Plato wasn’t always tired. There was a time when he burned with belief—a belief that logic could lead nations, that truth could tame tyranny, that a philosopher could rule not with weapons, but with wisdom. Back then, he gave us The Republic, a manifesto of majestic ideas where kings were thinkers, not thugs, and rulers read geometry before grabbing the reins of power. But something broke between that bright beginning and the shadows of his final work, The Laws. The philosopher-king disappeared. In his place? Lawbooks, surveillance, and second-best solutions.
What happened? Why did Plato trade a crown of contemplation for chains of compromise? And more importantly, why does this philosophical fizzle feel so familiar to so many young Africans today?
When Athens Looked Like Africa
To understand Plato’s retreat from idealism, you first have to meet the mess that was Athens —a mess many African nations might find eerily recognizable.
This was a city that bragged about democracy but often elected orators over intellects, men with charisma and no compass. There were four usual suspects at the helm—what Plato might call the Four Horsemen of Civic Disappointment:
• The Flatterer—who tickled the crowd’s ego with empty praise.
• The Hedonist—who promised bread and circuses, then passed the bill to the poor.
• The Opportunist—who sold justice to the highest bidder.
• The Vengeful—who blamed every crisis on foreigners or former rulers.
Sound familiar? Swap the robes for suits and you’ve got a roster of modern African leaders who, like their Athenian counterparts, treat elections like talent shows and governance like gut-feeling theater. The more a nation bleeds, the louder the laughter at integrity becomes. And so, just as Plato watched his teacher Socrates die by democratic vote—killed not by kings but by the people he tried to educate—many young Africans watch dreamers silenced, reformers exiled, or truth-tellers trolled.
And just like Plato, they start to wonder: Is the world even wired to accept a good leader?
From Philosopher-King to Law-Loving Grandpa
In The Republic, Plato was bold. He built a state powered by reason, where leaders weren’t elected, but selected after decades of education—math, music, philosophy, and physical discipline. It was radical, perhaps unrealistic, but noble.
Then came the years. And the wars. And the failures. Plato watched Athens fall to Sparta. He saw opportunists like Critias rise and tyrants like Dionysius play political ping-pong with Sicily. He even tried to advise rulers—like some modern intellectuals whispering in presidential palaces—only to find that idealism doesn’t survive well in courts fed by corruption.
By the time he wrote The Laws, Plato was no longer designing utopia. He was managing disaster. No more philosopher-kings—just rulebooks to restrain the reckless. No more perfect guardians—just surveillance, exile, and moral training by coercion if necessary. Plato, once the prophet of possibility, had become the architect of Plan B.
But don’t mistake realism for resignation. The Laws wasn’t a surrender—it was a survival manual. Plato didn’t stop believing in justice. He just stopped believing that people would choose it voluntarily.
Idealism’s Expiry Date? Or Just a Rite of Passage?
So, was Plato weak? Cynical? Corrupted by age? Or was he just—real?
Across cultures, the dance between dreams and disappointment is a rhythm familiar to almost every great thinker:
• Mandela, once a militant, matured into a negotiator.
• Malcolm X, once separatist, opened to global brotherhood.
• Chinua Achebe, once poetic, became prophetic, warning Nigeria about power’s decay.
• Confucius, disillusioned by petty kings, stopped preaching reform and started writing about ritual.
• Soyinka, defiant even in old age, still bares his teeth—though perhaps less naive about the pace of progress.
And then there are those who don’t change—Socrates, Jesus, Sankara—men whose ideals remained intact but whose lives were often cut short because of it. The message? Sometimes, keeping your ideals costs your life. Letting go of them may cost your soul.
So when young Africans hit that wall—when they publish brilliant manifestos, run grassroots campaigns, or design nation-saving policies only to be met with mockery, media silence, or betrayal by their own sociopolitical network—they are retracing Plato’s path. From dreamer to strategist. From what should be to what must do. From The Republic to The Laws.
But here’s the twist: that shift isn’t failure. It’s evolution. Idealism may die, but wisdom is what rises from its ashes.
Does Society Want Good Leaders—or Just Good Liars?
It’s an uncomfortable question. But Plato asked it first. Not with a slogan, but with a sigh: “Until philosophers rule as kings…cities will never have rest from evils.”
He didn’t say “until the people demand better” or “until democracy matures.” No—he knew too well that crowds often choose comfort over clarity, spectacle over substance, and sweet talkers over sages.
So, does society choke good leaders? Sometimes. Especially when:
• Populism weaponizes lies
• Citizens become addicted to pleasure over principle
• Systems reward loyalty to party over loyalty to truth
• Silence is safer than standing for reform
But Plato’s later work is a quiet call to those who still care: If society won’t allow philosopher-kings, then build laws that protect what they would protect. If you can’t lead them with wisdom, at least guard them from madness.
That’s not defeat—it’s adaptation. And perhaps the most honest form of leadership isn’t insisting on being loved, but preparing to be doubted, delayed, even discarded—yet still planting the seeds of the just society, knowing full well you may not see the fruit.
The Final Image
Picture Plato at eighty—tired eyes, wrinkled hands, but still writing. No longer waiting for a perfect ruler, but sculpting laws like armor to protect future leaders from society’s slings and arrows.
That image is not sad. It’s sacred.
And perhaps it’s the same arc many brilliant young Africans must trace—not because they’ve failed, but because they’ve begun to understand the battlefield.
The dream doesn’t die. It just puts on armor.