Political Transitions

This is the first half of a two-part interview conducted by Nolan Quinn, a research associate for the Council on Foreign Relations’ Africa Program, and reviewed by Ralph Bunche Senior Fellow John Campbell. The interview was held on March 19, 2021—the day after Tanzania President John Magufuli’s death was announced. The second half will be posted in the coming days. Mr. Lissu has confirmed as accurate the quotes attributed to him in this post. “Well, we are not trying to overthrow the government, are we? No? Right, so let’s do it on the record.” -- Tundu Lissu Tundu Lissu, a Tanzanian opposition leader, does not aim to overthrow the government, but he nonetheless has big goals for his home country. Following the death of Tanzania’s authoritarian President John Magufuli, an avowed COVID-19 skeptic who likely died of the disease, Lissu plans to return to Tanzania to fight for democratic progress in a country that has experienced rapid democratic backsliding in the last five years. “President Magufuli’s passing gives us an opportunity to return to the status quo ante. And I won’t stand for anything less.” Lissu, a member of the opposition Chama cha Demokrasia na Maendeleo (the Party for Democracy and Progress, CHADEMA), has spent his political career, which includes a ten-year stint in parliament, fighting for a more accountable polity in sub-Saharan Africa’s fourth most populous country. And it nearly cost him his life. In September 2017, he was shot sixteen times in what is widely seen as an assassination attempt orchestrated by the Magufuli government. But Lissu survived. And three years and more than twenty operations later, he returned to Tanzania from Belgium last year, where he had been seeking medical care, to contest the presidential election held in October. After attracting huge crowds as he toured the country to campaign, he was defeated in a contest marred by intimidation and fraud, handing Magufuli another five years in office and forcing Lissu back into exile. But following the president’s untimely demise, Lissu is plotting his return. Asked whether his plans upon returning to Tanzania are more in line with activism or a re-entry into politics, his response was simple: “Is there a difference?” Removing the Velvet Glove In a previous interview with the Africa Report, Lissu said that while it was “very easy to point an accusing finger at Magufuli,” the former president also had “not changed a single provision of the constitution, and those powers were created by Mwalimu Julius Kambarage Nyerere,” Tanzania’s revered first president. Hence, talk of a return to the status quo ante seemed, at first, insufficient. “Tanzania has always been authoritarian and violent,” Lissu explained. “There is continuity from the colonial to the post-colonial government. Both have lacked accountability and did not care about rights.” “But what Magufuli did is he removed the velvet glove from the iron fist that has always been the Tanzanian state. He turned the security services above and beyond just the opposition.” And, by using the organs of the state to take aim at civil society, musicians, and private citizens, Lissu thinks, counterintuitively, that Magufuli created an opening for more lasting—and positive—political change. “Magufuli squandered his political capital with his ruthlessness. The Magufuli project was over. And then, even before he died, COVID had finished him politically.” And now, after five years of the president’s “reign of terror,” Lissu sees a growing consensus that “the only way to prevent another Magufuli is a new constitutional and political order.” Reforming the Constitution “Tanzania has needed a new constitutional order for a long time,” according to Lissu, “and the introduction of multi-party democracy in 1992 made calls for reform louder, but not many people took reformers seriously.” This was due, in part, to the perception among many Tanzanians and donors that despite the dominance of the ruling Chama cha Mapinduzi (the Party of the Revolution, CCM)—the party has, in one form or another, been in power since independence in 1961—Tanzania had continued to democratize under Magufuli’s predecessors, President Benjamin Mkapa (1995-2005) and President Jakaya Kikwete (2005-2015). After Magufuli, however, “the case for a new constitution is unanswerable.” Lissu believes that even Kikwete, who he accuses of torpedoing the constitutional reform process in 2014, along with the faction within CCM that aligns closely to him would now support a new constitution. Asked what needed to be changed, Lissu answered that, first and foremost, a new Tanzanian constitution should do away with “the imperial presidency put into place by Julius Kambarage Nyerere.” The “presidentialism” enshrined in the constitution should be abolished, Lissu said, as “giving enormous power to one person is dangerous in unstable societies,” as Magufuli so brutally demonstrated. “Do we need a president that has the power to appoint officials all the way down to the district level?” Lissu asked rhetorically. He argued that Tanzania needs to “devolve and decentralize” power closer to where it is exercised, thus helping build “accountability from the bottom.” Asked what a better system