In a quiet villa far from the capital, a man who once held the fate of millions in his hands watches the evening news—not out of curiosity, but calculation. Though the presidential sash now lies tucked away in a drawer and his portrait has been replaced in government buildings, his voice still echoes in the corridors of power. Every decision made by the new administration carries the subtle fingerprints of the man who swore he was “done with politics.”He doesn’t sign decrees anymore, but his protégés do. He doesn’t attend cabinet meetings, but his allies sit at the table. And while the public believes it has moved on to new leadership, the real machinery hums to life only when he gives the signal—behind closed doors, over private dinners, through cryptic text messages.This is not a scene from a dystopian novel, but a familiar rhythm in the political theatre of many nations: the ex-leader who never really leaves. Whether driven by unfinished ambitions, fear of losing protection, or the desire to maintain wealth, such figures treat democracy not as a baton to be passed, but as a remote control to be quietly retained. And when power becomes personal property, the people are left with an illusion of change—while the same hands keep writing the script.There is a deep and troubling connection between persistent poverty in a nation and the type of leadership that refuses to relinquish power—even after stepping down—or uses political office as a vehicle for private gain. In many cases, poverty is not merely a byproduct of economic mismanagement or external forces; it is engineered and sustained by political elites who benefit from the status quo. The longer these individuals stay—whether in official roles or lurking behind their successors—the more entrenched inequality becomes.When a former leader cannot let go of power, it signals more than personal ego; it reveals a system built on patronage, control, and fear of accountability. These post-retirement interventions—whether through handpicked successors, shadow governments, or networks of loyalists—are often designed not to protect the people, but to protect wealth. When politics becomes a shield for business interests, national resources are diverted away from public welfare and into private hands. Roads remain unbuilt, hospitals underfunded, and education systems broken—not because the nation lacks wealth, but because its wealth has been captured.Moreover, such leaders often use poverty itself as a political weapon. When populations are kept economically fragile, they are easier to manipulate. Food, cash, or employment becomes currency for loyalty. In such systems, poverty is not an unfortunate condition—it is a strategy. And the longer this strategy holds, the more power ossifies around the few who benefit from it, creating a vicious cycle of control and deprivation.In this way, poverty is not just about hunger or unemployment; it is about stolen futures, silenced voices, and a broken social contract. When a leader—former or current—treats governance as a means of enrichment or legacy maintenance, the people become collateral damage in a game of dynasty, ambition, and profit.Throughout both ancient and modern history, there have been numerous leaders who, despite stepping down from official office, simply could not let go of power. Their titles may have changed—or vanished altogether—but their influence continued, often through backdoor channels, loyal cronies, or political protégés carefully placed to serve their agenda. This phenomenon is not new. In fact, some of the most iconic figures in history have tried to rule from behind the curtain, even when their bodies were frail or their reign technically over.One classic example is Napoleon Bonaparte. After being exiled to Elba in 1814, he did not accept retirement quietly. Within less than a year, he escaped and dramatically returned to France, regaining power for the famous "Hundred Days" before being defeated at Waterloo. Though eventually imprisoned again on Saint Helena, his brief return shows the difficulty powerful men have in letting go—especially when they believe their destiny is not yet complete.In more recent times, Deng Xiaoping of China offers a fascinating case. After formally stepping down from all official positions in the late 1980s, he remained the de facto leader of China into the 1990s. Despite being physically weakened by Parkinson’s disease and other ailments, Deng was still pulling the strings behind major decisions—such as the southern tour of 1992, which revitalised China’s market reforms. His successors were nominally in charge, but Deng’s shadow loomed over every policy.Even after stepping down from his