When Colonel Mamadi Doumbouya raised his right hand and took the oath of office as Guinea’s president, the moment was framed by the authorities as the culmination of a necessary transition. The fatigues were gone, replaced by a tailored suit; the language of barracks command softened into the rhetoric of national renewal. Yet for many Guineans and observers across Africa, the ceremony evoked an all-too-familiar script: a military ruler exchanging uniform for civilian title, while retaining the substance of power.
Doumbouya first emerged on the national stage in September 2021, when he led a coup that toppled Alpha Condé, Guinea’s first democratically elected leader. Condé had lost much of his legitimacy after rewriting the constitution to secure a controversial third term, and his removal was met with scenes of jubilation on the streets of Conakry. Doumbouya promised a clean transition, vowing that neither he nor his fellow officers would cling to power.
Those promises have steadily faded. Political parties have been constrained, demonstrations banned, and the timeline for a full return to civilian rule repeatedly blurred. Now sworn in as president without a competitive election, Doumbouya joins a long line of African leaders whose journey from the gun to the ballot has resulted not in democracy, but in decades-long rule.
Africa’s post-independence history is littered with such figures. Egypt’s Abdel Fattah el-Sisi provides one of the starkest examples. After leading the 2013 military overthrow of Mohamed Morsi, Egypt’s first freely elected president, Sisi resigned from the army and won presidential elections that independent observers described as tightly managed. More than a decade later, he remains in power, presiding over mass arrests, silenced opposition and one of the most restrictive political environments in the region.
In Uganda, President Yoweri Museveni came to power in 1986 at the head of a rebel army after a brutal civil conflict. Initially celebrated as part of a “new generation” of African leaders, Museveni later removed term and age limits, enabling him to extend his rule indefinitely. Nearly four decades on, Uganda remains under the leadership of a man whose authority is rooted as much in military loyalty as in electoral consent.
Rwanda’s Paul Kagame followed a similar trajectory. As commander of the Rwandan Patriotic Front, he led the military victory that ended the 1994 genocide. Kagame later assumed the presidency through elections, but constitutional changes and political repression have ensured his continued dominance for more than 30 years. While praised for economic transformation and stability, critics argue that Rwanda’s political system allows no meaningful competition.
In Chad, the late Idriss Déby Itno seized power in a military coup in 1990 and later legitimised his rule through elections that consistently favoured him. Déby remained in office for more than three decades until his death on the battlefield in 2021, after which his son, Mahamat Idriss Déby, assumed power through a military council before organising elections that formalised his succession—deepening accusations of dynastic militarism.
Equatorial Guinea’s Teodoro Obiang Nguema Mbasogo offers one of the longest-running examples. Obiang took power in a 1979 military coup against his uncle and later adopted civilian titles and electoral rituals. More than 45 years on, he remains president, making him the world’s longest-serving head of state. Elections have been widely dismissed as theatrical exercises, while oil wealth has failed to translate into broad-based prosperity.
In Congo-Brazzaville, Denis Sassou Nguesso first came to power through the military in 1979, stepped aside briefly, then returned by force in a 1997 civil war. Subsequent constitutional changes and elections have kept him in office for decades, illustrating how military power can be recycled into nominal civilian rule.
Eritrea’s Isaias Afwerki emerged from a liberation struggle as a military leader and became president upon independence in 1993. The country has never held national elections. Afwerki has ruled for more than 30 years, maintaining a permanent state of militarisation that has driven hundreds of thousands of Eritreans into exile.
Zimbabwe’s Emmerson Mnangagwa, though not a coup leader in the classic sense, was installed in 2017 through a military intervention that removed Robert Mugabe. Mnangagwa subsequently won elections criticised for irregularities and repression, entrenching military influence in civilian politics.
From Togo’s Gnassingbé Eyadéma, who ruled for 38 years after a coup, to Mauritania’s Mohamed Ould Abdel Aziz, who seized power militarily before winning elections and later attempting to extend his influence, the pattern is unmistakable: leaders who arrive through force rarely leave willingly.
Guinea’s transition must be understood against this backdrop. Supporters of Doumbouya argue that elections alone do not guarantee good governance, citing the failures and excesses of Guinea’s past civilian rulers. They are correct that democracy is not merely procedural. But without genuine electoral competition, transparency and accountability, civilian titles become little more than camouflage for authoritarian rule.
Regional and continental institutions have struggled to respond effectively. The African Union and Ecowas have formally rejected coups and imposed sanctions, yet enforcement has been inconsistent. Military rulers have learned that with time, diplomatic fatigue sets in and international pressure softens, especially when security concerns or strategic interests intervene.
The danger is that Guinea’s example further normalises the idea that power seized by force can later be laundered through managed transitions. For young officers watching across the continent, the lesson is perverse: coups may carry short-term costs, but patience and control can eventually deliver international recognition.
Yet Africa’s democratic record is not uniformly bleak. Countries such as Ghana, Senegal, Liberia, Zambia and Benin have demonstrated that leadership change through the ballot box is possible, even in challenging contexts. Peaceful transfers of power have strengthened institutions and legitimacy in ways no military takeover ever has.
For Guinea, the central question is not whether Doumbouya can govern competently, but whether Guineans will be allowed to choose their leaders freely and fairly. That requires opening political space, lifting bans on protests, freeing detained activists and organising elections that the military does not dominate.
History suggests that soldier-presidents rarely volunteer themselves out of power. Many stay for decades, rewrite constitutions, silence critics and mistake initial public relief for permanent consent. Guinea now risks joining that long list.
Doumbouya still has a choice: to break with Africa’s troubled tradition of military-to-civilian entrenchment, or to confirm it. For a continent weary of recycled strongmen and stalled transitions, only one path leads to lasting legitimacy. Power earned through the ballot box may be fragile—but power seized by the gun, no matter how it is later dressed, has proven far more destructive.
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