African leaders should learn to leave power when they’re still in their prime

Tendai Ruben Mbofana

The image of a head of state faltering at a regional podium, unable to navigate a prepared text and misidentifying his peers, travels fast in the digital age.

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When South Sudan President Salva Kiir struggled through his address in Arusha, Tanzania, needing an aide to step in and physically guide his hand through the script, the video did not merely go viral; it laid bare an uncomfortable, recurring truth about African governance.

In a stark display of cognitive fatigue, the octogenarian leader visibly lost his place on the pages, mistakenly swapped the identities of the sitting regional heads of state sharing the platform with him, and stumbled over basic English phrases.

It was a moment of deep public embarrassment, but the tragedy lies not in the human frailty of aging.

The tragedy lies in a political culture that compels leaders to cling to the highest office long after their physical and cognitive prime has passed, transforming individuals who once led historic liberation struggles into symbols of systemic stagnation.

To understand how a president finds himself exposed to such international vulnerability, one must look beyond the immediate medical speculation.

It is the natural consequence of the executive bubble—an insular echo chamber where truth is a casualty of sycophancy.

In many African state houses, inner circles are populated not by objective advisors, but by professional praise-singers whose primary interest is preserving their own proximity to power.

When a leader is surrounded entirely by dependencies, honest assessments regarding health, stamina, or executive capability cease to exist.

No courtier dares suggest that the emperor is tired or that a grueling summit schedule is too taxing, because to acknowledge a leader’s mortality is to threaten the patronage network built around him.

This reality exposes the profound structural trap of the long-term presidency.

The phenomenon of the aging ruler holding onto power, even to the extent of manipulating constitutions or risking civil strife, is rarely just a matter of personal vanity.

It is driven by a deep-seated security dilemma.

In nations with fragile institutions and histories of intense political polarization, the presidency is often the only absolute guarantee of personal and tribal safety.

Without robust, trusted legal frameworks that secure the post-office immunity, assets, and dignity of a retired head of state, stepping down is perceived as an existential gamble.

To leave office is to risk prosecution, exile, or the immediate dismantling of one’s legacy by political adversaries.

Simultaneously, a leader often becomes a hostage to his own creation.

Long tenures naturally birth massive patronage pyramids where military chiefs, business elites, and cabinet officials owe their status, wealth, and freedom exclusively to the incumbent remaining in place.

Even when a president may privately desire the peace of retirement, his inner circle will actively construct barriers against transition.

They understand that their own political and economic survival is inextricably bound to the leader’s physical occupation of the chair.

Consequently, the constitution is amended, elections are indefinitely deferred, and the public is forced to witness the painful degradation of executive governance, all to protect the vested interests of a ruling clique.

This crisis of succession is further compounded by the enduring psychology of liberation movements.

Parties that transitioned from bush wars to state governance often view political authority through the lens of military seniority rather than democratic adaptability.

The entitlement of the liberation era breeds a mindset that those who fought for the country are uniquely ordained to rule it until their final breath.

Transition is viewed not as a healthy democratic evolution, but as a dangerous dilution of the revolutionary legacy.

Yet, as the Arusha incident demonstrates, history is an unforgiving audience.

Decades of genuine sacrifice and legitimate historical achievement can be completely eclipsed in a single afternoon by a viral clip of physical vulnerability on the global stage.

But the ultimate price is never paid by the leader; it is borne entirely by the nation he purports to serve.

When an executive office lapses into cognitive and physical inertia, the entire machinery of state stalls with it.

The vacuum left by ineffective leadership is rapidly filled by rampant corruption, unchecked bureaucratic decay, and the collapse of basic public infrastructure.

Citizens are left to navigate the wreckage of a failing economy while those at the helm remain too detached, or too frail, to steer the ship.

The critical lesson for the continent’s leadership is that true statesmanship is defined not by how power is acquired or maintained, but by how it is relinquished.

A leader’s ultimate legacy is not measured by the length of his tenure, but by the strength and independence of the institutions left behind.

True longevity is achieved by building judiciaries, parliaments, and electoral frameworks that are resilient enough to survive the departure of any single individual.

When governance relies on the physical vitality of an octogenarian, the state itself becomes fragile, precariously balanced on the health of one man.

African leaders must cultivate the wisdom and dignity of knowing when to bow out while their faculties are sharp and their authority remains untarnished.

Stepping down at the peak of one’s prime allows a leader to transition into the revered status of an elder statesman, an arbiter of peace, and a custodian of national memory.

It normalizes the peaceful, routine transfer of power, removing the paralyzing anxiety that historically accompanies political transitions on the continent.

By choosing a timely exit, a leader protects both his personal dignity and the stability of his nation.

This ensures that his life’s work is remembered for the strength of his vision, rather than the frailty of his final years.

• Tendai Ruben Mbofana is a social justice advocate and writer. To directly receive his articles please join his WhatsApp Channel on: https://whatsapp.com/channel/0029VaqprWCIyPtRnKpkHe08