In the daily drama of our politics, a familiar theatre plays out—one with a rotating script, but the same old cast: the good cop, the bad cop, and the bad guy. And as always, there’s an audience watching. We, the people, sit in the crowd—some cheering, some sighing, others just trying to make sense of it all.
The bad cop in this performance is not necessarily a villain. His intentions might even be noble—he wants the bad guy to speak out, to confess, to be held accountable. But his methods are harsh. He shouts, coerces, and intimidates. He’s prepared to break the bad guy, literally and figuratively, to get what he wants. But success is never guaranteed. Sometimes the bad guy screams, yet remains silent. Sometimes, he breaks. More often, he simply waits them out.
Across the table sits the good cop. Calm, measured, civil. He offers coffee, a chair, and time to reflect. He believes in dialogue, in trust-building, in long-haul patience. His peers often misunderstand him. Some call him weak, naïve, or complicit. But his mission is the same: truth, justice, change. His approach is different, not inferior.
And then, at the centre of it all, stands the bad guy. The real problem. The architect of decay. He has long enjoyed the spoils of unchecked power. From land to privilege, institutions to narratives—he has claimed it all. He rules with arrogance, never apologises, and even takes the little that others have. He is unbothered by the chaos he causes. He thrives on it. When the good cop and bad cop argue, he smiles—because discord is his greatest ally. He pits them against each other and watches as they exhaust themselves, while he continues to rule, untouched.
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This isn’t fiction. It’s a political mirror—one that reflects the reality of many movements. Where opposition voices are split over how to challenge authoritarianism. Where civic actors debate whether to engage or resist. Where people of goodwill disagree, not on values, but on tactics. And all the while, the bad guy—the one who benefits from division—tightens his grip.
The audience, too, is fractured—and afraid. They murmur among themselves, “The bad guy must go! We don’t like him!” But beneath their whispers lies hesitation. Yes, we want him out—but how? How do we speak up when speaking risks retaliation? Even when the heart is willing, the fear is louder. The cost of truth feels too high, and so silence prevails.
Some demand a tough-love approach—the bad cop’s path. Others plead for dialogue and reform—the good cop’s vision. And then there are those in the middle, urging both sides to pause, recalibrate, and build a joint front. Because the only way to finally break the bad guy’s shield is not uniformity in method, but unity in mission, clarity in target, and coordination in action.
This is not a call for sameness. It is a call for strategic unity. The good cop should not feel ashamed for choosing persuasion. The bad cop should not be romanticised for choosing confrontation. Both must remember: the true enemy is neither of them—it is the bad guy who continues to loot, silence, and rule with impunity.
The theatre will continue—but it’s time we rewrite the script.
Not for applause, but for justice.
Not for power, but for harmony.
Fortunata Kitokesya is a lawyer and human rights expert. She is available at fortukito@gmail.com or on X as @fortunatak. The opinions expressed here are the writer’s own and do not necessarily reflect those of The Chanzo. If you are interested in publishing in this space, please contact our editors at editor@thechanzo.com.
