By Anthony Iwuoma
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There is a special league, the Union of Forever Leadership, where presidents simply continue existing in office, outlasting constitutions, political parties, logic, and occasionally, their own birthdays.
In the grand hall of Africa’s leadership museum, the exhibits are still alive. Behind the glass of history’s display cases, some blink, wave, and sign decrees as though time itself were on their payroll. Among them sits Paul Biya of Cameroon, a man who has ruled longer than most of his citizens have lived, governing from the rarefied air of distant palaces and foreign hotels, embodying the continent’s curious relic of political narcissism.
Across the African continent, a familiar political script continues to unfold: leaders who cling to office long after their legitimacy has faded, sustained by patronage networks, constitutional manipulation, and the myth of their own indispensability.
At its core lies the belief that the leader and the nation are inseparable, and that without them, the country would collapse. Nowhere is the phenomenon of the “forever leader” more clearly embodied than in Cameroon, where President Paul Biya has held power since 1982.
Rising to office amid claims of stability and national continuity, Biya has steadily consolidated authority through constitutional revisions, patronage, and the careful management of succession anxieties. Over time, his leadership has evolved from governance into presence, creating the belief that his departure would threaten the very survival of the nation, and that power, once attained, is not merely held but owned.
Biya
In this exclusive fraternity, Cameroon has long been the emblematic headquarters. Yet to focus solely on Cameroon would be unfair. Cameroon is merely the founding member of a much wider cultural and political tradition: Africa’s gerontocratic dynasties, a continent-spanning celebration of the belief that wisdom increases in direct proportion to age, and therefore, leadership is a lifetime appointment, preferably until the afterlife itself casts a vote.
Africa seems to thrive on the maxim: “If it isn’t broken, don’t fix it. If it is broken, deny it. If denial fails, jail it.”
So, across many African countries, political authority is often framed not as an administrative job, but as spiritual parenthood. The father does not retire while the children are still “growing,” and African nations, conveniently, are always still “growing” youths, leaders of a tomorrow that never comes.
This father-child metaphor is politically brilliant. Children do not choose when fathers leave; they simply accept them. Thus, a president-for-life is not a dictator; he is a Dad With a Presidential Palace.
Cameroon exemplifies this tradition. The state is not a republic in the Western bureaucratic sense; it is a political compound, and its inhabitants are perpetual minors. The leader does not govern with citizens; he governs them, like a father disciplines teenagers who cannot be trusted with car keys or national budgets.
This metaphor also explains why elections are treated not as democratic mechanisms, but as ritual affirmations of paternal love. The children do not vote to choose a father; they vote to confirm him. To do otherwise would be a rebellion, and rebellious children must be corrected.
Time is an illusion in African political leadership. In Cameroon, the presidency resembles an aristocratic inheritance, except that the heir is always postponed indefinitely, because the throne-holder simply refuses to vacate.
To remain, an Eternal Leader needs three pillars: The leader is never just a leader; he is the indispensable one, the wise elder who has seen war, colonialism, coups, and crises and, therefore, must stay forever to prevent chaos. This argument works especially well if the leader himself creates new crises to prove the point.
Parliaments and courts do not check the Presidency, they narrate its greatness. The legal system is not a watchdog but a tailor, altering the constitution the way one adjusts a suit: loosen here, lengthen there, make room for indefinite tenure.
Opposition is allowed, loudly even, but only as furniture. Elections are held to demonstrate that the people agree with what has already been decided. Democracy becomes decor, like plastic fruit on a dining table symbolic, but not for actual consumption.
This structure is such that to oppose the Eternal Leader is to oppose stability itself, and stability is prized more than progress because instability has been the traumatic ghost of post-independence Africa.
Thus, the gerontocratic president becomes the human embodiment of fear-management.
Young Africans understand this. And they respond in three primary ways: either as pragmatists, who join the ruling party, praise the Father-Leader, clap with enthusiasm at rallies, and collect favours. They are not believers; they are strategic realists; or as cynics, who mock politics on social media, write clever memes about leadership that goes on longer than certain mountains, and perfect the art of dark laughter. Humour becomes dissent disguised as entertainment.
There are also those who leave or japa in local parlance to anywhere with functioning electricity and the possibility of retirement before death. They do not believe change is impossible; they simply believe change will not happen in time to benefit them. Migration becomes the most rational political act.
Thus, gerontocracy does not merely control the state; it exports its opposition.
Gerontocratic leadership is often justified through reverence for elders. African societies have long valued age as a signifier of wisdom, experience, and moral authority. Respecting elders is not just cultural; it is ethical.
But there is a difference between eldership and entitlement. A village elder mediates conflicts and protects communal welfare. A gerontocratic president consolidates power and protects his seat. One gives authority; the other extracts it.
African governance does not suffer because elders are involved; it suffers because power is monopolised by a tiny group of elders who refuse to become elders in the traditional sense. They do not graduate into respected advisory roles. They remain permanently in the executive seat, convinced that without them, the nation will dissolve.
This belief is not wisdom; it is political narcissism disguised as cultural respectability.
Gerontocratic regimes claim to provide stability. But long-term stagnation is a form of instability, just slow-motion instability.
True stability requires: Functional public services; institutional trust; leadership renewal; a system that does not fear transition. But gerontocracy avoids transition not because it is dangerous, but because it is inconvenient to those who benefit from preventing it.
Thus, the leadership becomes a museum exhibit, well-preserved, heavily guarded, and mostly irrelevant to daily life.
If the African continent held a collective election to choose the most permanent leader, the ballots would be heavy: The president who assumed power before colour television; the president who abolished term limits, restored them, then abolished them again; the president whose portrait appears in every public office, classroom, bank, and occasionally kitchens and, of course, the president whose birthday celebrations are state holidays, but whose actual age varies depending on which minister is speaking.
The competition would be fierce. The speeches would be long. Very long; possibly longer than the average human attention span.
But the outcome would be predictable.
Because the defining principle of African gerontocratic politics is: “Once you become president, you cannot stop being president without becoming a vulnerability.” To leave power is to become mortal again.
A post-gerontocratic Africa does not mean disrespecting elders. It means redefining leadership as contribution rather than captivity. It requires: Leadership age caps
not because elders are incapable, but because renewal is essential; constitutional permanence terms must be actual terms, not suggestions; young people should be decision-makers, not spectators; the role of the elder should be advisory, guiding, not indefinite occupation of power. This is not rebellion but continuity restructured.
The problem with gerontocratic politics is not merely political; it is psychological. It keeps societies in a state of permanent childhood, waiting for the Father to decide, to speak, to approve, to bless, or curse. It postpones adulthood, national and individual.
Africa does not lack intelligence, creativity, or ambition. It only lacks the courage to graduate from paternalistic governance.
Cameroon, where an invalid Paul Biya has just muscled a record eighth term on the throne, may be a symbol of the old order, but symbols can be rewritten. The next era of African politics will not be decided by the age of leaders, but by the maturity of citizens.
The question is simple: Will Africa remain a continent of children governed by eternal fathers? Or will it become a continent of adults who choose leaders, and release them, when the time comes?
The answer will define the next century.
