The Cameroonians gathered at the airport expected to witness the customary scene: the seasoned president stepping onto the tarmac, greeting the Etoudi Palace elite with firm handshakes. What they received instead was a solitary hand, briefly visible through the tinted window of the presidential limousine. A gesture that speaks volumes in the language of power.

In politics, a hand holds four distinct meanings. The first strikes—the hand that kills. The second deceives—the hand that cheats. The third blesses—the hand that sanctifies. The fourth governs—the hand that decides.

First degree: the hand that kills

In ancient Rome, the emperor’s hand determined life or death in the arena. A thumbs-up spared the gladiator; a thumbs-down sealed his fate. Yet in Yaoundé on August 20, the roles reversed. No longer did the emperor’s gesture seal destinies—now, it was the gladiator’s hand that had to prove he was still alive. The Cameroonians saw Biya’s hand wave at them. A silent confirmation that he had returned unharmed.

Second degree: the hand that cheats

When legs falter, the hand steps in to deceive. Recall Diego Maradona’s infamous 1986 goal against England, where he punched the ball into the net and called it the “Hand of God.” Everyone saw the trick—but the referee validated it. Similarly, on that Thursday, everyone saw only one hand emerge from the limousine. Yet the CRTV, Cameroon’s national broadcaster with its 200-strong team covering the procession, declared the miracle valid.

Third degree: the hand that blesses

Throughout history, power has emanated from the hand. Priests impose hands, popes bless Urbi et Orbi, kings are anointed through sacred touch. Once consecrated, the hand becomes a relic. On August 20, however, the ritual was inverted. A relic-hand emerged through tinted glass, paraded like a sacred shrine on feast days, to sustain the illusion of continuity among the faithful.

Fourth degree: the hand that governs

Finally, the hand that signs. For 74 days—aboard his Swiss sojourn—the nation was assured that the state remained operational. Why? Because the hand signed. Decrees, appointments, laws—Cameroon’s machinery kept turning, even without its leader’s physical presence. This aligns with the most archaic legal definition of power: manus, the hand in Latin. Manus embodies authority. Today, there are no speeches, no bodily presence, no ceremonial walks down the tarmac. Only the signature and the wave remain. The hand that signs and the hand that salutes.

In Rome, the hand decided life or death. In the church, it blessed or damned. In Yaoundé, it simply affirmed that the one wielding it still held the reins. After forty-three years at the helm, Cameroonians may now have to accept that their nation is governed by an absent presence—one that governs through a hand alone. As Cameroonian journalist Marie Roger Biloa bluntly puts it: “Cameroon must prepare for the definitive disappearance of a president who is already absent in fact.”