When the street speaks louder than the ballot box

ONCE upon a time—not so long ago—the peoples of West Africa lived with hope and deter­mination in a promising regional community: ECOWAS. While the region has endured its share of violent conflicts, the collective re­solve of its leaders helped it stand tall, containing major sources of instability stemming from four key fault lines: the Sahel-Saharan conflict system, the Senegambian zone, the Mano River basin, and the Gulf of Guinea.

Not even the devastation wrought by epidemics like Ebola and COVID-19 could shake the apparent resilience of this com­munity. And though the popular outcry “Don’t Touch My Consti­tution,” first heard in Cotonou in 2005, could not entirely halt the wave of military coups, it suc­ceeded in awakening a new civic consciousness. Since then, citizens have demanded a democracy that is more or less alive, tangible, and accessible.

Between 2000 and 2023, the population of West Africa surged from 250 to 400 million, with over 60 per cent under the age of 25. Despite significant economic progress, youth unemployment hovers around 30 per cent in many countries. According to UNES­CO, only half of all young people access secondary education, and nearly 30 per cent drop out prematurely. The sheer magnitude of young people spontaneously responding to political calls reveals the depth of their frustration and their longing for meaning, inclu­sion, and change.

In recent years, several pivotal events have shaped the political landscape of the region:

1. Four successive coups d’etat in Mali, Guinea, Burkina Faso, and Niger;

2. A peaceful and transparent presidential election in Senegal in 2024;

3. The outbreak of violent pro­tests in Togo.

Across the board, analysts, scholars, political scientists, and regional experts agree:

Africa stands at a crossroads. A new political demand is rising, carried by a generation of emer­gent leaders. These mass move­ments are not mere spontaneous eruptions— they are rooted in longstanding socio-economic disillusionment. The era of empty promises is over. The youth now seek to test the future that has so often been promised to them. They reject a democracy monop­olised by elites and demand its redefinition from the ground up.

In this regard, the issue of term limits has become emblematic: citizens now insist on defining for themselves what democracy should deliver. Yet despite the richness of academic analyses, I often feel they remain too detached—too theoretical, too far from lived reality.

Let us recall the popular enthu­siasm that accompanied the fall of Ibrahim Boubacar Keïta’s regime in Mali. Exhausted by corruption, poor governance, and insecurity, much of the population greeted the end of that era as a form of deliverance. And yet, true to the nature of revolutions, it is rarely those who rise up who end up governing.

The military seized power, and the people applauded: “Let those cursed politicians be gone!”

Some years ago, during a public lecture, I spoke of the striking dichotomy between “the Consti­tution” and “the street.” If public opinion still struggles to determine which should prevail, I believe an even more urgent question arises. In a democracy, the

Constitution governs how indi­viduals or groups come to power; the street, in contrast, demands to know how to remove them. These are two fundamentally opposing logics that force us to ask: are we still operating within a democratic system?

This question is all the more pressing given that, despite na­tional differences, people across the region are voicing remarkably similar aspirations. Consider Senegal’s 2024 presidential elec­tion—praised as the most peaceful in recent memory. Voters lined up calmly, results were widely accept­ed, and yet something was miss­ing. There was no outburst of joy, no public jubilation as one might witness after a football match or a wrestling bout.

Personally, I did not vote that day. But I sensed that this was no ordinary election. For me, it was not the ballot box that spoke, but the street that had finally pushed the ruling regime out—just as it had in Mali, Guinea, Burkina Faso, and Niger.

In these countries, fundamen­tal freedoms are now severely curtailed. Public gatherings are banned, political parties sus­pended, freedom of expression crushed, and arbitrary arrests increasingly common. Even more troubling is the fact that military rulers show little interest in return­ing to democratic governance— despite rapidly deteriorating living conditions and the continuing advance of terrorism.

In Senegal, it feels as though life is on pause. For over a year, major construction projects have stalled, businesses are laying off workers en masse, unemployment has reached alarming levels, and a scarcity of circulating money is disrupting all sectors.

To this is added a troubling uptick in political repression and growing insecurity—now reaching into people’s homes.

Upon deeper reflection, it is clear that a coup d’État is not an election. And yet, in the recent past, both have shared a critical feature: each, in its own way, was a response to a powerful popular demand. Tragically, the aftermaths tend to look much the same.

For these are not the prod­ucts of reasoned choices, but of instinctive rejection of the status quo. And the street—however potent in protest—does not gov­ern. It topples, then retreats, often leaving a vacuum, uncertainty, and sometimes even greater instability.

Once, electoral campaigns were moments of national fervor. Pas­sionate speeches, rhythmic drums, and debates over bold societal visions filled the air. Citizens cast their votes in thoughtful solitude, fully aware of the stakes. Every­one knew what a general assembly meant.

Perhaps, like all great epics, the form of democracy we have known has reached its peak. It now falls to us to imagine what comes next—to rebuild the bro­ken bridge between the people and their institutions, and above all, to restore meaning to a word that has become dangerously hollow: democracy.

The writer is Chairman, PEACE-CONSULT

BY DR GUEYE ABDOU LAT

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