When Dictators Fall, Humanity Breathes Again
By EMMANUELLA NDUONOFIT
THE death of dictators has always carried with it a strange relief, like a soothing balm on a festering wound. Their demise often feels like a long-awaited exhale for those who lived under their cruelty.
Take Saddam Hussein. His death sentence stirred outrage from some quarters—Syria denounced it, Hamas called it political, and the EU urged restraint. Yet, for millions of Iraqis who suffered under his brutal reign, his execution was liberation. He had gassed his own people, tortured prisoners, and buried weapons of mass destruction deep in his country. At his sentencing, it was as if the ghosts of every murdered victim joined the judge in passing verdict.
History is full of similar tales. Antiochus Epiphanes of Syria, who forced Jews to abandon their traditions in 169 B.C., died of an agonizing, stinking illness that left him abandoned. Rome’s Nero executed Peter and Paul, tortured Christians, and tried to kill John in boiling oil—yet ended in disgrace, his reign forever infamous. Hitler exterminated six million Jews in his gas chambers, his end marked by suicide and shame. Idi Amin butchered over 300,000 Ugandans, drove out entire communities overnight, and eventually died in exile, stripped of power and dignity.
Nigeria’s own Sani Abacha cast a long, dark shadow over the nation, silencing voices with brutality. But the day he died, Nigerians poured into the streets with jubilation. His sudden end felt like Christmas, a collective release from fear.
Dictators all share a chilling trait: they wield power as weapons against their people, often military men enslaved by the intoxication of violence. They may live as if immortal, but their deaths strip them of the fear they once inspired. In those moments, nations rejoice because the nightmares they created finally lose their grip.
Their downfall also exposes a grim truth—that humanity often suffers until these figures cross the “bridge” Jim Reeves sang about, never again to torment the living. Their deaths cannot erase the pain they inflicted, but they mark a turning point: the chance for healing, the promise of freedom, the return of joy.
Yet, an unsettling thought lingers: every child born carries the potential for greatness—or tyranny. How do we know the baby we cradle won’t someday grow into the next dictator? If that is the cycle, then indeed, aluta continua ad infinitum.