of government would look like in Tanzania, Lissu said that Tanzania should opt for a parliamentary democracy in which “parliament is the true center of power and the head of state is answerable every day to parliament.” “The 1961 constitution gave us parliamentary democracy,” Lissu continued, “but it lacked a bill of rights.” Since the bill of rights was incorporated into the constitution in 1984, Lissu argues that “a parliamentary democracy now would be on a different plane than 1961.” Lissu cares little about whether the head of state will retain the title of president. More important, he says, is function. “In South Africa, they have a president, but he can still face a vote of no confidence just like the prime minister in London. Impeachment is impossible politically. We saw that even in the United States with Donald Trump. Impeachment is not a sufficient check on the power of the president.” Beyond abolishing the imperial presidency, Lissu also sees need for a revisiting of the relationship between Zanzibar, the semi-autonomous archipelago that merged with the mainland—then known as Tanganyika—in 1964. “I feel more strongly about the question of Zanzibar than even many Zanzibari nationalists,” Lissu suggested. “The 1964 Zanzibar Revolution was a coup funded, armed, and supported by mainland Tanganyika to overthrow the legitimate government of Zanzibar. The only way to maintain the Union since then has been through violence,” illustrated most recently when at least nine people were shot dead by police in Zanzibar in the run-up to the October elections. Lissu, objecting to CCM’s use of force to control Zanzibar, said he supports Zanzibari calls for independence. “Since 1984,” when changes to the Zanzibar Constitution further extended CCM’s influence over the islands’ politics, “there have been calls for a looser union which have not diminished.” Lissu pointed out that many mainland Tanzanians dismiss these calls outright, on the view that accepting a looser union is merely a halfway point to independence—and he agrees. But “it is up to Zanzibaris to decide whether they want to remain in the union and, if so, under what arrangement.” This publication is part of the Diamonstein-Spielvogel Project on the Future of Democracy.

Nigerien President Mahamadou Issoufou, set to step down after two terms in office, was last week awarded the Ibrahim Prize for Achievement in African Leadership. The chair of the Mo Ibrahim Prize Committee, Festus Mogae, a former president of Botswana and himself a recipient of the prize, said that Issoufou had "led his people on a path of progress." The committee noted that Issoufou had faced "severe political and economic issues." Niger in the best of times is one of the poorest countries in the world, facing recurrent, severe drought. It has been buffeted by jihadi terrorism, a host of economic issues, and COVID-19. Unlike many other African presidents, Issoufou did not try to remain in office beyond his constitutionally mandated two terms by amending the constitution or pursuing other extralegal means. The prize committee, in addition to Chairman Mogae, is luminous. The committee’s members are Graca Machel, former first lady of both Mozambique and South Africa; Aïcha Bah Diallo, human-and-women's rights activist from Guinea; Mohamed ElBaradei, Egyptian diplomat and former head of the International Atomic Energy Agency; Horst Köhler, former president of Germany; and Mary Robinson, former president of Ireland. Former members include Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala, now the head of the World Trade Organization, and former UN Secretary-General Kofi Annan. Mo Ibrahim, an Anglo-Sudanese billionaire, established the Ibrahim Prize in 2006 to promote good governance. Considered the world’s largest cash prize, award recipients are given $5 million over ten years, followed by $200,000 a year for life. Recipients can also apply for an additional $200,000 per year for their own philanthropy. Hence, the prize frees recipients from the pecuniary concerns that might otherwise encourage them to remain in office after their terms expire. Since its establishment, the prize has been awarded only six times. The five recipients preceding this year's were Joaquim Chissano (Mozambique) in 2007; Festus Mogae (Botswana) in 2008; Pedro Pires (Cape Verde) in 2011; Hifikepunye Pohamba (Namibia) in 2014; and Ellen Johnson Sirleaf (Liberia) in 2017. Nelson Mandela was awarded an "honorary" prize, as he was not eligible for it, having left office before the prize was established. The fact that most years the selection committee cannot identify a departing head of state that qualifies for the prize is often taken as an indictment of the quality of African leadership at the highest levels. Ibrahim prize recipients have been notable for operating within a broad political culture of respect for human rights and the rule of law. Notably, all of the heads of state that have received it have left office when their constitutional terms of office were up. The prize, however, is awarded for "good governance," not for the promotion of democracy as defined in the developed world. This publication is part of the Diamonstein-Spielvogel Project on the Future of Democracy.

