MBA lesson on leadership and power that still rings true today

When I was doing my MBA some years ago, there was one local lecturer everyone paid close attention to his words. 

Mr Lai was not your typical academic. He was a hands-on corporate man  — then a COO in one of the key subsidiary companies of Genting Group. He had war stories from boardrooms, high level  negotiations, crisis meetings and corporate planning. He did not teach from slides. He taught from scars.

One afternoon, during a class on strategic management, someone asked whether a brilliant strategy was enough to guarantee success. Mr Lai smiled, paused, and said something that has stayed with me ever since:

“The most critical stage of any strategic plan is implementation. And the most critical decision in implementation is choosing the right CEO.”

He explained that once the board approves a strategy, everything depends on the clarity of the chief executive’s role. 

The CEO must know his mandate. He must know what he can and cannot do. His KPIs must be clear. There must be no duplication of authority, no shadow decision-makers, no conflict of interest that paralyses execution.

“If you blur lines,” he warned us, “you blur accountability. And when accountability is blurred, performance suffers.”

At that time, we were thinking about companies. Today, I find myself applying the same line of thought  to the country. 

Malaysia is not a corporation. But governance principles are surprisingly universal. 

The Prime Minister functions as the chief executive of the nation. The Cabinet is the executive team. Parliament plays the oversight role. The Attorney General advises the government. The Public Prosecutor enforces criminal accountability.

If clarity of power and accountability is essential in a company, why would it be optional in a nation?

That is why the proposal to amend the Constitution — to limit the Prime Minister’s tenure to 10 years and to separate the Public Prosecutor from the Attorney General’s office — deserves to be discussed not emotionally, but structurally.

The Case for a 10-Year Limit

Let us start with the Prime Minister’s term limit. This is not about targeting any individual. It is not about rewriting history. It is about designing a system that does not depend too heavily on one personality.

Malaysia has experienced long premierships before. Mahathir Mohamad shaped the country across decades. His influence — admired by some, criticised by others — demonstrates how prolonged tenure allows a leader to deeply embed networks, shape institutions, and influence succession patterns.

That is not inherently wrong. But it carries risk. When leadership extends indefinitely, political ecosystems begin to orbit around individuals rather than institutions. Party structures weaken. Succession planning becomes delicate. Internal dissent is suppressed in the name of stability.

A 10-year cap — roughly two full terms — is not radical. It gives a leader enough time to implement a meaningful agenda. It allows continuity of policy. Yet it ensures renewal is not left to chance or political manoeuvering.

Critics argue that elections are sufficient. If voters are unhappy, they can vote the government out.

In theory, yes. In practice, incumbency advantages, coalition complexities, and party machinery often make leadership transitions within dominant coalitions extremely difficult. A constitutional limit reduces the incentive to entrench power.

Most importantly, it sends a message that the system is bigger than the individual.

Separating the Prosecutor from the Government’s Lawyer

Now consider the second reform — separating the Public Prosecutor from the Attorney General.

At present, the Attorney General advises the government and also exercises prosecutorial discretion. In simpler terms, the same office that advises the executive branch also decides whether criminal charges should be brought — potentially against members of that same executive.

Even if integrity is maintained, the perception of conflict can erode public trust. Imagine in a corporation if the legal adviser to the CEO also decided whether to prosecute that CEO for wrongdoing. Investors would raise eyebrows. Shareholders would demand reform.

Separation is not an attack on any individual office holder. It is a structural improvement. Many jurisdictions separate advisory and prosecutorial functions precisely to protect credibility.

This reform strengthens the government, not weakens it. It shields leaders from allegations of interference. It enhances investor confidence. It signals seriousness about rule of law.

Responding to the Doubts

Of course, no reform is without criticism.

Some say a term limit might force out a strong leader during a crisis. What if the country needs continuity? What if the leader remains popular and effective?

These are valid concerns. That is why design matters. The 10-year limit can be cumulative, allowing flexibility while preventing indefinite tenure. Political parties must institutionalise succession planning so that leadership transitions are prepared well in advance rather than triggered by emergencies.

Others fear that splitting the Attorney General’s role may create bureaucratic rivalry or paralysis. That risk exists — if reform is poorly designed.

To mitigate this, the appointment of an independent Public Prosecutor could involve parliamentary oversight to enhance legitimacy. Fixed tenure protection can ensure independence. Clear statutory guidelines can define boundaries and coordination mechanisms.

Reform without detail is dangerous. Reform with careful institutional design is strengthening.

Beware of Overcorrection

There is also a broader lesson we must keep in mind.

Constitutions are not policy documents. They are foundational frameworks. Excessive amendments, especially if politically reactive, can create uncertainty. Markets dislike unpredictability. Civil servants become cautious. Political actors become defensive.

Reform must be deliberate and sequenced.

We have learned this the hard way. The experience of Pakatan Harapan’s first administration — PH 1.0 — was marked by enormous public expectations for sweeping change. Yet the speed and breadth of reform, combined with coalition fragility, created strains that ultimately proved destabilising.

Ambition is admirable. But sequencing is essential.

Change, Managed Carefully

I sometimes think back to Mr Lai’s classroom. He never romanticised transformation. He respected it. But he insisted that change must be managed.

“Too much change, too fast,” he once told us, “and you create operational shock.” 

That lesson applies to governance as well.

Limiting the Prime Minister’s tenure to 10 years and separating the Public Prosecutor from the Attorney General are not revolutionary acts. They are structural refinements rooted in governance logic. They aim to clarify power, strengthen accountability, and reduce conflict of interest.

But they must be implemented carefully. Drafted precisely. Communicated transparently. Sequenced responsibly.

To social activists who are impatient for reform, your passion is necessary. It pushes institutions forward. But durable change is not built on adrenaline. It is built on structure, consultation, and careful calibration.

We must accept uncertainty. We must acknowledge that even well-intentioned reforms can have unintended consequences. And we must resist the temptation to fix everything at once.

Strong institutions are not created through dramatic gestures. They are strengthened step by step.

Mr Lai taught us that strategy succeeds when leadership roles are clear and governance structures are sound. Malaysia deserves nothing less. The goal is not to weaken leaders. It is to strengthen the system so that leadership — whoever holds it — operates within clear, accountable, and trusted boundaries. 

That is not radical. It is responsible.

And, Mr Lai, if you are reading this and likely retired, lets get in touch.