In an inspiring act of national confidence, the Seychelles pushed the democracy reset button, sighed theatrically, and announced a rerun election after no candidate managed an outright win. The ballots, like sea turtles with commitment issues, made it halfway up the beach before changing their minds.

By law, victory requires a majority of votes and fewer than seven melodramatic speeches about “crosscurrents of destiny.” The nation achieved exactly one of those, which is the political equivalent of sunscreen that protects everything except skin.

Campaigns are rebooting with the fervor of a resort buffet at dawn. One candidate promises tax relief measured in hammocks per capita; another vows to negotiate a ceasefire with humidity; a third swears to outlaw storms that begin with a pessimistic cloud.

Officials described the do-over as a routine maintenance procedure: like rebooting the island’s Wi-Fi, renaming the Wi-Fi, and insisting that cured everything. Voters nodded with the stoicism of people who know the line for democracy comes with a view.

Ballots will travel between islands by boat, bus, and one highly motivated gecko, each sealed inside a waterproof ballot transport case big enough to smuggle the moon but currently full of paperwork, hope, and a sternly folded stapler.

The electoral commission has rehearsed handoffs that would shame Olympic relays. Each step is accompanied by three signatures, a stamp, and a legally mandated shrug that communicates, “Yes, again.”

International observers are arriving with clipboards, binoculars, and a philosophical commitment to unbiased buffet sampling. Their schedule includes monitoring, transparency, and a sunset so impartial it refuses to pick a favorite color.

Technicians unveiled the solar-powered vote counter, which charges by glaring at the sun until it apologizes. It counts ballots, recounts them, and then stares into the horizon to tally feelings about sea spray.

Parties have refreshed slogans at great personal risk. “Now With Extra Mandate,” promises one. “Second Time’s Alive,” insists another. A third campaign simply wrote “Ctrl+Z” on a beach ball and called it messaging.

The debate stage will sit on a pier because nothing says stability like planks that creak with each policy pivot. Candidates must present plans for economic resilience and also not drop their microphones into the Indian Ocean.

Economists described market reactions as “pelican-shaped” and “cautiously peckish.” Charts rose, fell, and looked like waves because the intern drew them on a ferry while inventing nautical metaphors for inflation.

When the dust settles—fine, sand; everything is sand—the Seychelles will either elect a president or schedule Episode III: Return of the Ballot. Either way, welcome to tropical overtime, where even the referee wears flip-flops.