Nolan Quinn is a research associate for the Council on Foreign Relations’ Africa Program. President John Magufuli's death at sixty-one years of age followed a familiar pattern among Africa’s putative strongmen: denials that he was sick followed by secrecy as to the circumstances of his dying and where it happened. Magufuli, like other African heads of state, apparently sought treatment outside his own country, rumor had it either in Kenya or India—perhaps both. Vice President Samia Suluhu, announcing the president’s death yesterday, said the president died from a heart condition, and that he had been treated at two different hospitals in Dar es Salaam, the commercial capital. However, in social and traditional media both in East Africa and elsewhere, rumors that the president had contracted COVID-19 had been circulating for more than a week. The mystery surrounding the true nature of his death could well remain unresolved. Yet if, as seems likely, Magufuli has died from COVID-19, the story of his demise would prove ironic. A conservative Roman Catholic—yet influenced in his outspokenness by a Nigerian Pentecostal televangelist—the president denied the presence of the disease in Tanzania, having declared victory over the novel coronavirus thanks to the power of prayer. Meanwhile, escalating numbers of senior officials and clergy have been dying of "respiratory disease." Prior to Magufuli’s death, the Catholic Church in Tanzania had become the most high-profile institution willing to contradict the narrative spun by its most high-profile adherent. Even after Magufuli had fallen ill—the vice-president announced he was initially admitted to the hospital on March 6—the government arrested individuals for spreading “false information” about the president’s health. Such tools of power, hardly considered legitimate in the decades preceding Magufuli, were used with increasing regularity as the president moved Tanzania in an authoritarian direction. Intimidation of opposition leaders and the media became commonplace. Suluhu, who became Tanzania’s first-ever female vice president in 2015, is now legally considered the acting president of Tanzania. A swearing-in date has not been announced for her to formally take office; the constitution states that she is to serve the remainder of Magufuli’s five-year term, which began after he was re-elected in October in elections marred by violence and fraud. One member of parliament who worked closely with Suluhu called her “the most underrated politician in Tanzania,” but reports have surfaced that the acting president does not command support across the various factions of the Chama cha Mapinduzi (CCM), the ever-fractious ruling party. While it appears unlikely that the constitutionally outlined succession plan will be contravened, especially given the military’s weak political influence, the circumstances of Suluhu’s rise to power—coupled with her gender in a nation that retains deeply patriarchal beliefs—could handicap her political ambitions. The new president will have several pressing issues to address. Tanzania is still in the grips of what appears to be its biggest wave yet of COVID-19. Anecdotes from those in Tanzania—one of few sources of information on the disease’s prevalence in Tanzania at present—suggest case numbers are falling, but prominent figures continue to become sick with COVID-like symptoms. The government will come under renewed pressure from international health agencies to begin reporting data and accept assistance, such as vaccines, from abroad. And while Tanzania has weathered the COVID-related economic shock better than many other countries, growth has nonetheless been below potential, and will remain so if the government does not begin to recommend science-based public health practices. At the southern border, a brutal jihadi insurgency in Mozambique occasionally spills over into Tanzania. Under Magufuli, bilateral relations with Tanzania’s southern neighbor were occasionally strained, but cooperation between the two had been improving. Regardless, the trajectory of violence suggests the insurgents will prove a lasting headache for the incoming government and potentially even further into the future. Most unpredictable is the path the new government will take with regard to respect for political freedoms. While Tanzania has never been considered fully democratic, it was, prior to Magufuli, known for its political stability, respect for minorities, and limits on power. It would seem unlikely that Suluhu, a soft-spoken former activist, shares Magufuli’s authoritarian tilt. Indeed, many Swahili-speaking users on Twitter and the Tanzania-based message board JamiiForums have interpreted her rise as heralding an easing of restrictions on speech, as has opposition leader Tundu Lissu. But the degree to which intolerance of criticism has become institutionalized within CCM is unclear and, until more time passes, unknowable. The assessment of Magufuli’s reign therefore remains a work in progress: was it a deviation from the mean, or merely the beginning of a darker era in Tanzania’s politics? This publication is part of the Diamonstein-Spielvogel Project on the Future of Democracy.

President Martin Vizcarra’s ouster has caused turmoil and a leadership vacuum, amid economic turbulence and severe pandemic strains. Why has Peru endured so much political upheaval?

