By Jide Adesina | 1stAfrika
In Cameroon’s ever-unfolding political theatre, the stage for the 12 October presidential election has been set, and with it, an old storyline dressed in new garments. The country’s constitutional council has upheld the electoral body’s decision to exclude opposition leader Maurice Kamto from the race—an exclusion that has rippled through the political space like a tremor, shaking the faith of many who believed this year’s contest might break the mould of the past four decades. The decision not only sidelines one of President Paul Biya’s most formidable challengers from the previous election, but it also reinforces the sense of inevitability that has clung to Biya’s rule since he took office in 1982.
Biya, now 92 years old, is already the world’s oldest serving head of state. His candidacy faced its own share of opposition and calls for a graceful exit from public life, but the council’s ruling cleared him to run for what would be his eighth consecutive term. Should he win again—as many analysts predict—he could remain in office until the cusp of his 100th birthday, presiding over an oil-rich Central African nation that has known no other political reality for nearly half a century.
Kamto’s disqualification was pinned to an internal squabble within the Manidem party, whose rival faction presented a different candidate to the electoral body. While such disputes are often framed as procedural or legal matters, Kamto’s lawyers have been quick to label the move political—a deliberate act to erase from the ballot a man who, in 2018, forced Biya into the tightest electoral margin of his long career. Across the streets of Yaoundé, Douala, and in Cameroonian communities abroad, Kamto’s exclusion is read less as a quirk of party politics and more as a symptom of the entrenched power games that have long defined the nation’s electoral landscape.
Of the 83 hopefuls who submitted candidacies, only 12 have been approved. The electoral commission’s reasons for trimming the list range from incomplete documentation to failure to pay deposits, to multiple candidates from the same party. But beyond the bureaucratic justifications, what emerges is a smaller field dominated by figures whose histories, alliances, and political identities are inextricably tied to the Biya era.
The list is a familiar gallery. Biya himself stands tall, cloaked in the legacy of an unbroken electoral record since the reintroduction of multi-party politics in 1990—victories consistently shadowed by allegations of rigging, which his party, the CPDM, has repeatedly denied. His eighth-term promise focuses on the wellbeing of women and young people, but critics point to decades of similar pledges that have done little to stem poverty, youth unemployment, and rural underdevelopment.
Then there are the northern heavyweights—Bello Bouba Maigari and Issa Tchiroma Bakary—both seasoned politicians who have, at different times, been pivotal to Biya’s electoral successes. Maigari, a former prime minister and until recently Minister of State for Tourism, finally broke from Biya after decades of collaboration, declaring himself a candidate. Similarly, Tchiroma, once Minister of Employment and Vocational Training, resigned to mount his own challenge, vowing to dismantle what he calls a “suffocating” system. Yet their years in Biya’s government remain a double-edged sword, lending them both experience and a credibility problem with voters hungry for genuine change.
Cabral Libii, the youthful parliamentarian who took third place in 2018, returns for another shot. Once dismissed as a political newcomer, Libii has since built a base, securing parliamentary seats and municipal councils. His rise is viewed by some as a sign of generational renewal, though others question whether his political vision is sufficiently clear to rally a broad coalition. Akere Muna, the anti-corruption lawyer with deep family roots in Cameroon’s political history, enters the race with a five-year plan to tackle governance rot. His reputation on the international stage lends weight to his candidacy, but whether that translates into grassroots momentum remains uncertain. Joshua Osih of the SDF, now at the helm of a diminished opposition party once led by the legendary John Fru Ndi, also makes his second bid, campaigning on promises of social and institutional reform.
In this jostling field, Kamto’s absence looms large. His supporters—many within the diaspora—see him as the figure who, if not the sole challenger capable of unseating Biya, could at least galvanise the fractured opposition into a coherent force. His disqualification has renewed calls for opposition unity, a theme that has haunted Cameroonian politics for decades. The closest the opposition ever came to unseating Biya was in 1992, when John Fru Ndi, backed by the Union for Change coalition, secured 36% against Biya’s 40%—a result hotly contested but ultimately upheld. That fleeting moment of near-victory remains an emblem of what could be achieved if opposition leaders could set aside personal ambitions for collective strategy.
Today, such unity appears as elusive as ever. Meetings, such as the recent gathering in Foumban, suggest that discussions on a “consensual candidate” are underway, with criteria including bilingualism, flexibility, and the ability to mobilise. Yet the history of Cameroonian elections is littered with similar talks that dissolve under the weight of ego and political mistrust. Civil society voices warn that failure to unite may seal the opposition’s fate for another seven years, perhaps ending the political relevance of some of its key figures altogether.
For Biya, the machinery of incumbency remains formidable control of state institutions, a loyal party structure, and an intimate knowledge of the levers of power accumulated over four decades. For his rivals, the challenge is not simply to beat him at the ballot box, but to overcome a political environment shaped to his advantage.
As the October election approaches, the streets of Cameroon buzz with speculation, resignation, and flashes of hope. In the markets of Douala, the cafes of Yaoundé, and the dusty village squares of the North and West, conversations turn on the same question: Can this year be different? The answer, as always, will depend not just on the votes cast, but on the courage—or lack thereof—of a divided opposition to present a united front. And in that delicate balance, the destiny of nearly 30 million Cameroonians hangs.
