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When the leader remembers: A Lesson in unscripted humanity
Rahma Abdulmajid
History is obsessed with the theatre of power. It immortalizes the roaring stadiums, the blinding camera flashes, and the hollow majesty of choreographed handshakes—but real control operates in the shadows.
True, transformative leadership is never born on a brightly lit stage. It is forged in the shadows, deep within the quiet, unscripted margins where teleprompters go dark and the roaring crowds fall silent. When the glittering costume of power is violently stripped away, only two things can remain: a hollow, echoing emptiness, or the raw, unvarnished force of pure humanity.
New Delhi was buzzing on day two of the BRICS summit. Inside the Nigerian Embassy, the energy turned electric as Vice President Kashim Shettima arrived for a brief courtesy visit. A roaring, joyous crowd of resident Nigerians had gathered, transforming the venue into an impromptu homecoming. Excitement hung thick in the air, punctuated by rising chants and the endless, rapid-fire click of camera shutters capturing every handshake and smile.
Yet beneath that surface warmth, a subtle tension shifted the room. While everyone else basked in the moment, the Vice President’s gaze fractured. His eyes darted from face to face with a sharp, urgent intensity, searching for something vital that the rest of us had completely overlooked.
It was contagious. Soon, it wasn’t just his security detail on high alert. Even those of us in his inner circle found ourselves scanning the room, hunting for whatever phantom danger our principal was so desperately trying to find. Even inside the private quarters meant for his rest, there was no escape from the search.
The moment the commotion outside died down, his voice sliced through the polite small talk. “Where is Mr. Prakash?” The embassy officials froze, trapped in a heavy, bewildered silence. They traded blank stares, hunting for the name in their memories. Then, understanding clicked. He spoke again, steady and firm. “Mr. Prakash,” he said. “The embassy driver. Is he still here?”
Within minutes, Mr. Prakash appeared. He was an elderly, humble Indian man, his weathered face and traditional mourning haircut bearing the unmistakable scars of a life battered by time. Though he held nothing more than a modest driver’s job at an African embassy, he carried a crushing mountain of obligations alone on his narrow shoulders. He approached, his fragile gaze holding the look of someone who had just stumbled upon long-lost family.
The Vice President had just sat down to his welcome meal when he spotted Prakash. In an instant, protocol and plate were forgotten. He stood straight back up, greeting Prakash with a deep reverence that hushed the entire room. “Mr. Prakash, how have you been?” he said warmly. “Thank you for everything.”
Then, turning to the rest of us as if to permanently etch the man’s dignity into our minds, he explained, “He drove me around years ago during my visit to India as governor.” What followed was uniquely disarming: he began inquiring about Mr. Prakash’s family by name. He remembered vivid details from a brief encounter years ago—the kind of trivial history most leaders cast aside.
When Prakash, with trembling hands, pulled out a worn-out phone, desperate for a photograph to mark the improbable reunion, my principal left his meal once more and threw an arm around him like an old, dear friend. In that moment, he posed not as a Vice President, but simply as a man with his brother.
But it wasn’t the cameras that stole my breath that afternoon. It was what happened after the lenses lowered—away from the flashing lights and prying eyes. Without announcement or applause, Senator Shettima slipped a hand into his pocket, scooped out a generous wad of cash, and tucked it quietly into Mr. Prakash’s coat.
No aides were instructed. No media were invited. It was an act born purely out of kindness, deep empathy, and raw humanity. When language threatened to build a wall—because Prakash speaks little English and the Vice President speaks no Hindi—compassion found its own dialect.
He switched effortlessly to Hausa, a Nigerian local language, not for Prakash to understand literally, but to universalise the moment, to say in a tongue he knows best what the heart knows in every language: “Mene ne amfanin nasarar rayuwa idan baka taimaka wa wanda yake bukatar taimakonka ba?” Translated in English, this means, “What is the benefit of success in life if you do not help those who need your help?”
What I witnessed did not surprise me, but it deeply enriched my soul. You see, I too am a Prakash in the Vice President’s world. Over the past three years of working by his side, no living soul has recognised the heavy reality of my life like he has. When my husband died serving our nation, I was left to carry the immense weight of raising our children alone. Yet, His Excellency truly sees that sacrifice, honouring the burden I bear every single day.
To speak the absolute truth, Kashim Shettima’s quiet, unwavering remembrance of my grief over the past three years has outshone even my closest blood relatives across the eleven long years since my husband passed away. He remembers the dates others forget. He asks the questions others avoid. He carries burdens that are not constitutionally his to bear.
Seeing Vice President Shettima evokes the presence of transformative leaders. He reminds me of Uruguay’s President José Mujica, who chose a modest farmhouse over a palace, and Nelson Mandela, whose profound friendship with Christo Brand transcended prison walls.
Their stories remind us that true leadership is never about titles, offices, or protocols. It lives in an unshakeable refusal to walk past someone in need—a stubborn conviction that every human being, no matter how small their station, is worthy of being remembered.
This noble, compassionate heart is precisely why President Bola Ahmed Tinubu chose Kashim Shettima as his running mate—to gift Nigeria a leadership defined not by noise, but by empathy; not by showmanship, but by deep, genuine service. In a world where many leaders remember only those who can repay them, it is truly revolutionary to find one who remembers a driver.
…Abdulmajid is Personal Assistant to the President on Radio and Broadcast (Office of the Vice President).
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