Nolan Quinn is a research associate for the Council on Foreign Relations’ Africa Program. Prior to working for the Council, he lived in Tanzania, returning in March 2020. Tanzania’s Chama cha Mapinduzi (CCM) is the longest-serving ruling party in Africa, having held power since independence in 1961. CCM has previously been dubbed a benign hegemon, winning elections largely—but not entirely—on merit since the advent of multiparty politics in 1992. On October 28, Tanzania will choose a president and members of the country’s National Assembly. This year, few observers expect a fair vote, given incumbent President John Magufuli and his government’s weaponization of the law in the lead-up to the elections. This march towards authoritarianism appears a stark shift for a country that has been lauded for its traditions of political stability and democratic transfers of power. CCM’s dominance has roots in Tanzania’s postcolonial nation-building. Julius Nyerere, the revered first president of Tanzania, believed African political parties, formed in response to colonial occupation as opposed to internal issues, were fundamentally different [PDF] than those in the West. He saw one-party systems, representing the aspirations of an entire nation, as more democratic than multiparty systems, which he argued were prone to factionalism. Ruling party officials, meanwhile, said a one-party system would better align with traditional African forms of governance, which value consensus over competition. Nyerere, to his credit, exhibited flexibility in his commitment to one-party rule. Before departing his role as CCM chairman in 1990, he encouraged a national debate on pluralism. Yet the commission created to explore the issue found that 77 percent of Tanzanians supported [PDF] a continuation of one-party rule, with many citizens expressing concerns that multiparty politics would bring instability. (The commission attracted genuine popular interest, though questions were raised about whether it was truly representative.) In 1992 the constitutional ban on new party registrations was lifted—but CCM has continued to win elections. Polling data by Afrobarometer suggests that Nyerere’s one-party doctrine has had a lasting effect on how Tanzanians view democracy. In 2005, the final year of Benjamin Mkapa’s presidency, only 44 percent [PDF] of mainland Tanzanians disapproved of one-party rule. Disapproval of one-man and military rule, on the other hand, never fell below 82 percent and 79 percent, respectively, in the seven polls conducted since 2001. And in 2017, 50 percent of respondents said [PDF] they trust CCM “a lot,” a far higher figure than for opposition political parties (19 percent) and traditional leaders (20 percent). Tanzanians’ growing resistance to the ruling class appears, in the context of CCM’s enduring popularity, exceptional. However, pushback at present should be seen primarily as a rejection of Magufuli and his quest for one-man rule rather than CCM’s post-liberation ideology. Indeed, many members of the public have called upon the CCM Elders, a group of twenty-one Tanzanian and Zanzibari former presidents and prime ministers, and other prominent party figures to push for a national dialogue that will halt the rapid erosion of the country’s good-government and democratic norms. While the Elders' formal powers within CCM have diminished in the last fifteen years, their opinions continue to hold unique weight across the political spectrum. If, as seems likely, Magufuli wins (or successfully steals) this month’s election, the lead-up to 2025 will be critical. The president has said he will “respect the constitution” with regard to term limits, but the speaker of parliament has reportedly indicated he will seek to scrap presidential term limits after the election. This could bring latent intra-party tensions to the surface. Magufuli was originally a compromise candidate [PDF] without strong backing from any CCM faction, and rumors have emerged throughout his presidency that other party members want him gone. Resistance from within CCM—by members of parliament, the Elders, and other party bigwigs—would probably offer the best chance at rebuffing a third-term bid, given the party’s control of the electoral machinery. On several occasions, such as when President Mkapa helped end electoral violence in Kenya and when CCM advanced [PDF] democratic means of conflict resolution in South Sudan, Tanzania’s ruling party has shown its ability and desire to steer African states toward the better angels of their nature. Under Magufuli, CCM is unrecognizable, using violence and intimidation to maintain control. What the party needs now is to rediscover its moral compass and reverse its slide into authoritarianism. Learn more about John Campbell's upcoming book, Nigeria and the Nation-State: Rethinking Diplomacy with the Postcolonial World, out in early December 2020.

Something of a democratic recessional is underway in sub-Sahara, with a weakening of civil society and democratic institutions. This both reflects and facilitates assaults on civilian, secular governments by domestic insurrections—as well as jihadi and criminal elements—against the backdrop of an economic slowdown and COVID-19. As the August coup in Mali shows, military seizures of power have not disappeared entirely. Nevertheless, the old style of coups—occupation of the state radio and television stations, the presidential palace, and perhaps the central bank, with the arrest of the deposed chief of state by military units based in the capital, all accompanied by martial music—has become rare in Africa. Old-style coups as methods of transferring power face international opprobrium. More common now are incumbent chiefs of state, often with an authoritarian bent, using different, more subtle methods to stay in power rather than seize it, often justifying themselves by the need to counter insurgencies or even COVID-19. The new playbook often includes somehow overturning constitutionally mandated presidential term limits and then winning rigged or managed elections. However, as Guinea-Bissau President Umaro Sissoco Embaló told the Economic Community of West African States, third terms "count" as coups. Nonetheless, the abolition of term limits often has a veneer of legality, while the subsequent elections, represented as expressions of the will of the people, confer international legitimacy, if much less so at home. In Mali, a military regime, by appointing a civilian, fig-leaf prime minister and promising elections in the future, has largely satisfied African and international opinion. In other African countries, incumbents make it all but impossible for challengers to campaign. Over the next six months, elections are scheduled in Benin, Burkina Faso, Central African Republic, Ghana, Guinea, Ivory Coast, Niger, Seychelles, Uganda, and Tanzania. With only the exception of Niger, presidential incumbents are all running for reelection. Alteration of the constitution to sidestep term limits, intimidation of opposition candidates, and repression of critics have already attracted Western media attention in Guinea, Ivory Coast, Uganda, and Tanzania. More are likely to follow. Western media reports the disappointment of some African human rights activists in declining American commitment to supporting African elections. Certainly the Trump administration and Secretary of State Mike Pompeo have been less active than President Obama and former Secretary of State John Kerry. The Trump administration’s laissez-faire stance toward third-termism in Africa has mostly coincided with a reversal in term limit norms on the continent: since 2015, leaders of eleven sub-Saharan countries have evaded or overseen the weakening of term limits. However, in my new book, Nigeria and the Nation-State: Rethinking Diplomacy in the Postcolonial World, I argue that African elections as conducted today are a colonial construct that does not fit well with traditional African governance, and that too often they promote or reinforce authoritarian chiefs of state. Rather than focus on the mechanics of elections, U.S. policy should emphasize the rule of law and an independent judiciary as the path to improved governance and democracy.

