It is not in the nature of politics that the best men should be

Host: The parliament building across the street gleamed under the amber haze of the setting sun, its columns rising like relics of an empire built on compromise. The square below buzzed with voices, the hum of debate and disbelief — campaign posters peeling in the wind, promises fluttering like tired flags.

Inside a quiet coffeehouse tucked between old stone buildings, Jack sat by the window, his coat still damp from the drizzle, a thin curl of steam rising from his cup. His grey eyes were sharp, restless, watching the world outside as if it were a chessboard he had long given up playing on.

Jeeny arrived late, as always, her dark hair heavy with rain, her brown eyes bright with the stubborn warmth that time hadn’t managed to dull. She slid into the seat opposite him, her smile soft but knowing.

Jeeny: “You look like someone who’s already lost faith before the election even starts.”

Jack: (dryly) “That’s because I have. George MacDonald once said, ‘It is not in the nature of politics that the best men should be elected. The best men do not want to govern their fellowmen.’ I’ve yet to see him proven wrong.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because the best people don’t believe in power — they believe in purpose. But someone has to take responsibility.”

Jack: “Responsibility? Don’t dress it up. Power isn’t about responsibility, it’s about appetite. The good ones — the real good ones — don’t hunger for it.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window. Outside, a street preacher shouted something about justice and redemption to a crowd that had already stopped listening.

Jeeny: “You think all leaders are corrupt?”

Jack: “No. Just human. And humanity has a poor record when handed a throne.”

Jeeny: “Then how do you explain Lincoln? Mandela? People who used power for good?”

Jack: “Exceptions. Not the rule. Even they were broken by it — Lincoln carried guilt like a shadow; Mandela forgave the world but lost parts of himself doing it. Power doesn’t purify. It corrodes — slowly, politely.”

Jeeny: “But without those people, where would we be? Someone has to step forward, even if it costs them.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the tragedy — that goodness only becomes visible when it’s destroyed.”

Host: Jeeny took a slow sip of coffee, her eyes never leaving him. The rain outside had softened into a mist, like the city itself was eavesdropping on their wearied conversation.

Jeeny: “You know, cynicism can sound wise, but it’s just another form of despair.”

Jack: “And idealism is just another word for denial.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “You really believe that?”

Jack: “Look around, Jeeny. The ones with vision can’t afford campaigns. The ones with integrity can’t stomach politics. You don’t rise in this world by virtue. You rise by visibility.”

Host: His voice carried weight — not anger, but the fatigue of too many broken systems. Jeeny’s fingers traced the rim of her cup, her mind working quietly before she spoke again.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the best men don’t want to govern. But sometimes, they do because no one else will.”

Jack: “And they pay for it. Every idealist who enters politics leaves a realist. Every realist leaves rich — or ruined.”

Jeeny: “Yet the world keeps turning. Someone still has to hold the line.”

Host: A car horn blared outside, and a burst of laughter cut through the fog — young voices, loud and fleeting. Jack’s gaze softened for a moment, then hardened again.

Jack: “You ever wonder why philosophers never run for office?”

Jeeny: “Because they’d rather understand people than control them.”

Jack: “Exactly. That’s what MacDonald meant. The best minds — the ones capable of true governance — want no part of the machinery.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because they know power’s not meant to be owned. It’s meant to be shared.”

Jack: “Shared? Tell that to history.”

Jeeny: “I am. That’s why I still vote.”

Host: Her voice was steady, but there was something fierce beneath it — that quiet fire she carried into every argument, a kind of moral gravity that pulled the room into focus.

Jack: “You vote out of hope.”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Jack: “And I abstain out of memory.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we balance each other — you, the historian of disillusionment; me, the archivist of faith.”

Host: The light flickered briefly as a tram rolled by, casting their reflections in the window glass — two faces framed by a rain-streaked city that mirrored every contradiction of the human heart.

Jack: “You really think politics can ever be moral?”

Jeeny: “Not in system. But in moments. In choices. When a person stands up knowing it won’t change everything — but does it anyway.”

Jack: “You’re talking about courage.”

Jeeny: “No. Conscience.”

Host: The coffeehouse had grown quieter now. A few old men in suits murmured at the counter, arguing softly about policies neither believed in. The air was thick with the smell of ground beans and resignation.

Jack: “So the best men don’t want to govern, but the good ones still try?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because the best are too humble to believe they should rule — and that humility is what makes them worthy.”

Jack: “A paradox.”

Jeeny: “No, a truth too inconvenient for politics.”

Host: A faint smile passed between them — the kind that holds no victory, only understanding.

Jack: “You know, I once wanted to run for office.”

Jeeny: “What stopped you?”

Jack: “I realized I’d have to become someone I didn’t respect to win.”

Jeeny: “Then you already made the right choice.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked past another hour. The rain stopped. Outside, the square glistened — wet, alive, reflecting the streetlights like fractured halos.

Jack: “You ever wonder if democracy is just a polite illusion? A ritual of hope that keeps the crowd quiet?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But rituals matter. They remind us we’re part of something larger than ourselves. Even broken systems need believers — not because belief fixes them, but because disbelief abandons them.”

Host: Her words lingered, wrapping the air in a slow, steady calm. Jack stared at her — long enough that his cynicism wavered, just slightly.

Jack: “So, what do you call someone who doesn’t want to govern, but can’t stop caring how the world is governed?”

Jeeny: “A citizen.”

Host: That answer landed softly but deeply, like rainwater seeping into cracked ground. The camera would linger there — the small table, two half-empty cups, the world outside still turning in its imperfect rhythm.

Jeeny leaned back, her eyes drifting toward the darkened square.

Jeeny: “Maybe MacDonald was right. The best men don’t want to govern their fellowmen. But maybe the best societies are the ones that make them feel they don’t have to.”

Jack: (after a pause) “And until then?”

Jeeny: “We keep watching. Keep questioning. Keep holding them accountable — because even if the best don’t govern, the rest still need witnesses.”

Host: The light from the window fell gently across their faces, blurring the line between cynic and idealist. Jack’s smile was small, but real — a truce, maybe, between disillusionment and hope.

Outside, a new poster flapped against a lamppost — the ink already running from the rain, the candidate’s slogan half-erased.

And as the camera pulled back through the glass, the two of them sat in quiet reflection — two citizens in a weary world, neither ruling nor ruled, just talking — proof that sometimes, the best form of governance begins with conversation.