OPINION | The tragicomedy of African leaders who won’t step down

Teodoro Obiang, president of Equatorial Guinea, has been running the show for 46 years – almost half a century of “uninterrupted service”, or, as others might call it, a generational monopoly.

His neighbour in longevity – who can hardly walk – is Paul Biya of Cameroon, who follows closely with 43 years in power, proving that time really does stand still when you’re president for life.

Denis Sassou Nguesso of Congo clocks in at 41 years, because why stop when the chair still fits just right? Yoweri Museveni of Uganda, at 39 years, continues to give democracy a good, old-fashioned endurance test. Isaias Afwerki of Eritrea holds the record for ruling with no elections for 32 years, a true masterclass in “stability”.

We then have Ismaïl Omar Guelleh of Djibouti, 26 years, who runs a country smaller than some African cities, but whose grip could teach the world’s strongest adhesives a thing or two.

Paul Kagame of Rwanda, with 25 years in office, is perhaps the only one on this list with a credible record of development, discipline, and drive – proof that longevity isn’t always the problem; stagnation is.

Faure Gnassingbé of Togo inherited the presidency 20 years ago like a family heirloom, demonstrating that leadership, in some parts of Africa, is a generational gift. Alassane Ouattara of Ivory Coast has managed 15 years, and Salva Kiir of South Sudan, 14 years — proving that even a young nation can catch the old habits of its elders.

This month alone, a few of these long-distance runners were “re-elected” in elections so hotly contested that their opponents were either conveniently banned, jailed, or exiled. The courts, ever loyal, worked overtime to make sure the democratic process didn’t get in the way of a good thing. After all, what is democracy if not the art of repeating the same election until the result feels right?

One must admit, these leaders deserve medals, not for governance, but for endurance. Their constitutions may have term limits, but they treat them like polite suggestions. Their nations’ infrastructure might be collapsing, but their political careers remain indestructible.

They’ve truly mastered the art of forever, as if retirement were a foreign conspiracy. It’s tragicomedy, really, the kind that makes you laugh before you sigh.

But let’s not be too quick to judge; overstaying one’s welcome is not limited to politics. I, too, served 15 years in one organisation, the Nelson Mandela Foundation. This was long enough to know that even good intentions can grow stale if you stay too long.

Funny, isn’t it, to overstay in an institution founded by a man who knew exactly when to step down? Mandela showed the world that true leadership is not about how long you hold on, but how gracefully you let go.

Yet, like many of our continent’s leaders, I found myself asking the same haunting questions: What do I do after this? Who am I without the title? What if I’m no longer relevant?

Those questions imprison more leaders than any opposition movement ever could.

There’s an old idiom that says: “A good dancer knows when to leave the floor.” But in Africa, too many keep dancing long after the music has stopped. Some are spinning alone while the lights are out, refusing to believe the party ended decades ago.

Yet, even when the crowd has dispersed and the applause has faded, they keep moving. Not out of rhythm, but out of fear. Fear of insignificance. Fear of freedom. Fear of being jailed for tormenting their opponents. Fear of tomorrow.

The irony is that leadership, at its best, is about succession, not possession. The greatest gift a leader can give is not a legacy of control, but a generation of empowered successors.

Staying too long is not a sign of strength; it’s a quiet confession of insecurity. A refusal to trust that others, too, can lead and innovate.

A true leader’s role is to mentor, to encourage, to inspire, to awaken possibility in others, and to nurture the courage to dream beyond the present.

Leadership is meant to be a spark, not a shadow; a force that multiplies wisdom rather than hoards it. But many of these long-serving leaders have long stopped doing any of that. What began as purpose has become routine, a daily repetition of power for power’s sake. They no longer lead to transform; they lead to exist.

Leadership, once a calling, has turned into habit, a monotonous march through the corridors of authority by those who have forgotten that their greatest legacy should have been the leaders they raised, not the thrones they refused to leave.

Perhaps, one day, we’ll measure leadership not by how long someone served, but by how well they prepared others to serve after them.

Until then, we’ll keep singing: “Viva, longest-serving African presidents, viva!” Because nothing says progress like half a century in office and a lifetime of “promises in progress”.

As for me, I’ve learned that even bruised egos can heal and that leaving, though painful, is an act of growth. The chair you leave behind is not a loss; it’s an invitation for new voices to sit, to shape, to serve.

• Hatang is the executive director at Re Hata Mmoho