On October 5, Mali's interim president, retired colonel Bah Ndaw, announced his cabinet. As is frequent in West Africa, it is large, with twenty-five members. It includes civilians from the country's factions, including the perennially disaffected Tuaregs in the north, civil groups based in the capital, Bamako, and the armed factions that signed a peace agreement in 2015. But the key cabinet posts remain firmly in the hands of the military: defense, security, territorial administration, and national reconciliation. The responsibilities of defense and security are conventional, territorial administration is concerned with local government, while national reconciliation deals with ethnic issues. These ministers, along with the interim president, are active duty or retired army colonels. The prime minister, the foreign minister, and the minister of justice are civilians. But, those ministries are relatively weak. It is hard not to see them and the other civilian ministers as largely window-dressing. Mali in effect has a military government. The government has agreed to the demand of the Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS) for elections, and the restoration of civilian government will take place within eighteen months. Other ECOWAS demands have not been met, and ECOWAS sanctions remain in place. The media describes them as "crippling," but their actual impact is probably exaggerated. There is, of course, no guarantee that the interim government will agree to leave power after eighteen months. If there is a positive aspect to the Mali cloud, it is that there is, at least, a recognizable government now in place. It remains to be seen what the jihadist radical groups will do now. Presumably, their goal remains unchanged: destruction of the government in Bamako, whether military or civilian.

Mainstream U.S. media is characterizing the September 29 debate between President Donald Trump and former Vice President Joe Biden as a disaster. The moderator was never able to establish control. President Trump, especially, constantly interrupted former Vice President Biden. Rather than a discussion about policy and ideas, the debate was a rant or a temper tantrum. In Africa, the debate will hardly burnish the image of democracy or the United States. However, the October 2 news that President Trump and the First Lady have tested positive for the coronavirus is likely to overshadow the debate in Africa as elsewhere.  This debate was focused on U.S. domestic issues. Therefore, there is no surprise that there was – literally – no reference to Africa. A subsequent debate would address U.S. foreign policy, and it is devoutly to be hoped that the candidates would at least acknowledge the continent's growing importance. However, with the President's diagnosis, it is by no means certain that there will be any more presidential debates. The debate between Vice President Pence and challenger Kamala Harris is almost certain to go ahead next week, but its focus is likely to be purely domestic.   Though it varies from country to country, probably most Africans have access to the internet. (In any given month at least 80 percent of Nigerians, who number some 205 million, access the internet.) Africans, like others around the world, follow U.S. presidential elections closely. It must be anticipated that many, perhaps most, of Africa's leadership watched the presidential debate, along with a large number of other Africans. Over the next day or two, the news of the President's diagnosis will be universally known in Africa.  Many Africans acknowledge that in their country democracy is weak, government is unresponsive, and too often has been captured by self-serving elites. (With more than fifty states in Africa, there are, of course, exceptions to poor governance: Botswana, Namibia, Senegal, and South Africa immediately come to mind; there are others.) For much of the period since 1960 when most African states became independent, the United States has been a beacon of hope for democrats. But, the American image has been eroding, not least because of American police violence, the response to "Black Lives Matter" demonstrations, white supremacist rhetoric, and in some places new American immigration policies. The poor U.S. response to COVID-19 in comparison with other countries has also undermined the American brand. For Africans, the President's diagnosis is likely to highlight the shortcomings of the American response to the virus.

