fear disguised as control.
Deni’s political roots may partly explain the instinct. His links to the Islah current and his previous service in Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s first administration placed him in political environments where hierarchy, discipline, and internal loyalty carried great weight. But no political tradition excuses the weakening of public institutions. No movement culture justifies treating criticism as sabotage.
Puntland has outgrown politics of personal command.
Its future depends on a stronger parliament, a credible cabinet, empowered regional administrations, a professional security sector, transparent public finances, and a civil service that serves the public rather than the president’s inner circle. These are not abstract reform slogans. They are the difference between a functioning state and a personal administration.
Deni now has an opportunity that many leaders never receive: failure has forced him to reconsider his purpose. He can turn that failure into maturity. He can appoint serious people, tolerate criticism, open government, strengthen institutions, and leave Puntland more capable than he found it.
Or he can continue to rule through personal networks, political suspicion, centralized control, and a circle of loyal dependents.
The first choice would establish a legacy.
The second would confirm the worst judgment of his presidency: that Puntland was never a homeland to govern, only a platform to use.
Puntland is not a route to Mogadishu. It is not a consolation prize after Mogadishu. And it is not a private kingdom for any president.
— WDM Editorial Board