It was a scene that will be etched into the history of not only Botswana politics, but the African continent.
Indeed in the dramatic, almost surreal moment of transition that took place in the heart of the country's seat of power, former president Mokgweetsi Masisi on Monday handed over the keys of government, literally, to his successor, President Duma Boko.
For the few journalists who were privileged to witness this transfer of power, it was not just a handover of office; it was the passing of a torch in Botswana’s democracy – a moment when one man, having once wielded the highest power, apparently willingly relinquished it to another.
It all began just before Botswana’s Chief Justice, Terence Rannowane, officially declared that the Umbrella for Democratic Change (UDC) had crossed the critical 31-seat threshold needed to secure the right to form a government. Before the announcement, Masisi hosted a press conference, acknowledging the results and wishing his successor, Boko, good luck in his new role.
The former president’s voice was calm but full of disappointment. It was official. Mokgweetsi Masisi, the man who had once been Botswana’s most powerful figure, was now a former president.
Arriving at the Presidential Office this week, Masisi came alone, a stark contrast to the usual entourage of aides, advisors, and security personnel that once flanked him.
The scene was a quiet one. No grand motorcades, no flashing lights from police cars, just two vehicles, the opposite of what was the norm. This was the first signal of the moment of transition.
The building itself was a security nightmare. Two levels up, the rules grew even stricter: cellphones were prohibited beyond that point, leaving only large professional cameras allowed. This, of course, meant that my only tool for recording this historic moment was rendered useless.
Inside, the President’s office was unexpectedly ordinary; no designer desks or walls. Just three desks, each serving its purpose in a business-like environment, one for meetings, a small lounger and the other smaller table for coffee, well so Masisi said.
But there was something undeniably captivating about the President's desk, which commanded my attention.
The deep brown wood took most of the office space and on it, there were three telephones and an old radio. According to Masisi, the radio had been his constant companion, tuned to parliamentary debates when he could not attend in person.
But it was the red telephone that caught my eye. Masisi leaned in and explained its significance. It was the red line—a line dedicated to high-level, secure communications. A line that, as the colour suggested, could never be intercepted. The kind of line that mattered in times of national crisis, or moments of delicate diplomacy.
I wondered about the types of conversations that had been held on that phone. A fly on the wall, I would have wanted to be. The room seemed to hold its breath as the photographers’ cameras captured the moments.
Masisi, now stepping aside as the former president, took Boko on a quiet tour of the office. There was a hanger, and behind it, a secret doorway, Masisi’s eyes filled with a knowing glance. “I cannot disclose that,” he said out of caution in his voice.
“For reasons of security.”
It was the kind of moment that could stir the imagination, stoking visions of hidden chambers or secret operations. However, the former president was careful not to give too much away.
That doorway is more than just a passage, it holds the secrets, the weight, and the responsibility that comes with the highest office.
My eyes were on the chair, the President’s chair that Boko immediately sat on for the first time and in the next five years, a dream he had been waiting for the last 10 years. A black, comfortable seat, adorned with the national coat of arms. It looked imposing yet simple, a visual representation of the power it holds.
Masisi sat in front of it, as he passed on the office to another regime.
"I don’t need to remind you of the power you now hold," Masisi told the President. Boko, who had remained mostly quiet throughout the entire handover. The new president finally responded, "Oh, okay,” his smile betraying his fatigued expression.
For Masisi, it was hard to pick what emotions played out behind his composed figure. Just days ago, he had been the most powerful man in Botswana. Today he stood in that very office, handing over the reins to a man who had once been his political rival.
What did he feel in that moment? Was there a tinge of regret, or perhaps a flicker of pride in knowing that Botswana’s democracy was playing out for the world to see? Only Masisi knows the true answer.
In the end, the office itself, the place where history is made, where decisions of national importance are crafted, was not extraordinary. There were no over-the-top displays of wealth or power. It was, as many would later observe, rather simple.
