A man is judged at the height of his power, so they say. I believe rather that he is judged by his fall. The victor is surrounded, flattered, shielded by honours. The vanquished, for his part, finds himself alone with himself, with no microphone, no entourage, nothing to hand out. That is when the mask falls.

Let us look at what has become of most of the unsuccessful candidates. Some contest a verdict they had nonetheless signed up to in advance by entering the race. Others rushed, looking contrite, to knock on the winner’s door for a minor seat, forgetting the anathemas of the day before. Others still have shut themselves away in bitterness, brooding over their failure as a personal affront inflicted by the People. Very few have known how to withdraw with dignity, or to carry on serving without demanding a salary.

The most striking thing is not the defeat, but what it reveals: personalities of lesser substance. Men who spoke of the Nation as a destiny, and who in reality had only an ambition. Convictions proclaimed with solemnity, abandoned at the first contrary wind. Words without weight, adjusting to circumstances instead of mastering them.

And the lesson goes beyond individuals. If these candidates are the ones the system allowed to stand, then its filters, its funding and its parties also manufacture mediocrity. And if the voter looks only at the promise of the day, never at the consistency of a whole life, he is complicit in the choice he deplores.

There remains an uncomfortable question. If the one we elected had lost, what would have become of him? Would he have accepted the verdict, or cried fraud? Would he have left, or gone begging? We shall never know, and therein lies the danger. Victory spares one from being judged on one’s fall. It makes it impossible to know whether the elected man has substance or whether success stands in for it. Defeat shows the man; power, for its part, dresses him up. Hence this rule of prudence: never judge a candidate by what he promises to do once elected, but by what he has already done when he had nothing to gain.

But what of the one who has never managed anything, neither people nor resources? Can he make a good president? It is possible, but the gamble is riskier. Governing means arbitrating between scarce resources, holding a team together, deciding under pressure and taking responsibility for the consequences. The novice learns this trade at the country’s expense. Yet experience is no guarantee: we have seen seasoned managers plunder their administrations, and beginners surround themselves with the right skills and succeed. What counts is what experience proves, not experience itself.

Failing the ability to measure it, one can look for what takes its place. First, a verifiable track record: what the man has done in an association, a trade union, a business or a village, when no one was watching. Next, his relationship with other people’s money: rigour, transparency, the absence of grey areas regarding his own assets. Then his entourage, the most reliable sign of all: does he surround himself with people more competent than himself, or with courtiers who applaud him? There is also the consistency of his word, including when it costs him. There is his programme, which must say who pays, with what budget and over what timescale, for anyone who cannot say no, nor what a promise costs, will not be able to arbitrate once in power. Finally, there is the way he deals with contradiction and failure: does he listen, does he acknowledge his mistakes?

None of these signs guarantees anything. But together they sketch out a character, and an inexperienced candidate who displays almost all of them is a better bet than a former minister whose word is elastic.

So, what president are we electing?

Perhaps the one we deserve: the best of the candidates from an impoverished field. The real question lies elsewhere: what are we doing so that people of substance dare to stand, and so that we know how to recognise them before the vote rather than after the defeat?

Moustapha DIAO