French President Emmanuel Macron, in a September 22 UN General Assembly (UNGA) speech, made continued French military involvement contingent upon Mali's restoration of civilian rule. He was blunt: "They (the junta) must put Mali on the irreversible path of returning to civilian power and organize rapid elections." And, "France [...] can only remain engaged on this condition." As he has in the past, Macron was also clear that France has a low tolerance level for popular demonstrations against France, or francophone West African states that might be tempted by anti-French rhetoric: "The second these states want us to leave or consider that they can fight terrorism on their own, we will withdraw." The same day Macron was speaking at UNGA, there was a small anti-French demonstration in Bamako. The Mali junta appears impervious to pressures from the Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS) and the African Union (AU) to restore civilian government. Pressure from France might be different. France deploys more than 5,000 well-trained, well-equipped troops against jihadist extremist groups that seek to overthrow the government and destroy the political class in Mali and in its neighboring states. The French are assisted by some EU partners, and the United States provides logistical and intelligence support. Were France to withdraw, so, too, would its EU partners, and the continued U.S. presence, small though it is, would be called into question.  The jihadist operations in the Sahel have intensified and spread. French withdrawal might well lead to their destruction of Mali and some of its neighboring states. If the Mali junta remains intransigent, would the French really withdraw? West Africa is the French equivalent of the Russian "near abroad." For many French, close ties with francophone Africa makes their country more than simply a large state in the European Union. On the other hand, there is opposition in France to unending military engagement in the Sahel: some characterize the Sahel as France's Afghanistan.  A possible, even likely, outcome will be that the junta will adopt more civilian trappings, such as a genuinely civilian head of state that is acceptable to the Macron government, even if it must hold its noose. 

On September 21, the military junta that overthrew the Mali government of President Ibrahim Keita announced a transitional government. It is headed by retired Colonel Bah N'Daw, with junta leader Colonel Assimi Goïta as his vice president. The Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS) has insisted that the Mali military coup-makers step down and that a civilian transition government plan for new elections in eighteen months. (ECOWAS, despite its name, is also a West African regional security organization). The African Union (AU) expelled Mali in the immediate aftermath of the coup, and is supporting the ECOWAS call. For their part, the coup-makers are insisting on a military-led transition government, and that elections not take place for three years. It is likely that eventually the coup-makers and ECOWAS will reach an agreement that leaves the military in charge, though for less than three years. There is, of course, no certainty that the military will live up to any such agreement.   A retired colonel, Bah N'Daw is only technically a civilian. He has been a minister of defense, and he was an aide to Moussa Traore, the military ruler of Mali from 1968 to 1991. The junta announced that the president and the vice president were chosen by a transition committee made up of representatives of political parties and civil and religious groups; in other words, the political class. It is unclear whether a government headed by Bah N'Daw, which is a military government in all but name, will be acceptable to ECOWAS.  The Mali coup-makers, led by Col. Goïta, had met with ECOWAS in Ghana the week of September 14. The negotiations made little if any progress. Meanwhile, Bamako, Mali's capital, remains quiet. Based on media reporting, it is unclear whether there has been an upsurge in jihadist violence in the far north. The coup-makers released deposed president Keita a few days after the coup. In early September, media reported that he had been hospitalized; he has appeared to be frail. He has assumed no public role since he was deposed.   ECOWAS has imposed sanctions on Mali. ECOWAS states have closed their borders with Mali and have banned trade and financial flows. The impact of these sanctions is unclear. West African borders are highly porous, and ECOWAS states have limited capacity to enforce trade and financial sanctions. If, however, sanctions start to bite the Malian elite, there may be pressure on the military to compromise. Thus far, that does not appear to have happened. The coup-makers have made no further public statements about the French and UN military presence in the country since they welcomed their continuation in the coup's aftermath.