I have seen more extravagant offices of CEOs; but here the furnishings and the decor were all a reflection of Masisi’s style. Time will only tell if the new President will infuse his flamboyance, as he is known to be, into the space, or if he will, like Masisi, choose to keep things simple yet yield so much power.
For the few journalists who were privileged to witness this transfer of power, it was not just a handover of office; it was the passing of a torch in Botswana’s democracy – a moment when one man, having once wielded the highest power, apparently willingly relinquished it to another.
It all began just before Botswana’s Chief Justice, Terence Rannowane, officially declared that the Umbrella for Democratic Change (UDC) had crossed the critical 31-seat threshold needed to secure the right to form a government. Before the announcement, Masisi hosted a press conference, acknowledging the results and wishing his successor, Boko, good luck in his new role.
The former president’s voice was calm but full of disappointment. It was official. Mokgweetsi Masisi, the man who had once been Botswana’s most powerful figure, was now a former president.
Arriving at the Presidential Office this week, Masisi came alone, a stark contrast to the usual entourage of aides, advisors, and security personnel that once flanked him.
The scene was a quiet one. No grand motorcades, no flashing lights from police cars, just two vehicles, the opposite of what was the norm. This was the first signal of the moment of transition.
The building itself was a security nightmare. Two levels up, the rules grew even stricter: cellphones were prohibited beyond that point, leaving only large professional cameras allowed. This, of course, meant that my only tool for recording this historic moment was rendered useless.
Inside, the President’s office was unexpectedly ordinary; no designer desks or walls. Just three desks, each serving its purpose in a business-like environment, one for meetings, a small lounger and the other smaller table for coffee, well so Masisi said.
But there was something undeniably captivating about the President's desk, which commanded my attention.
The deep brown wood took most of the office space and on it, there were three telephones and an old radio. According to Masisi, the radio had been his constant companion, tuned to parliamentary debates when he could not attend in person.
But it was the red telephone that caught my eye. Masisi leaned in and explained its significance. It was the red line—a line dedicated to high-level, secure communications. A line that, as the colour suggested, could never be intercepted. The kind of line that mattered in times of national crisis, or moments of delicate diplomacy.
I wondered about the types of conversations that had been held on that phone. A fly on the wall, I would have wanted to be. The room seemed to hold its breath as the photographers’ cameras captured the moments.
Masisi, now stepping aside as the former president, took Boko on a quiet tour of the office. There was a hanger, and behind it, a secret doorway, Masisi’s eyes filled with a knowing glance. “I cannot disclose that,” he said out of caution in his voice.
“For reasons of security.”
It was the kind of moment that could stir the imagination, stoking visions of hidden chambers or secret operations. However, the former president was careful not to give too much away.
That doorway is more than just a passage, it holds the secrets, the weight, and the responsibility that comes with the highest office.
My eyes were on the chair, the President’s chair that Boko immediately sat on for the first time and in the next five years, a dream he had been waiting for the last 10 years. A black, comfortable seat, adorned with the national coat of arms. It looked imposing yet simple, a visual representation of the power it holds.
Masisi sat in front of it, as he passed on the office to another regime.
"I don’t need to remind you of the power you now hold," Masisi told the President. Boko, who had remained mostly quiet throughout the entire handover. The new president finally responded, "Oh, okay,” his smile betraying his fatigued expression.
For Masisi, it was hard to pick what emotions played out behind his composed figure. Just days ago, he had been the most powerful man in Botswana. Today he stood in that very office, handing over the reins to a man who had once been his political rival.
What did he feel in that moment? Was there a tinge of regret, or perhaps a flicker of pride in knowing that Botswana’s democracy was playing out for the world to see? Only Masisi knows the true answer.
In the end, the office itself, the place where history is made, where decisions of national importance are crafted, was not extraordinary. There were no over-the-top displays of wealth or power. It was, as many would later observe, rather simple.
I have seen more extravagant offices of CEOs; but here the furnishings and the decor were all a reflection of Masisi’s style. Time will only tell if the new President will infuse his flamboyance, as he is known to be, into the space, or if he will, like Masisi, choose to keep things simple yet yield so much power.
