On the surface, the countdown to December’s presidential election in Guinea appears to mark a long-awaited return to democracy. But beneath that glossy promise lies a much darker reality — a carefully choreographed performance in which the script, cast, and outcome all seem written in advance. The man at the center of it all is General Mamady Doumbouya, the 45-year-old soldier who toppled President Alpha Condé in 2021 and now seeks to crown himself at the ballot box.
Guinea’s Supreme Court has unveiled a provisional list of nine candidates for next month’s vote. Among them is Doumbouya himself, the once-self-styled savior who promised to return power to civilians after “liberating” the country from Condé’s controversial third term. Four years later, that pledge has faded into history. The general’s candidacy, once unthinkable, is now not only possible but perfectly legal — thanks to a tailor-made constitution he pushed through in September’s referendum.
That referendum, trumpeted as the will of the people, quietly redrew Guinea’s political landscape. It extended presidential terms from five to seven years, allowed military figures to run for office, and concentrated executive powers in ways that critics say border on monarchical. Official results claimed near-total voter approval, but opposition groups were suspended, critics silenced, and dissenting voices excluded from the campaign. The new rules were less about national renewal than about clearing the runway for Doumbouya’s political takeoff.
The court’s candidate list reinforces the pattern. Former prime minister Lansana Kouyaté and former minister Ousmane Kaba — both vocal critics of the junta — have been barred from standing on “technical grounds.” Kouyaté has vowed to appeal, though few expect success. Only a handful of opposition figures, including Faya Millimono and Aboulaye Yero Baldé, made it through the administrative maze. For many Guineans, it feels less like a democratic opening than a narrowing corridor leading to a single door marked “Doumbouya.”
The symbolism is unmistakable. The soldier who once stormed the palace to end an overstay in power is now asking voters to grant him what he took by force — legitimacy. For his supporters, this election is a logical next step, a way to stabilize the country and attract foreign investment after years of turbulence. For his critics, it is the final act of a slow-motion coup, cloaked in the rituals of democracy but emptied of its meaning.
The numbers speak volumes. The candidate registration fee stands at nearly $100,000 — a sum that effectively blocks smaller parties from entering the race. Several major opposition movements remain suspended, their leaders in exile or under investigation. State media coverage overwhelmingly favors the junta’s narrative of “renewal and security,” while independent journalists face growing restrictions. It is an election in form, but not in spirit — a contest where the referee, the rulebook, and even the playing field are all controlled by the same team.
For Doumbouya, the stakes are existential. Victory in December would not only grant him the presidency but also rewrite his legacy. Instead of a coup leader, he would become an elected head of state — the architect of a “new republic.” The new constitution grants him up to two seven-year terms, potentially extending his rule well into the late 2030s. Add the four years he has already spent in power, and Guinea could be looking at nearly two decades under his command.
Yet the risks of this political metamorphosis are enormous. Guinea sits atop some of the world’s largest bauxite reserves, but its wealth has long fueled corruption and resentment rather than prosperity. Doumbouya’s government has courted Russian, Chinese, and Emirati investment while keeping a wary distance from Western powers and the regional bloc ECOWAS, whose patience with military regimes is wearing thin. If the December vote is seen as a sham, sanctions and isolation could follow, further straining an already fragile economy.
Across West Africa, the pattern feels painfully familiar. From Mali to Niger to Burkina Faso, soldiers have stepped into power promising “transitions” only to tighten their grip once inside the palace gates. Each new coup began as a rejection of corrupt civilian elites, only to morph into a militarized status quo — polished, disciplined, and unyielding. Guinea now stands at that same crossroads: will the general’s election be the end of an era, or the beginning of a much longer reign?
On the streets of Conakry, the mood is tense but weary. Many Guineans, battered by decades of broken promises, express cautious pragmatism. “Maybe the general will bring order,” says a market trader in Kaloum. “But we have heard these words before.” The opposition, fragmented and demoralized, warns that without genuine competition, the election could ignite new unrest. Ethnic tensions, particularly between the Malinké and Fula communities, simmer just beneath the surface.
Everything now hinges on perception — not only among Guineans but among international observers. Will the world see this as progress or pretense? A fair vote could mark a rare peaceful transition in a region defined by upheaval. A rigged one could turn Guinea into another cautionary tale, where the language of democracy conceals the permanence of power.
As December approaches, one thing is certain: General Mamady Doumbouya has played the long game brilliantly. He seized power with a rifle, rewrote the rules with a pen, and now seeks to seal his authority with a ballot. What began as a coup may soon end as a coronation. And if the general succeeds, the history books of West Africa may record not just the rise of yet another soldier-turned-president — but the moment when the coup became the constitution.
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