Anthony Carroll is founding director of Acorus Capital, a private equity fund investing in Africa, and a vice president of Manchester Trade Limited, an international business advisory firm. He has over forty years of experience working with Africa and is an adjunct professor at Johns Hopkins School of Advanced International Studies. As a part of its series "Those We've Lost," the New York Times last week published the obituary of Dirk Mudge, who died of COVID-19 in Windhoek, Namibia on August 26, which was, fittingly, Namibia's Heroes Day. While Mr. Mudge had retired from politics in 1993, he played a crucial role in Namibia's independence and, as a result, in ending apartheid in neighboring South Africa. I first heard the unforgettable name Dirk Mudge in 1977 while serving as a Peace Corps volunteer in neighboring Botswana. Mudge's ancestors were Afrikaner farmers who trekked northward from South Africa in the 18th century. Their descendants are still very influential in the beef industries of both Namibia and Botswana. These Afrikaner settlers later came under the colonial rule of Germany during the late 19th century’s "scramble for Africa." That scramble created South West Africa, where German colonial rulers perpetrated the first genocide of the 20th century, mostly against the Herero people. After Germany's defeat in World War I, Namibia was placed under South African administration, a rule that continued in contravention of international law until 1990. (Actually 1994, with the handover of the port of Walvis Bay – the last "vestige" of that ruinous treaty, according to Namibia's first chief justice Hans Berker).   After the 1948 election, South Africa came under the governance of the National Party, which instituted the odious system of apartheid. As its de facto "Fifth Province," South West Africa was subjected to the same legal regime based upon exclusion and enforced by terror. By the 1970s, South Africa was embroiled in a costly and unpopular "border" war with Angola and fighters from the South West Africa People's Organization (SWAPO). SWAPO has been Namibia's ruling party since independence. By the mid-1980s, it became clear that a military solution to South Africa's continued illegal rule of Namibia was not viable. The U.S. government under the guidance of Assistant Secretary Chester A. Crocker played an important facilitating role in ending the Angolan war as did the UN special representative and Finnish Nobel Laureate Martti Ahtisaari.  However, no amount of external pressure would have worked without an insider to show South Africa the door. Dirk Mudge provided the needed "nudge."  While serving in the country's All White Executive Committee, in 1977 he abandoned the National Party and formed a multiracial party, the Democratic Turnhalle Alliance (DTA). Despite the enmity of White Namibians and the historic mistrust of Black Namibians, Mudge played a pivotal role in disengaging South Africa (without the help of its administrator Louis Pienaar and South African intelligence and its "Third Force") and began the negotiations for independence in 1990 and the drafting of a model democratic constitution. His "inside" role was similar to that of the UDF and DP in South Africa and perhaps provided a road map for the winding down of apartheid in South Africa. Conversely, had things gone badly in Namibia, resistance by conservative "verkramp" Afrikaner elements could have led to a different outcome. Upon learning of his death, Secretary Crocker paid tribute to this vital contribution, describing Mr. Mudge as "a serious and committed person who played a key transitional role in the country he cared deeply about." After independence, the formation of a new constitution, and the conclusion of negotiations on the reintegration of Walvis Bay, Mr. Mudge returned to his "cattle post" in 1993 and raised champion Brahmin cattle. Even with the challenges of corruption and weak opposition to the ruling party, many observers still believe that Namibia has been the most successful nation in southern Africa to emerge from a protracted and violent armed struggle. While there are many heroes who contributed to that success, including some who paid with their lives, Dirk Mudge certainly deserves recognition for his commitment to bringing democracy and majority rule to his country.

When Mali’s summer of discontent culminated in a coup on August 18, media coverage was soon full of images of celebrating citizens, and opposition leaders expressed approval of the military takeover. The scenes of jubilation in the streets could give observers the impression that democratic governance has no future in the country. But this is misleading.  Recent Afrobarometer data shows that the people of Mali strongly support the rule of law, and a majority support democratic governance and oppose military rule. Malians want government that works and is accountable to citizens, and there is no clear majority for elevating one of these priorities over the other. History strongly suggests that the recent coup will not deliver on either front, but as in Zimbabwe in 2017, it fulfills the immediate demand for change before failing to deliver better governing results over time. For many years, Mali has suffered from a profound disconnect between the priorities of its citizens and those of its political elites. The international actors attempting to help stabilize the situation have in some cases actually widened that gap, by ignoring political dysfunction in favor of a narrow definition of security concerns, and by pretending that shallow, Bamako-centric political processes could meet the country’s desperate governance needs. Moving Mali forward requires political will from domestic and international actors to discard the old playbook and stitch together a stronger foundation of political representation and legitimacy, and, where the requisite political will exists, a willingness to invest in the unglamorous work of strengthening governing capacity. It’s a challenging set of tasks, and while the primary drivers of Mali’s future must be the Malian people, they will need clear-eyed, activist diplomacy from Mali’s international partners. For the United States, that means coordination but not deference to other international actors, and an understanding that Mali’s political crisis has an internal logic that is affected, but cannot be resolved, by regional dynamics. In other words, a Mali-specific strategy for supporting political progress must be understood as an essential element of any Sahelian stability strategy, and diplomatic skill and resources will need the same support in Congress and the foreign policy community that counterterrorism support has enjoyed.

