I have a political attitude, but I'm certainly not a politician.

Host: The city was sinking into twilight, the skyline a jagged silhouette against a bruised purple sky. The parliament building loomed in the distance, its lights flickering like the pulse of an uneasy heart. The streets were quiet — too quiet — save for the hum of the wind and the faint echo of a radio broadcasting late-night commentary.

In a small café tucked between narrow alleys, Jack and Jeeny sat by the window, the table between them cluttered with newspapers, coffee cups, and the remnants of debate — cigarette ash, scribbled notes, and the tension of ideals still unresolved.

Host: Outside, the neon sign flickered, buzzing softly — Open All Night. Inside, it was just them, and the murmuring world beyond the glass.

Jeeny: (reading from a folded paper) “Kgalema Motlanthe once said, ‘I have a political attitude, but I’m certainly not a politician.’”

Host: Her voice carried softly, cutting through the hum of the fluorescent light. Jack leaned back, his eyes shadowed by thought, his hands wrapped around his coffee cup as if to anchor himself to its warmth.

Jack: (half-smiling) “Sounds like something every honest man says right before politics breaks his heart.”

Jeeny: “Or before he refuses to let it.”

Jack: “Come on, Jeeny. Politics is just corruption in costume. You can’t touch it without getting dirt on your hands.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the problem isn’t politics — maybe it’s the people who’ve forgotten it’s supposed to serve.”

Host: The rain began to fall, tapping gently against the glass, tracing crooked lines down the pane — like veins of reflection running between them.

Jack: “Motlanthe’s line — it’s interesting, though. A political attitude without being a politician. That’s a fine line to walk.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a line. It’s a stance. It means having convictions without craving power.”

Jack: “Power’s the only language this world listens to.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Power gets attention. Integrity changes things.”

Host: Her tone was calm but unyielding — the kind of calm that comes from deep faith in human decency. Jack looked at her, the corners of his mouth twitching with a mix of irony and curiosity.

Jack: “You really think integrity survives in politics?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not in politics — but it survives in those who refuse to become politicians.”

Jack: “So, like idealists on the sidelines?”

Jeeny: “No. Like citizens who still believe morality belongs in the conversation.”

Host: The café lights flickered once, then steadied. A waiter passed by, refilling their cups without a word. The steam rose between them like a veil — warmth and distance intertwined.

Jack: “You know what I think Motlanthe meant? He was acknowledging the paradox — that you can care about justice, equality, the human condition — and still despise the machinery that claims to deliver it.”

Jeeny: “Because the machinery corrodes even good intentions.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Jeeny: “But someone has to keep fixing it, Jack. Otherwise, it becomes a relic — a machine that runs only on greed.”

Jack: (sighing) “And what if it’s beyond repair?”

Jeeny: “Then rebuild it. Piece by piece, person by person.”

Host: A long silence followed. Outside, a sirens’ wail cut through the night, distant but real — a reminder of the world’s ongoing noise, of chaos that never sleeps.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe in systems. I thought education could fix inequality, that law could fix injustice. But the more I watched, the more I realized — it’s all negotiation. Truth gets traded for optics.”

Jeeny: “That’s why you stopped voting, isn’t it?”

Jack: (shrugs) “Voting feels like whispering into a storm.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But what if millions of whispers became a roar?”

Jack: “You think they’d listen?”

Jeeny: “They’d have to.”

Host: The radio behind the counter hummed faintly with news: debates, speeches, promises. The same old theater. Jack glanced toward it, then back at Jeeny.

Jack: “Motlanthe was right, though. Having a political attitude is different from playing politics. One’s about conscience; the other’s about control.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And the tragedy is that most people confuse the two. They think apathy equals purity.”

Jack: “Maybe apathy’s just exhaustion.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Apathy’s surrender.”

Host: Her eyes met his — dark, steady, unwavering. The room seemed to hold its breath.

Jeeny: “You call yourself a realist, but I think you’re just tired of caring.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You’re not wrong.”

Jeeny: “Then rest. But don’t stop caring. Apathy is how injustice stays comfortable.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, drumming against the glass in steady rhythm, a percussive heartbeat for their thoughts.

Jack: “You know, I envy Motlanthe. To believe in peace and politics, to navigate both without losing himself — that’s rare.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about belief. It’s about balance. He knew power could be wielded without being worshiped.”

Jack: “That’s philosophy, not reality.”

Jeeny: “Every revolution began as philosophy.”

Jack: “And ended in compromise.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But compromise isn’t failure — it’s the art of moving forward without burning everything behind you.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice quieter now, almost confessional.

Jack: “I used to cover politics as a journalist. Thought exposing truth would change things. But the more I revealed, the less anyone cared. Outrage became entertainment. Facts became feelings. I stopped believing.”

Jeeny: “Maybe truth doesn’t always need belief, Jack. It just needs someone to keep telling it.”

Jack: “Even when no one listens?”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: Her words hung in the air — not lofty, but heavy with purpose.

The rain began to ease, the city lights reflecting in thin rivers along the pavement. The world outside looked cleaner, at least for now.

Jeeny: “Motlanthe didn’t say he wasn’t political. He said he wasn’t a politician. There’s a difference between being committed to justice and being addicted to power.”

Jack: “You think it’s possible to separate the two?”

Jeeny: “Not perfectly. But integrity isn’t perfection — it’s persistence.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Persistence without illusion.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain stopped. The sound of dripping gutters lingered, gentle as the last sigh of a long argument. Jack reached for the bill, but Jeeny placed her hand on it first.

Jeeny: “Let me. Tonight, I believe in generosity.”

Jack: “And I believe in irony.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Progress.”

Host: They laughed — a low, quiet laughter that softened the room. When they stood, the city beyond the window shimmered — washed clean, though never innocent.

As they stepped out into the cool night, the faint scent of wet asphalt and new beginnings followed them.

Host: And in that moment, under the dripping streetlights and fading thunder, the truth of Motlanthe’s words glowed between them like a quiet lantern:

That to hold a political attitude is to care deeply — even when you hold no office.
That real leadership requires conscience, not control.
And that the greatest revolutionaries are not politicians,
but those who still choose to love humanity
without needing to rule it.