All I Do is Win! – Paul Biya, The 92-Year-Old President Who Never Loses

Yaoundé, Cameroon - In a result that surprised few but frustrated many, Cameroon's Constitutional Council has officially declared 92-year-old President Paul Biya the winner of the country's latest presidential election, securing his eighth consecutive term with 53.7 percent of the vote. As the world's oldest serving head of state, Biya's victory extends his already remarkable 43-year grip on power, granting him another seven-year mandate amid growing whispers of fatigue and unrest.

The announcement on Monday capped days of mounting tension, fueled by rumors of a tighter race and bold claims of triumph from Biya's primary opponent, former government minister Issa Tchiroma Bakary, who garnered 35.2 percent. For supporters of the challenger, the outcome landed like a predictable gut punch - an anticlimax in a nation long accustomed to the president's unyielding dominance, yet one that has begun to chafe against the weight of longevity.

Biya's bid for re-election was never going to be straightforward. His endurance in office alone has long sparked debate, but it is the enigmatic, almost ghostly nature of his leadership that truly amplifies the controversy. Extended sojourns abroad have become a hallmark of his rule, with the president frequently retreating to the opulent Intercontinental Hotel in Geneva or quieter spots along the Swiss lakeside. These absences often ignite frenzied speculation: Is Biya truly steering the ship of state from afar, or have the reins quietly shifted to the prime minister, key ministers, or the shadowy influence of Ferdinand Ngoh Ngoh, the secretary general of the presidency?

Such questions intensified last year when Biya vanished from public view for nearly six weeks. Fresh from delivering a speech at a Second World War commemoration in southern France in August and rubbing shoulders at the China-Africa summit in Beijing the following month, he simply evaporated without word. Even as aides hinted at his presence in Geneva, where he was supposedly conducting business as usual, the silence stretched on until a carefully staged video emerged of his return to Yaoundé, greeted by throngs of loyalists. This year, in a move that felt all too familiar, he slotted in yet another pre-election jaunt to Geneva mere weeks before voters headed to the polls.

This veil of inscrutability defines Biya's approach to governance. Formal cabinet meetings are rare, and public addresses on thorny national issues even rarer, leaving a persistent fog over the administration's priorities and policy-making process. On the ground, competent officials drive a spectrum of technical projects and reforms, from infrastructure pushes to sectoral initiatives. Yet the broader political compass - the unifying vision that could rally a diverse populace - remains elusive, adrift in ambiguity.

Biya's staying power, however, owes more than repression or detachment. Sporadic crackdowns on dissent and detentions of outspoken critics have punctuated his tenure, but they tell only part of the story. In truth, he has carved out a singular stabilizing role in Cameroon's intricate mosaic of identities. The nation grapples with stark divides: the lush equatorial south versus the arid savannah north, the French-speaking majority clashing culturally and linguistically with the English-speaking pockets in the North-West and South-West regions, each carrying distinct educational and institutional legacies.

From the turbulent post-independence era, rife with federalism debates and unity struggles, Biya has positioned himself as an equilibrium point. His cabinets have drawn from a broad tapestry of ethnic, regional, and linguistic threads, fostering a fragile but functional inclusivity. Under duress from bodies like the International Monetary Fund and global lenders, his governments have dodged fiscal cliffs, steadily shoring up the economy in recent years to avoid outright collapse.

Over the last decade, Biya's presence has evolved into something akin to a constitutional monarch - a ceremonial anchor who weighs in on pivotal matters while deferring the daily helm to others. This dynamic thrives on the internal frictions within his ruling Cameroon People's Democratic Movement, or CPDM. As long as Biya holds court, no single faction need vie openly for the throne, postponing the messy question of succession.

Yet that deferral breeds its own chaos. With no anointed heir in sight, and even the party's younger aspirants now graying at the temples, rumors swirl endlessly. Lately, the name Franck Biya - the president's son - surfaces with increasing frequency, though he displays scant appetite for the political fray or bureaucratic trenches.

Cameroon's bounty in natural resources - from oil and timber to minerals and agriculture - belies the litany of hurdles it faces: stuttering development, entrenched poverty, and simmering security threats. Boko Haram incursions in the far north, farmer-herder clashes in the grasslands, and the festering separatist conflict in the anglophone west all demand bold, visible leadership. Biya's reserved demeanor, once a balm for unity, now risks reading as indifference.

Is the public patience finally fraying under this low-profile semi-authoritarianism? Have Cameroonians grown weary of elections that promise pluralism but deliver perpetual incumbency? The anglophone crisis, which erupted in 2016 with protests over perceived marginalization, lays bare the perils of such reticence. Biya's initial sluggishness in addressing the grievances allowed unrest to harden into armed insurgency. By the time he convened a national dialogue and floated concessions, the window for de-escalation had slammed shut, leaving thousands displaced and dead in a cycle of violence that shows no sign of abating.

His 2018 run for a seventh term already pushed the envelope of tolerance, fending off a fierce bid from Maurice Kamto of the Cameroon Renaissance Movement, who official tallies pegged at just 14 percent. Kamto's refusal to concede led to his arrest and over eight months in custody, a stark reminder of the costs of defiance.

This election, though, carried a different charge. Tchiroma Bakary, a northern Muslim and onetime political prisoner who later mended fences with Biya to claim a ministerial portfolio, ignited a spark no challenger had fanned since 1992. That year, John Fru Ndi of the Social Democratic Front nearly toppled the incumbent, pulling 36 percent to Biya's 40. Tchiroma transcended Kamto's narrower base, drawing from a rainbow of voters across regions, including crucial backing in the anglophone strongholds.

In a masterstroke of symbolism and strategy, he journeyed to Bamenda - the bustling heart of English-speaking Cameroon - to own his past complicity in government overreach and seek forgiveness. As result day loomed and arrest fears mounted, he hunkered down in his northern hometown of Garoua, ringed by youthful backers ready to stand guard.

The fallout has been swift and sorrowful. Jubilant opposition crowds, buoyed by whispers of upset, dissolved into fury upon the council's verdict. Reports flooded in of security forces opening fire on demonstrators in Douala, the economic powerhouse on the southern coast. Echoes of gunfire soon reverberated in Garoua, underscoring the razor-edge volatility Biya's unyielding quest has courted.

For a country at the crossroads of Africa's promise and peril, this eighth term exacts a steep toll: eroded trust, amplified divisions, and a leadership vacuum that no amount of electoral arithmetic can fill. As Biya settles into yet another cycle, the real contest may lie not in ballots, but in the hearts of a people pondering how long "never loses" can endure before it becomes "never changes."