Self-Appointed Gods

Somewhere between a press conference and a threat, a new breed of human emerges. Puffing up their chests, flipping between menace and messiah, they speak as if they invented time:

We will end him.

We decide who stays, who goes.

We have control over the skies.

We won’t kill him. Not yet.

Not yet? Really? Welcome to the age of the Self-Appointed Custodians of Life and Death. These are the modern Dummy Gods who come in many forms. Part politician, part performer, part delusional. They walk among us. Believing that their microphones are thrones and their social media reach is divine decree. Dressed in classy clothes and poorer judgment, they behave as though the breath others inhale belongs to them. They think that pain can be legislated, that fear is fuel and that silence is submission.

Let us speak plainly. They are not God. They are not even Google! They can’t track every breath, every whisper, every upheaval. They are a speck; not the sky.

The gall of the mortal ego is its most dramatic flaw. Give someone a fleet, a hashtag fan army, or an office chamber with deluxe furnishing, and suddenly they believe they are crowned heads who can press the buttons of destiny itself.

History, of course, watches and laughs. Every civilisation has tried to build its gods out of men. Pharaohs carved their faces into stone. Emperors minted coins with halos behind their heads. Dictators turned their birthdays into national holidays. And yet, every time, the same dust swallowed them. Sometimes quickly, sometimes theatrically, but always surely.

And yet we forget. We forget that every empire that tried to own death ended up owning a tombstone. That no throne is nailed to the floor. That no office comes with eternal warranty. That legacy isn’t made through domination, but through dignity.

Those who roared, “We will erase him from history,” were themselves footnoted by history. Those who claimed to be eternal now require Wikipedia entries to be remembered, and even those are flagged for neutrality!

Still, the mortal gods persist. They issue verdicts like ancient oracles: who shall rise, who shall fall. They tweet like Zeus, the Greek god of skies and thunder, only with worse grammar. They believe that standing on a podium makes their soul taller. But here is the spoiler no one tells them: Mortality is the great editor; it replaces every title with late.

The same mind that boasts today will stutter tomorrow. The same voice that threatens now will tremble with regret, or worse, go unheard in an empty room. The power you wear like a crown will one day kick you out in oblivion. So transient is your power and pelf!

So yes, enjoy your moment. Build your digital throne. Declare yourself protector, punisher or prophet. But understand that this world is not your puppet theatre. Lives and emotions are not paper pieces you can fold into obedience. You are not the architect of breath. You do not write the expiry date of sentiments. You do not “let” people live. You are not the air. You do not “spare” people. You are not the blade. You do not “decide” justice. You are not truth. You do not “control” memory. You are not time. You are, like the rest of us, biodegradable. And oh, how quickly history takes out its garbage!!!

The real leaders, the ones who literally last, act sensibly because they know the weight of power. They understand that influence isn’t in domination, but in direction. They leave behind policy, not paranoia. They inspire, not impose. And when they leave, they are missed, not merely replaced. Gandhi walked barefoot. Lincoln led with melancholy. Mandela forgave. They wore their power like rented robes. Humble. Aware. Human.

In contrast, the self-made god is soon unmade. Spectacularly. Painfully. Silently. So to those who command with casual cruelty, who treat human life like a chessboard they alone can play, a word of caution--When the lights dim and your voice fades, the world will not remember your bravado. It will remember your blindness. It will remember how you thought you owned thunder, when all you had was just a loudmouth, a microphone. It will remember how you mistook applause for truth, and fright for loyalty. It will remember that you called yourself immortal and died trying to prove it.

And for the rest of us, let’s stop applauding the theatre. Let’s stop confusing noise with leadership, control with strength and cruelty with courage. Let’s remind the Dummy Gods of our time that a real legacy is not built by deciding who dies or who suffers, but by helping others live and prosper.

Because in the end, when the microphones are switched off, the bodyguards go home and the hashtags are deleted, you are just a lonely man in a room full of silence. Not God. Not forever. Just a shadow, fading like all the others before you.