official posts in the 1980s, Deng Xiaoping remained the de facto ruler of China well into the 1990s. As Ezra F. Vogel explains in Deng Xiaoping and the Transformation of China (2011, Harvard University Press), Deng wielded immense influence not through formal titles but through his unmatched revolutionary credentials, political acumen, and the loyalty he commanded within the Party’s inner circles. Despite his declining health, Deng continued to shape policy direction, guide reforms, and resolve leadership disputes. His southern tour in 1992, undertaken while he held no official position, reasserted his vision for economic liberalisation and overrode conservative opposition, illustrating how informal authority could eclipse bureaucratic hierarchy. Vogel portrays Deng as a master strategist who understood how to operate from the shadows—selecting successors, setting the tone, and pushing China towards market reforms without relinquishing the Communist Party’s grip on power.Another modern example is Vladimir Putin. Though he technically stepped down as President in 2008 and became Prime Minister under Dmitry Medvedev, few doubted who really held the reins. The transition was widely understood as a strategic shuffle, with Medvedev acting more as a seat-warmer than a genuine replacement. When Putin returned as President in 2012, it confirmed what most Russians already believed: the power had never truly changed hands.In The Return of the Strongman: Populism, Nationalism, and the Rise of Authoritarian Leaders (2022, Other Press, Gideon Rachman argues that one of the defining traits of modern strongman rule is the ability to orchestrate power transitions that look democratic on the surface, while keeping real control tightly secured behind the scenes. This sleight of hand doesn’t rely on tanks or coups, but on constitutional loopholes, loyal proxies, and carefully staged legitimacy.Rachman points to Vladimir Putin as a master of this art. In 2008, facing the end of his constitutional term limit as President of Russia, Putin “stepped aside” and installed his close ally, Dmitry Medvedev, as president, while he himself assumed the role of prime minister. To the world, this looked like a peaceful, democratic transition. But inside Russia, it was clear that Putin remained the centre of gravity. Medvedev acted more like a caretaker than an independent leader—delivering policies and statements that bore Putin’s imprint.During this period, Putin never truly relinquished power. He remained the real decision-maker, setting the national agenda and managing both domestic politics and foreign policy. Then, in 2012, he smoothly returned to the presidency, demonstrating that the entire “transition” was more of a reset than a relinquishment.According to Rachman, this model has inspired other leaders who want to bend democratic norms without openly breaking them. It’s a strategy that maintains the veneer of democracy, allowing strongmen to avoid international backlash while ensuring that no real shift in power ever takes place. In essence, the face of leadership may change—but the hand behind it remains the same.Even in postcolonial states, we find echoes of this phenomenon. In Indonesia, Suharto—after resigning in 1998—was long rumoured to still exert influence over military and political elites through his cronies. Though aging and eventually very ill, his network remained embedded in the system for years. As R. E. Elson explains in Suharto: A Political Biography (2001, Cambridge University Press), Suharto had spent decades consolidating a system in which loyalty to him personally was rewarded with access to power, privilege, and wealth. These connections did not vanish with his resignation; rather, they continued to operate behind the scenes, shielding his interests and maintaining a degree of influence over the post-Suharto transition. Elson portrays Suharto as a leader who built an enduring patronage machine—one that outlived his official rule and blurred the lines between state authority, private capital, and familial ambition. Even in retirement, Suharto remained a looming presence, not just as a former ruler, but as the architect of a system that refused to die with him.
Similarly, Fidel Castro of Cuba formally handed power to his brother Raúl in 2006 due to illness, but continued to write essays, give public guidance, and influence policy until his death in 2016.
These leaders show us something profound: the hunger for power doesn’t always end with resignation—or even with disease. For some, leadership is not just a job but a form of possession. Even when their names are no longer on the door, their fingerprints remain all over the state machinery.
