If political maturity is measured by prioritising your own house before stepping onto your neighbour’s lawn, then Chief Minister Sohail Afridi’s recent trip to Sindh is a masterclass in how to fail. Watching the KP Chief Minister land in Karachi this week felt less like a strategic power move and more like a desperate circus act—one where the locals refused to buy a ticket. Sohail Afridi arrived expecting a sea of adoration, likely fed by the echo chambers of his social media team. Instead, Karachi greeted him with a devastating, collective shrug. Businesses stayed open, traders kept selling, and life moved on without even noticing who and how he came.
But the indifference quickly turned into frustration. Karachi is already a city wrestling with progress—half its roads are dug up for new construction and the expansion of the Green Line bus service. Adding a VIP cavalcade to that fragile mix didn’t bring revolution; it brought gridlock. As the Chief Minister chased headlines, traffic choked. Ambulances carrying the sick were stuck behind barricades, and commuters sat fuming in halted lanes. Instead of showcasing power, Afridi showcased total irrelevance, creating chaos in a city that was simply trying to get to work.
But the futility of the visit is the lesser tragedy here. The real crime is the profound, criminal negligence it represents back home. While Afridi burns aviation fuel and depletes KP’s already strained treasury on political arrangements in Sindh and Punjab, his own province is effectively on fire. It is a grotesque paradox that highlights the disparity in governance. Punjab is currently busy hitting developmental milestones, laying down infrastructure, and attracting investment. Even Sindh is focused on its administrative grind. But KP? KP is burying its dead.
The primary needs of the Pashtun people today are heartbreakingly simple: peace, employment, and an end to the scourge of terrorism. Yet, look at the Chief Minister’s itinerary. Rallies in distant provinces? Meetings with political brokers in Karachi? You have to ask the uncomfortable question: Does the man even bother to open the security files on his desk before he runs to the airport? The reality in KP is terrifying—terrorism is spiking, not slowing down. While our soldiers and police fight tooth and nail in the rugged valleys of Tirah and the alleyways of Bannu to keep people alive, their civilian leadership is totally absent. They aren’t in the situation room; they’re tangled up in petty corruption scandals and settling old political scores.
The collapse of basic governance in KP is staggering. The province is starving for functional schools, properly equipped hospitals, and clean water systems. These are the mundane, unglamorous tasks of governing that don’t generate viral clips on TikTok, so they are conveniently ignored. Instead, precious provincial resources are being funneled into a futile, obsessive campaign to resurrect the political career of “Prisoner Number 804.” Let’s be blunt: pouring public money into saving a jailed leader does not put roti on a table in Swat. It does not provide medicine in Kohat, and it certainly does not stop a suicide bomber in Bajaur.
The message from the ordinary people of KP is becoming louder, even if their Chief Minister chooses to plug his ears. They elected a government, not a fan club. Political stunts and high-decibel speeches in Karachi do not lower the price of flour in Peshawar. They do not fix the crumbling infrastructure. Real leadership isn’t about how loud you can shout slogans from a container; it is about securing the freedom of your people to walk to the market without fear of being blown up.
When security institutions are doing the heavy lifting—sacrificing lives to secure the state—the very least the civilian government can do is manage the day-to-day welfare of its constituents. Instead, we see an administration obsessed with its own survival narrative, leaving the populace to fend for themselves amidst rising debts and joblessness. Chief Minister Afridi needs a serious reality check. The public in Karachi saw through the charade, raising neither their hands nor their voices in support. The public in KP is watching their tax money evaporate on chartered flights while their security situation deteriorates. It is time to stop the tours and start the actual work. Show us a hospital that functions. Show us a terror-free district. Show us a balanced budget. Until then, every trip to Sindh or Punjab isn’t a political strategy; it is a dereliction of duty. Stop serving Prisoner 804, Mr. Chief Minister, and start serving the people who put you in office. That is the only legacy that will save you.
