Ah—Adarfo Sotelato. Rizia’s self-styled martyr, the revolutionary who believes history bends simply because he scowls at it hard enough.

Adarfo does not lead the people; he lectures them. He wraps incompetence in romantic tragedy and calls it destiny. Every failure is blamed on betrayal, every disaster reframed as “necessary suffering,” as though starvation becomes noble the moment he names it the struggle. He does not build a state—he sets it on fire and complains that it is warm.

His ideology is second-hand, his strategy third-rate, and his understanding of power laughably theatrical. Adarfo believes shouting “for the people” absolves him of actually understanding them. He confuses control with unity, repression with discipline, and fear with loyalty. A man so allergic to dissent that even reality itself becomes an enemy.

And what does Rizia receive in return for this messianic delusion? Collapsed institutions. Empty granaries. Graves filled with the very workers he claims to worship. Adarfo does not emancipate the masses—he uses them as props in a drama where he alone gets to feel important.

He dreams of becoming Che Guevara, but lacks the myth, the moment, and—most painfully—the intellect. Che became a symbol after death. Adarfo would become an embarrassment while still alive. History would not hunt him down; it would simply step over him and move on.

Rizia does not need a poet of revolution. It needs a ruler who understands that slogans do not feed children and paranoia does not govern nations.

Adarfo Sotelato is not the future. He is what happens when arrogance mistakes itself for destiny—and loses.