Despite the crowd’s jubilation in Bamako, the arrest of President Ibrahim B. Keita, Prime Minister Boubou Cisse, the minister of finance, the president of the National Assembly, and other government officials seems unlikely to result in fundamental change. An estimated half of Mali's population lives in severe poverty, ethnic divisions are chronically unaddressed, and Islamist jihadis roam much of the northern half of the country. Those realities are unlikely to change as a result of a coup. Subsequent to their success, the coup makers are justifying themselves by citing the corruption, nepotism, and all-around bad governance of the Keita regime. Initial media accounts tied the coup to popular discontent spearheaded by civil society and a charismatic imam and linked it to fall-out from corrupt elections earlier in the year. But, rather than a popular revolution, this coup appears to have been carried out by five colonels, calling themselves the National Commission for the People’s Salvation. This entity is led by Gen. Cheick Fanta Mady Dembele, whom some local commentators see as the real leader of the coup, though he remains in the background. The coup makers likely have the support of the broad political class, based in Bamako, dissatisfied by the Keita government's response to popular unrest. The military and the political class, based on past performance, is uninterested in the fundamental social and political change that would be necessary to address the country's dysfunction. Once falsely viewed by Western commentators and policy makers as the poster child of African democracy and good governance, Mali's current descent into unending crisis is usually dated from the 2012 military unrest and Tuareg efforts to establish a separate state—Azawad. (Tuareg separatism reflects unresolved ethnic differences dating from French colonial times.) Then, radical jihadis captured the Tuareg separatist movement and were soon seen as threatening the destruction of the Bamako government. French intervention forestalled that outcome. Since then, the Malian and French militaries, African regional forces, and a UN military presence has failed to defeat the Islamists, and security has continued to deteriorate. (The United States has provided significant financial support to the anti-jihadi effort and provides logistical and other support to French forces.) Insofar as this latest coup highlights the dysfunction of the Malian state, it will likely benefit the jihadis that have been expanding their area of operation in the wider region.   Thus far, international reaction to this latest coup has been hand-wringing. The African Union and the Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS) has denounced it and called for sanctions. The French and American governments have issued statements condemning the coup. The UN Security Council is expected to discuss it and will likely denounce it. France has the largest modern military force in West Africa, with some 5,000 personnel. Successive Paris governments have viewed the Sahel as the "near abroad" and of vital national interest. But, French military intervention in the past has been denounced as "neo-colonial;" some local commentators are suggesting that Gen. Dembele is staying in the background because of fear of the perception that he is “backed” by France. The Macron government is saying that France will remain engaged in Mali, but for how long and under what circumstances remains to be seen. The French public appears increasingly fatigued by the seemingly never-ending fighting in the Sahel, "our Afghanistan." It is also unclear what the restoration of the Keita regime or new and likely flawed elections could accomplish. Nevertheless, a possible, perhaps likely, outcome will be a deal among the military and the political class that leads to new elections and another "rearrangement of the deck chairs on the Titanic." The coup makers have already announced that they will establish a "civilian" government to carry out new elections.

Early this month, President Alassane Ouattara of Côte d'Ivoire announced his intention to run for a third term, an undertaking that may not violate the letter of Ivorian law (presuming that the 2016 adoption of a new constitution establishing a two-term limit reset the clock on his tenure) but surely violates the intent of it. The 78-year-old Ouattara himself acknowledged how undesirable the undertaking is when in March he initially announced that he would not run but rather would “transfer power to a new generation,” throwing his support behind his close ally, Prime Minister Amadou Gon Coulibaly. When Coulibaly passed away on July 8, Ouattara and his advisors reversed course. The reaction thus far has been dispiriting. Demonstrations protesting Ouattara’s decision have, in some cases, turned violent, provoking expressions of concern from the UN Secretary General. His political opponents are prepared to challenge the legality of his third term bid. Meanwhile, regional leaders find themselves in an awkward situation. Having long relied on Ouattara as a regional statesman and champion of democratic institutions, they now face the possibility that his legitimacy will be marked with an asterisk in the future. Ouattara’s statements about this decision being a “duty” and a “sacrifice” suggest that, with the loss of Coulibaly, Ouattara believes that he is the only figure capable of holding his country together, and of ensuring that the hard-won gains of the past decade don’t slip away. Whatever the reasoning, that reads like a vote of no confidence in Côte d'Ivoire’s political class and a failure of political imagination. How is one to reconcile the idea that Côte d'Ivoire is a desirable investment opportunity if the country’s stability is so tenuous, if its voters and leaders are so untrustworthy? It is absolutely true that Ouattara has strong support within his party and that many elites and regular citizens had urged him to run. But that does not mean the decision is a wise one. Assuming, as seems likely, that he wins the October election, he will find building confidence in the country’s political process and addressing both the reality and perceptions of exclusion even more difficult than before. Yet those issues remain at the heart of the unfinished business that plunged Côte d'Ivoire into civil war in 2002 and 2010, and which still threatens the country’s future. The indispensable work on reconciliation and unification that was not done in Ouattara’s first two terms will have become both more urgent and more difficult.