Leadership, in its noblest form, is meant to serve the people, to steward national resources for the collective good. But history—both ancient and modern—is riddled with examples of leaders who saw power not as a trust, but as a transaction. For these rulers, the state became a personal corporation, national wealth a private treasury, and the machinery of government a convenient extension of their own business empires.One of the clearest historical examples is Mobutu Sese Seko, who ruled Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of the Congo) from 1965 to 1997. Mobutu practically pioneered the art of kleptocracy. He merged state finances with his personal fortune so completely that it became impossible to separate the two. While his people suffered poverty, Mobutu built lavish palaces, amassed a global real estate portfolio, and even used the national airline for private shopping trips. International aid, meant for development, was funneled into Swiss bank accounts. In the end, his rule was less about governance and more about profit.In a more corporate-modern style, Silvio Berlusconi of Italy offers another case. A media tycoon turned prime minister, Berlusconi never really separated his business interests from his political power. During his multiple terms in office, legislation often conveniently aligned with the growth of his media empire. He controlled major television networks while overseeing regulatory bodies that were supposed to monitor them. Although not as overtly corrupt as Mobutu, Berlusconi blurred the line between public service and personal gain to a disturbing degree—turning Italy, in the words of many critics, into “Berluscoland.”Closer to our own era, Donald Trump’s presidency raised similar concerns. Though elected on promises to “drain the swamp,” his tenure was marked by ongoing entanglements between state and business. Trump refused to fully divest from his real estate empire, and while in office, foreign dignitaries, lobbyists, and officials frequently stayed at Trump properties—effectively converting public power into private revenue. Critics described his presidency as a four-year experiment in branding as governance, where the Trump name was marketed using the White House as its backdrop.In The System: Who Rigged It, How We Fix It (2020, Alfred A. Knopf), Robert B. Reich delivers a sharp indictment of how modern democracy—particularly in the United States—has been captured and manipulated by the ultra-wealthy. Reich argues that a small elite has rigged the political and economic systems in their favour, using vast fortunes to influence legislation, shape public discourse, and ensure favourable outcomes regardless of who holds office. The book offers pointed criticism of Donald Trump, portraying him not as an anomaly but as a symptom of a deeper rot—one where the boundaries between private business and public office have been deliberately eroded. According to Reich, Trump’s presidency exemplified how political power could be wielded not to serve the public but to protect personal wealth, elevate brand empires, and manipulate markets. Policy, he contends, has increasingly been designed not for the common good, but to entrench inequality and privilege for those at the top. The result is a hollowed-out democracy in which trust is undermined and public institutions are treated as tools for private gain.
These examples underscore a sobering truth: when the line between leader and entrepreneur blurs, democracy erodes. National budgets become corporate ledgers. Public good becomes collateral damage. Leadership ceases to be about vision or responsibility—it becomes about leverage, opportunity, and return on investment.History is full of leaders who, even after formally stepping down from office, continued to pull strings from the shadows—controlling their successors, influencing policies, and shaping the nation’s fate through carefully placed proxies. These puppet-master figures often pose as “retired statesmen” while remaining the actual centres of power, using loyal subordinates or family members to hold office on their behalf.
A striking early example can be found in Ancient Rome, with Augustus Caesar, the first emperor, who famously retained ultimate authority while allowing others to appear in command. Though this was more ceremonial than deceptive, it laid the foundation for a system where power could be centralised in one man while being presented as shared. Over time, emperors began grooming family members or allies as “co-rulers” or “heirs,” creating dynasties masked as republics.Similarly, in Singapore, Lee Kuan Yew, the country’s founding Prime Minister, officially stepped down in 1990 but retained the position of “Senior Minister” and later “Minister Mentor”—titles that were informal but politically potent. His successors, including Goh Chok Tong and eventually his son, Lee Hsien Loong, governed under his long shadow. While Lee Kuan Yew was widely respected for building Singapore’s modern success, critics argue that his extended influence limited political diversity and discouraged true power transition.Closer to Southeast Asia, Indonesia’s Joko Widodo also fits this pattern. The role of former Indonesian President Joko Widodo in shaping the current political landscape cannot be overstated, even after his formal exit from office. While Indonesia’s constitution limits presidents to two terms, Widodo has demonstrated that political power in the 21st century doesn’t always need a formal title—it just needs placement. And he’s placed himself quite strategically. After his term of office expired in 2024, his children, allies, also military and police loyalists, Joko Widodo remained influential in politics and economics. The architecture of his regime—the networks of power and control—lived on through his "political offspring.”By engineering the rise of his son, Gibran Rakabuming Raka, to the vice presidency, Widodo effectively created a dynastic foothold in national politics. This move was not just about family pride—it was a calculated act of political legacy-building. Many critics argue that this undermines the spirit of democratic meritocracy, as it signals a shift from leadership based on public trust and competence to leadership based on bloodlines and proximity to power.But it doesn’t stop there. Widodo’s close allies, business partners, and political loyalists remain embedded within the government. From ministerial positions