“The moment people begin looking to you instead of the state for leadership or protection, you’ve crossed an invisible line,” Mayanja writes. “You’re no longer just an outlaw, an activist or a rebel. You’ve become a threat.”
By Lawrence Mayanja
History suggests that idealism alone rarely changes the course of power. Every era produces its own rebel—a figure who speaks for the abandoned, challenges the powerful and earns near-mythical status among ordinary people. People rally behind such individuals because they voice frustrations many are afraid to express. They defend them because they see themselves reflected in their struggles.
Eventually, however, the state takes notice.
That, Lawrence Mayanja argues, is the enduring political lesson in The Sicilian, Mario Puzo’s novel that is often remembered simply as another Mafia story.
According to the author, beneath the violence, vendettas and mountain hideouts lies a timeless truth: governments can tolerate criticism, but they become far less tolerant when an individual begins to command enough public loyalty to rival the authority of the state.
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The novel’s protagonist, Salvatore Giuliano, realizes this too late.
To poor Sicilians, Giuliano is a hero who robs the powerful, assists struggling villagers and restores hope to forgotten communities. To politicians, police commanders, wealthy landowners and the Mafia, however, he represents something far more dangerous—an alternative centre of influence capable of undermining established authority.
“The moment people begin looking to you instead of the state for leadership or protection, you’ve crossed an invisible line,” Mayanja writes. “You’re no longer just an outlaw, an activist or a rebel. You’ve become a threat.”
He argues that history offers numerous examples of influential figures whose popularity failed to protect them once powerful interests viewed them as obstacles.
Among those cited are Che Guevara, whose revolutionary appeal did not prevent his execution, and Patrice Lumumba, the first Prime Minister of the Democratic Republic of Congo, whose political career ended in assassination after powerful domestic and foreign interests turned against him.
Mayanja also points to Napoleon Bonaparte, arguing that his dominance over much of Europe was not built on popularity alone but on his ability to command armies, control institutions and forge political alliances.
“The difference many political movements fail to appreciate is that crowds generate excitement, but they do not command intelligence agencies, control national treasuries, appoint judges or negotiate with foreign governments,” he writes.
Drawing parallels with contemporary politics, Mayanja argues that many opposition movements—particularly in Africa—mistake popularity for actual political power. While large rallies and widespread public support can create momentum, he contends that lasting political authority depends on control of institutions rather than public enthusiasm alone.
As an example, he references the Arab Spring, noting that although mass protests succeeded in toppling governments in several countries, many of the underlying political systems either re-emerged or were replaced by new administrations that governed in much the same way.
The article also reflects on Uganda’s political landscape, citing opposition figures such as retired Col. Kizza Besigye, National Unity Platform President Robert Kyagulanyi Sentamu, popularly known as Bobi Wine, and former Kampala Lord Mayor Erias Lukwago as examples of leaders whose political journeys have been shaped by arrests, legal battles, exile or prolonged confrontation with the state.
Another central theme explored is the role of betrayal in political struggles. Mayanja argues that established systems often weaken opponents not through direct confrontation but by exploiting divisions within their ranks.
“Movements rarely collapse because every enemy is stronger,” he writes. “They collapse because someone inside decides loyalty is no longer worth the price.”
According to the author, trusted allies may become informants, lieutenants may strike deals for survival, and political movements often fracture from within before external opponents defeat them.
Ultimately, Mayanja concludes that The Sicilian is less a story about the death of one man than a reflection on the difference between moral authority and political authority.
“Winning people’s hearts is an achievement,” he writes. “Keeping power is a different game altogether.”
He ends with the observation that while history often celebrates charismatic heroes, it is the state that usually controls institutions—and, in many cases, writes the official record.
Lawrence Mayanja is an investigative journalist, human rights activist and political commentator. lawmayanja@yahoo.com
