On December 28, 2025, Guinea will hold its long-anticipated presidential election — a moment many hope will mark the country’s transition from military to civilian rule. After four years under junta leadership following the 2021 coup, this vote has become a defining moment, both politically and symbolically. But whether the election will genuinely deliver a new beginning or simply entrench existing power structures remains a question hanging over the nation.
The coup that brought Colonel Mamady Doumbouya to power in September 2021 was framed as a rescue mission. The military ousted President Alpha Condé, citing corruption, repression, and misgovernance. Back then, the promise was swift — a short transition period, followed by a return to democratic order. Those hopes faded as the timeline extended. What was first projected as a two-year interim became an indefinite hold on electoral politics, marked by a succession of decrees, reshuffles, and tight control over public life. Now, with the junta officially confirming December 2025 as the date for presidential and legislative elections, the country stands on the edge of a high-stakes transition. Yet skepticism is widespread, and for good reason.
The road to this point has been turbulent. In September 2025, Guinea held a constitutional referendum that effectively restructured the political playing field. According to official results, over 89% of voters approved the new constitution, with more than 86% turnout among the country’s 6.7 million registered voters. The changes ratified were far from cosmetic. The revised constitution introduced a new Senate, extended presidential terms from five to seven years, and — critically — removed a clause that barred junta members from standing for office. That change has opened the door for Doumbouya himself to run, though he has yet to formally declare his candidacy.
For supporters of the transition, the referendum was a necessary step — a reset after years of instability. The government claims it provides a legal foundation for democratic governance, balancing executive powers with institutional reforms. For critics, it was a calculated move designed to legitimize the junta’s hold on power under the guise of constitutionalism. Many opposition leaders rejected the process entirely, denouncing it as rushed, opaque, and orchestrated. Some called for a boycott. Others were not given the chance to participate at all.
Over the past year, more than fifty political parties have been suspended or dissolved outright. Prominent figures from Guinea’s past — including Alpha Condé and long-time opposition leader Cellou Dalein Diallo — have seen their political rights revoked or limited. Independent media outlets have faced censorship, and civil society groups have operated under growing pressure. The playing field, in short, is not level. It has been leveled — often quite literally — by the hand of the state.
Guinea’s military leadership, meanwhile, has sought to frame its role as one of guidance, not interference. The establishment of a new electoral body, the Directorate General of Elections (DGE), was presented as a step toward credible administration of the vote. But its composition and independence remain in doubt. Critics argue that the junta continues to control both the means and mechanisms of political competition. And with so many opposition actors sidelined, there are real concerns that voters may have little choice beyond figures aligned with or approved by the ruling elite.
Yet for many Guineans, politics is only part of the equation. The economy looms just as large — and perhaps more urgently. Guinea is often described as a country rich in resources but poor in outcomes. It holds some of the world’s largest reserves of bauxite, the ore used to make aluminum, along with significant deposits of iron, gold, and diamonds. In theory, this mineral wealth could transform the country into a regional powerhouse. In practice, it has made Guinea a textbook example of the resource curse — a nation where natural riches have failed to translate into widespread development.
Mining is the backbone of Guinea’s export economy, but its benefits remain uneven. Contracts with foreign companies have often lacked transparency, and revenue flows are opaque. Infrastructure remains underdeveloped; roads, railways, and ports are frequently bottlenecks rather than enablers of growth. Electricity shortages are common. Rural areas, in particular, are underserved. Schools and clinics lack basic supplies. And across the country, unemployment — especially among young people — remains staggeringly high.
The flagship project meant to change this narrative is Simandou, a massive iron ore deposit in southeastern Guinea. Long delayed and caught in a web of legal disputes, competing interests, and logistical hurdles, Simandou is finally being developed under the current government’s watch. The junta has made it a centerpiece of its economic plan, touting promises of jobs, infrastructure, and national pride. Whether these promises materialize remains to be seen — but what’s clear is that the project has geopolitical weight. China, Australia, and multinational firms all have a stake, and Simandou’s success or failure could shape Guinea’s economic trajectory for decades.
Still, structural problems persist. Inflation, driven in part by global food and energy prices, has pushed the cost of living beyond the reach of many Guineans. Basic goods have become more expensive. Meanwhile, state spending is stretched thin. The military has absorbed a large portion of the national budget, leaving limited room for investment in health, education, or agriculture. Debt levels are rising, and international aid remains conditional on political developments. Guinea’s donors and creditors are watching closely — but waiting to see if the December election changes the country’s credibility.
As the campaign season begins, several scenarios are in play. The most likely, say many observers, is a managed victory: a well-organized election, complete with visible polling stations, voter queues, and televised results — but where the outcome is largely predetermined. In this scenario, Doumbouya or a proxy candidate from his circle would win decisively, using the referendum and new legal structures as a legitimizing shield. International actors might issue cautious statements praising the peaceful conduct, while reserving judgment on fairness.
A more optimistic — but less probable — scenario would involve a competitive race. If remaining opposition forces manage to mobilize effectively, particularly through social media or diaspora networks, they could potentially galvanize enough support to mount a challenge. But this would require unprecedented coordination, a secure space for organizing, and a willingness by the government to allow genuine pluralism. Few see those conditions in place today.
The riskiest scenario is one of confrontation. If the election is perceived as fraudulent, or if voter suppression, manipulation, or violence occur, the result could be mass protests, political paralysis, or worse. The memory of past unrest — including deaths during protests in 2020 and 2021 — still lingers. Security forces have shown little tolerance for dissent, and the current government has a track record of swift crackdowns.
Much also depends on international pressure, or the lack of it. Regional bodies like ECOWAS have been vocal about the need for a return to constitutional order, but their influence has been inconsistent. Recent coups in neighboring Mali, Burkina Faso, and Niger have tested the bloc’s ability to enforce democratic norms. Guinea could set a precedent — either reinforcing the idea that military regimes can convert themselves into electoral governments, or demonstrating that pressure and oversight can still guide transitions toward openness.
Beyond politics and international diplomacy, there is a simpler, more urgent question: what do Guineans want? For many, the answer is not abstract. It’s not about constitutions or court rulings or institutional frameworks. It’s about jobs, schools, healthcare, roads, and the ability to live without fear or want. In markets from Conakry to Kankan, in towns and rural villages, the mood is a mix of exhaustion and guarded hope. People are tired of instability. They want an end to the cycle of coups, strongmen, and broken promises.
Whether the election can deliver that will depend not only on who wins, but on how the process unfolds. Transparency, access, and inclusion will be critical. Independent monitors, international observers, and civil society actors must be allowed to do their work without obstruction. The media must be free to report. Candidates — real candidates — must be allowed to campaign, debate, and speak to the public.
And perhaps most importantly, those in power must be willing to accept a result they don’t control.
This is the true test of democracy. Not the casting of ballots, but the willingness of a regime to concede power if the people choose someone else. Guinea has never had a peaceful, uncontested transfer of power from one elected president to another. In many ways, that’s the threshold the country now faces.
The world is watching, but so are Guineans. And their judgment will not be based on official turnout numbers or international praise. It will be measured in the months and years that follow, in whether their voices were truly heard — or merely recorded.
December 28, 2025, is the date on the calendar. But the more important date is the one after: when the ballots have been counted, the power maps redrawn, and the hard work of governing — or resisting — begins. Guinea stands on the cusp of something. Whether it is renewal or repetition, democracy or disguise, will soon be known.
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