By Bashir M. Sheikh-Ali
Titles are not innocent. They carry history and symbolism that can either strengthen or fracture the idea of a nation. What looks like a semantic choice — whether to call a leader “President” or “Governor” — can shape political psychology, public expectations, and even the survival of unity.
When the thirteen north American colonies (which would eventually form the United States) declared independence in 1776, each became a fully sovereign republic. They had no higher authority above them, and each wrote its own constitution and created its own executive. Some called that executive “Governor,” echoing colonial tradition of Royal Governors. Others, such as Pennsylvania, Delaware, and New Hampshire, used “President” to emphasize their republican break from monarchy. At this stage the title posed no conflict. With no national president to rival, a state president was simply the head of a sovereign polity. The colonies had fought the Revolution together, but they emerged as independent states. If Pennsylvania wanted a president and Massachusetts preferred a governor, the distinction was symbolic, not constitutional.
Even under the Articles of Confederation, from 1781 to 1789, the arrangement remained workable. The Confederation created a weak congress but no executive. There was still no President a United States. State presidents and governors were not in competition with any national counterpart. Everything changed in 1789, when the 13 states drafted the U.S. Constitution and created the office of President of the United States. For the first time, there was a single national head of state and head of government.
Suddenly, state executives called “President” looked like rivals — not in law, but in symbolism. Americans feared that if multiple figures carried the trappings of sovereignty, the Union would dissolve into what they called rival monarchs. That anxiety was part of the Revolution itself, and it sharpened once there was a national executive.
The states responded by abandoning the title “President.” By the 1790s, every state executive was called “Governor.” The logic was clear: The President was the single national head of state, and Governors were the executives of co-sovereign states. The states remained sovereign within their spheres, but the symbolism was disciplined. Words reinforced the architecture of the Union.
What is important to notice is that American leaders understood how inherently fragile federalism was, how easily disputes between central and state governments could fracture a young republic. They therefore built multiple tools to help federalism survive. Some were institutional: a strong judiciary empowered to mediate disputes, mechanisms for compromise in Congress, and carefully balanced powers. Others were symbolic: a deliberate hierarchy of titles to prevent confusion about who was the singular head of the union.
Americans grasped that if you tell a state too often that it is a “co-sovereign,” you risk putting sovereignty into its imagination in a way that destabilizes the whole. So they found ways — practical and symbolic — to remind everyone that the United States was one republic, not thirteen.
Somalia’s story is different. Its federal member states were never sovereign republics like the thirteen colonies. They were not independent polities choosing to join a confederation. They were created and recognized inside the framework of the Somali Republic. The Provisional Constitution makes this explicit. Article 3 states that sovereignty belongs to the Somali people as a whole, not to any region. The units are called federal member states precisely to signal that they exist as components of a federal republic, not as co-sovereigns. And yet, from the beginning, their leaders have insisted on the title “President.”
Puntland has a president, Jubbaland has a president, Galmudug has a president, so as South West and Hirshabelle. Symbolically, this places them on the same plane as the President of Somalia. Unlike the U.S. case in 1776, there was never a period where this was harmless. Somalia already had a national presidency, so the duplication of titles was a contradiction from the start.
“President” implies sovereignty. It suggests the head of a self-standing state, not a regional executive. By using it, Somali leaders project themselves as rulers of fiefdoms rather than administrators of member states. They negotiate with Mogadishu as if they were equals in a confederation, not executives within a republic. This symbolic inflation corrodes unity. Citizens hear “President” and attach their loyalty to a local leader rather than to the Somali state. Clan identity magnifies the effect, creating rival presidencies rather than a shared nationhood. The irony is stark: Somalia’s constitution avoids the word “state” precisely to emphasize membership, yet the word “President” reintroduces sovereignty by the back door.
The United States avoided this trap by rationing the grandest title. There would be one President, the national head of state, and many Governors, the state executives. This preserved co-sovereignty while making symbolic hierarchy clear. Somalia has done the reverse. By allowing six presidents to coexist with one, it has undermined its own constitutional design. Member states that are meant to be subordinate parts of a single republic instead appear as co-equal sovereignties. So long as every regional ruler styles himself “President,” Somalia’s symbolic order contradicts its constitutional order. Instead of one sovereign republic with member states, the country looks like a patchwork of rival presidencies.
That confusion is not merely cosmetic. It feeds centrifugal ambition. If you already carry the title of president, why compromise with Mogadishu? If you are the “President of Jubbaland,” why should you accept being treated as the executive of a member unit? Words shape ambition, and ambition shapes conflict.
Somalia does not need to mimic America in every respect, but it can borrow the discipline of titles. Reserving “President” for the national head of state, adopting alternative titles such as “Governor” or “Chief Minister” for federal member state leaders, and letting symbolism reinforce law would help Somalia bring its political language in line with its constitutional design. The Provisional Constitution already establishes indivisible sovereignty. The titles of leaders should reflect that, not contradict it.
In politics, words are never trivial. The United States abandoned state presidents when they became a threat to unity. Somalia weakens itself every day by tolerating them. If it wants to move beyond fiefdoms and rival claimants to sovereignty, it must get the titles right. There should be one president for one republic. The rest should carry titles that remind citizens, and the leaders themselves, that they are not sovereign rulers but executives of member units. Without that symbolic clarity, Somalia will remain a country of rival monarchs in all but name.
Bashir M. Sheikh-Ali
Email: <bsali@yahoo.com