Tendai Ruben Mbofana
Whenever we look across the oceans and point out the stark, undeniable contrast between how power is negotiated there and how it is hoarded here, the self-appointed gatekeepers of patriotism line up to accuse us of psychological submission.
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They tell us we are blinded by colonial hangovers, that we are romanticizing nations that do not care about us.
But how can we watch the events unfolding right now in Britain and not feel a profound, aching envy?
Consider Keir Starmer.
Facing massive, unyielding pressure from his own party following structural shifts and local electoral realities, he stood at a podium outside 10 Downing Street and announced his resignation.
He did not want to leave; no politician actively desires to cut their own tenure short.
Yet, he is stepping down.
Look closely at what did not happen in the lead-up to this moment.
Starmer never tried to buy his survival by gifting top officials, military commanders, religious leaders, or loyal celebrities with fleets of luxury cars and envelopes of cash.
We did not witness a systematic, violent purge of those within the Labour Party who viewed him as an obstacle.
He did not manufacture a fake, hollow simulation of grassroots support by handing out fast-food boxes to ordinary citizens—citizens whose daily suffering was a direct consequence of his governance.
Crucially, there were no shadowy proxies sent to rewrite the party’s constitution or the country’s laws just to shield him from accountability or artificially extend his time in office.
Instead, we saw something that feels entirely alien to our own political landscape: a system where party members could openly criticize their leader and demand his exit without fear of disappearing, being beaten, or finding themselves financially ruined.
The contrast becomes even sharper when you look at the incoming transition.
Consider the image of Andy Burnham, newly elected to parliament and poised as a frontrunner for the leadership, traveling to London to be sworn in.
He did not arrive in a multi-car convoy of blacked-out, million-dollar SUVs paid for by an impoverished treasury.
He took the train.
Even in his car ride from Number 10 to Buckingham Palace, he was stuck in traffic just as everyone else, with no blue lights and no sirens.
He commuted to power using the exact same public infrastructure available to the citizens he seeks to govern.
He operated within a system that actually works—one that invests in reliable public transport, beautiful, functional roads, and a baseline of national order.
In a healthy society, comfort is not a premium reserved exclusively for those who pledge blind loyalty to the ruling elite.
We look at our own streets, where ordinary, hardworking people are forced to survive on the margins, selling secondhand clothes and vegetables on broken sidewalks just to buy bread.
Meanwhile, those aligned with the state apparatus live in obscene luxury, completely insulated from the collapse around them.
When we look at the United Kingdom right now, we are not admiring the history of the British Empire or pretending their system is flawless.
We are admiring a culture of functional accountability.
We are envying a political reality where leaders are forced to listen to the people, where institutions are stronger than individual egos, and where stepping down is viewed as a duty rather than a defeat.
If demanding that level of dignity, that level of infrastructure, and that level of respect from our own leaders is what they call self-hate, then so be it.
Let them call it whatever they want.
Until our leaders ride the same buses as the people, and our presidents can step down with the grace of an unpopular prime minister, we will keep looking.
We will keep envying, and we will keep demanding better.
