The greatest threat to freedom is the absence of criticism.

Host: The library was half-empty and silent — the kind of silence that carries both weight and wisdom. Rows of books stood like witnesses, their spines glinting under yellow lamplight, each one a record of someone daring to say something once forbidden.

The rain outside drummed steadily against the tall windows, rhythmic and unrelenting, like the sound of time testing humanity’s memory.

At a corner table beneath a flickering lamp, Jack and Jeeny sat facing each other. Between them lay a stack of open books, scattered notes, and one slim volume resting on top — The Man Died by Wole Soyinka.

On the first page, marked with a paperclip, was a line underlined twice in pencil:
“The greatest threat to freedom is the absence of criticism.” — Wole Soyinka

Jeeny: (reading the line slowly) “The greatest threat to freedom isn’t oppression… it’s silence.”

Host: Her voice was soft but steady — each word shaped by conviction.

Jack: (nodding) “Soyinka knew that firsthand. He wasn’t talking about criticism as opinion. He meant it as resistance — as oxygen.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. When people stop criticizing, freedom doesn’t die dramatically. It suffocates quietly.”

Host: The rain hit harder against the glass, as if echoing their agreement.

Jack: “You know what scares me more than censorship? The moment people choose not to speak.”

Jeeny: “When comfort becomes compliance.”

Jack: “Right. When freedom turns into a product — something you assume will restock itself.”

Jeeny: “But it doesn’t. It rots if you don’t use it.”

Host: She leaned forward, her hands folded tightly, eyes reflecting the soft glow of the lamp.

Jeeny: “Criticism isn’t chaos. It’s maintenance. It keeps truth from decaying.”

Jack: (grinning faintly) “Try telling that to the people who call dissent ‘negativity.’”

Jeeny: “Oh, I have. But it’s easier to praise freedom than to practice it.”

Host: The clock ticked softly in the background, marking the fragile rhythm of human attention.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange — societies that shout the loudest about freedom often fear criticism the most.”

Jeeny: “Because they mistake unity for agreement. They think silence equals harmony.”

Jack: “But silence isn’t harmony. It’s anesthesia.”

Host: His words hung in the air, sharp, clean, the way truth sometimes cuts before it heals.

Jeeny: “Soyinka wrote that from prison. Think about that — he literally risked his life to keep questioning. What are we risking now? A few followers? A job title?”

Jack: (quietly) “We’ve traded courage for convenience.”

Jeeny: “And self-expression for brand management.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the windows. The room seemed to shudder with the reminder of how fragile conviction can feel in a comfortable age.

Jack: “You know, there’s something paradoxical about freedom. It’s only real when it’s messy.”

Jeeny: “And it only stays real when someone keeps sweeping away the lies that pile up around it.”

Jack: “Criticism is that broom.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “A poetic broom.”

Jack: “A dangerous one too. The moment you use it, someone calls you ungrateful or radical.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point? The presence of criticism proves freedom’s alive. The absence of it proves obedience.”

Host: She closed the book gently, the sound of the cover shutting like punctuation at the end of a prayer.

Jeeny: “You know, Soyinka’s not just warning us about dictators. He’s warning us about indifference — about citizens who outsource their voices.”

Jack: “The crowd that says, ‘someone else will speak.’”

Jeeny: “Until no one does.”

Host: The lamplight flickered, and for a second, both their faces were lit in that warm half-golden glow — scholars of defiance, quiet prophets of reason.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what scares me most. That freedom won’t die with force, but with fatigue.”

Jeeny: “Or politeness.”

Jack: “You think we’ve gotten too polite?”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. Politeness has become a disguise for apathy. We don’t challenge each other because we don’t want to seem rude.”

Jack: “Or wrong.”

Jeeny: “Yes. We’ve mistaken being liked for being right.”

Host: The rain softened now, turning into a steady whisper, like the voice of the world listening.

Jack: “You ever think about how criticism is love in disguise? You don’t challenge what you don’t care about.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Apathy is the opposite of criticism — not kindness. Criticism means you still believe the truth is worth fighting for.”

Jack: “So maybe freedom isn’t about saying whatever you want — it’s about caring enough to question what you say.”

Jeeny: “And who it serves.”

Host: The air between them grew heavier, but not somber — full of the electricity that follows shared understanding.

Jack: “You think we’re still capable of that kind of courage? The Soyinka kind?”

Jeeny: (pausing) “We are. But we’re out of practice.”

Jack: “Then maybe it starts small — one question at a time.”

Jeeny: “That’s how every revolution begins. With someone saying, ‘Wait. Why?’”

Host: She smiled — not with optimism, but with purpose.

Jeeny: “Maybe freedom doesn’t need defenders. Maybe it needs questioners.”

Jack: “And listeners.”

Jeeny: “And people brave enough to offend for the right reasons.”

Host: The library lights dimmed further — closing hour. The world outside was still gray and restless, the rain tapering into mist.

Jack: “You know, Soyinka’s line isn’t just a warning. It’s an invitation.”

Jeeny: “An invitation to speak.”

Jack: “And to keep speaking — even when it’s inconvenient.”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: They gathered their books, the sound of paper and fabric soft against the silence. As they stepped into the hallway, the echo of their footsteps joined the rain’s rhythm — small sounds, but steady.

And in that quiet march, Wole Soyinka’s words lived not as theory, but as call:

that freedom dies not from bullets,
but from complacency;
that truth doesn’t vanish — it’s muted;
and that the only real defense against tyranny
is the courage to question,
even — especially — when the world
prefers you quiet.

The doors closed behind them with a soft click,
and outside, the air smelled of rain and rebellion —
a reminder that silence,
no matter how polite,
is never innocent.