to key appointments in state-owned enterprises and bureaucratic bodies, his network is alive and well. In this sense, Jokowi—despite no longer being president—continues to shape policy and protect his legacy through proxy leadership.What makes this particularly concerning to observers of democracy is not just the entrenchment of a political family, but the potential erosion of accountability. When leadership becomes a family affair, it tends to suppress opposition, reward loyalty over capability, and blur the lines between public service and private interest. Indonesia, which has long prided itself on post-Suharto democratic reforms, now finds itself facing the uncomfortable question: Has the system changed, or just the surname in power?Widodo may appear to have stepped aside, but in truth, he has merely stepped back—not out. The machinery of influence remains active, and the face of reform has started to resemble the shape of a political dynasty.These examples show that stepping down from office doesn’t always mean stepping away from power. When former leaders install or sponsor their successors, governance becomes less about merit or democracy and more about dynasty, control, and self-preservation.When a national leader, such as a president, continues to interfere in governance after their official term has ended, the consequences reach far beyond questions of protocol or political ethics. It distorts democratic institutions, disrupts leadership succession, and more dangerously, undermines the people’s ability to hold anyone truly accountable. The country is left with the illusion of fresh leadership, but the same old decisions, networks, and vested interests continue to dominate behind the scenes.In many cases, such post-presidency interference leads to stagnation. New leaders are either selected by the former president or bound by invisible strings, unable to implement meaningful reforms. Bureaucracy remains loyal not to the constitution, but to personalities. This paralyzes progress and locks the country in a state of political immaturity, where no change feels real, and the cycle of power continues in disguise.The most devastating consequence, however, is often economic inequality and persistent poverty. When political control is used to preserve influence rather than serve the public, national budgets are manipulated to benefit loyalists and families. Corruption flourishes, social services degrade, and the poor remain trapped—because real structural change is impossible without clean breaks in power. Leaders who refuse to let go of influence after leaving office tend to see the country as an extension of themselves, not a collective inheritance.In such climates, the poor become a convenient political tool—offered just enough to survive, but never enough to thrive. Poverty becomes part of the strategy: a controlled environment where votes are bought, voices are silenced, and power never truly leaves the hands of those who’ve already ruled.When former leaders continue to interfere with government affairs after their term has officially ended, both short-term disarray and long-term decay are inevitable. In the immediate sense, politics becomes a game of mixed signals. The public grows confused about who truly holds power, while ministers and officials become hesitant to act decisively—fearing retaliation from unseen forces. The new administration becomes paralysed by uncertainty, constantly second-guessing itself, trapped between official authority and shadow command.This paralysis trickles down into policymaking. Economic reforms stall. Corruption investigations are delayed—or buried. Investment, both domestic and foreign, begins to shrink, because no one wants to deal with a government haunted by a former ruler’s ghost. Trust in leadership begins to erode rapidly, and hope for change turns into quiet resignation.But the long-term effects are far more corrosive. When power is never truly transferred, the people begin to see democracy not as a path to justice, but as a stage play. They lose faith in elections, in institutions, in change itself. The idea of accountability evaporates. A sense of political fatigue creeps in, where citizens expect nothing and demand even less—because they believe, deep down, that nothing ever really changes.Over time, this hollow democracy breeds a cynical culture, where opportunists thrive, and real reformers are driven out or co-opted. It entrenches inequality, solidifies cronyism, and normalizes manipulation as strategy. Eventually, the nation stops asking “Who’s in charge?” and starts whispering “What’s the point?”—a quiet collapse of civic energy that takes generations to rebuild.When political power is hoarded, manipulated, or never truly handed over, poverty is rarely an accident—it becomes a design. In systems where former leaders refuse to step aside, the government ceases to function as a tool for the people and instead becomes a fortress to protect influence, networks, and wealth. Poverty, then, is not a failure of policy, but a consequence of deliberate choices.In such environments, budgets are not planned to reduce inequality, but to reward loyalty and punish dissent. Instead of building schools, clinics, and job opportunities, resources are funnelled toward vanity projects, state contracts for cronies, or short-term populist schemes that maintain appearances without solving root problems. Poverty becomes part of the strategy—a convenient condition that makes citizens easier to control. Hungry people don’t riot; they queue.When leaders linger beyond their term, they often use poverty as a tool to stay relevant. They play saviour—distributing aid packages with their face on it, offering “relief” while ensuring no one ever escapes the cycle. The poor are not empowered—they are managed. Political dependency replaces dignity. And because the true priority is preserving power, not reforming the system, the structural roots of poverty are never addressed.Over time, entire generations grow up in the shadow of manipulated governance. Children born into poverty stay there, not because they lack intelligence or ambition, but because the system is built to trap, not lift. Corruption deepens, public trust vanishes, and inequality hardens. And while former leaders continue to call the shots from behind the scenes, the poor carry the weight of their legacy—not in history books, but in empty plates and abandoned schools.
[Part 6]
[Part 4]
