The midday heat of Ouagadougou pressed down hard on the city, the air thick with dust and anticipation. In the square outside the People’s House, a crowd had begun to gather, their faces worn by years of broken promises. Men in work shirts and women in brightly patterned wraps leaned forward as a slim figure climbed onto a makeshift stage. Ibrahim Traoré, wearing his plain fatigues and a simple cap, raised a hand not to silence the people, but to steady them. His voice, when it came, was unhurried, almost weary. He spoke of sovereignty, dignity, and the right to self-determination. There was no music, no flags waving wildly, no slogans shouted into the sky. Just the slow nodding of heads and the tightening of fists by people’s sides.
By the time the speech ended, the city had changed. Something had been set in motion that would not easily be turned back. Traoré’s rise to power in Burkina Faso had not been born from traditional political maneuvering. It had come through a mutiny that spread like fire through dry grass. Young officers, frustrated by a government unable or unwilling to defend its people against armed groups, had chosen to act. On September 30, 2022, they ousted Lieutenant Colonel Paul-Henri Sandaogo Damiba, who had himself seized power only eight months earlier.
The roots of Traoré’s ascent traced back to long years of disillusionment in Burkina Faso. Since 2015, the country had been wracked by a growing insurgency linked to al-Qaeda and Islamic State affiliates. Thousands were killed, and over two million were displaced. Successive governments had failed to stem the violence, and foreign powers offered military assistance that often served their own strategic interests more than those of the Burkinabè people. Traoré, a captain in the army, became a symbol of a younger generation that no longer trusted the structures of international cooperation to secure their nation’s future.
Burkina Faso’s military government under Traoré quickly made moves that signaled a decisive shift. French forces, long seen as protectors of the country’s political elites, were asked to leave. The French military base in Kamboinsin, outside Ouagadougou, was shuttered. Wagner Group mercenaries, whose presence in neighboring Mali had already drawn international scrutiny, were rumored to be operating in Burkina Faso, although official confirmation remained elusive. Traoré’s government signed security agreements with Mali and Niger, creating a pact among military-led governments facing similar insurgencies and external pressures.
The language used by Traoré was not the fiery revolutionary rhetoric of a bygone era. It was measured but firm. He spoke of the need for African solutions to African problems, a phrase that had been used many times before, often as a diplomatic nicety. In Traoré’s hands, it felt stripped of pretense. His speeches rarely invoked grand theories or historical grievances. Instead, they returned again and again to practical realities: protecting farmers, reclaiming land, rebuilding trust between people and government.
Traoré’s influence did not remain contained within Burkina Faso’s borders. In Mali and Niger, where military juntas had also taken power, young people cited his example when demanding an end to French military presence. Protests in Senegal against President Macky Sall’s attempts to extend his rule invoked images of the Burkinabè captain. Across West Africa, conversations in markets and on social media carried an undercurrent of change, cautious but insistent.
The question of whether Ibrahim Traoré could spark a wider wave of African revolutions was not an idle one. It was a question embedded in the realities of a continent where colonial legacies remained palpable in currency systems, resource extraction, and military alliances. France’s continued use of the CFA franc in its former colonies, a currency tied to the French treasury, remained a potent symbol of economic control. Mining concessions in gold-rich countries like Mali and Burkina Faso often benefited multinational corporations far more than local communities. Traoré’s public statements and actions suggested a direct challenge to this status quo.
In Ouagadougou, tangible efforts began to reclaim national wealth. A project to build 5,000 kilometers of paved roads annually was launched using local contractors and labor. Hundreds of construction machines were purchased outright by the government, bypassing international firms. Traoré’s administration promoted mining reforms aimed at keeping a larger share of profits within Burkina Faso. In the education sector, school fees were abolished for primary and secondary students, a move that resonated deeply in a country where education costs had long pushed families into deeper poverty.
Internationally, reactions to Traoré varied. Western governments, particularly France and the United States, expressed concerns over democratic backsliding and human rights. Traoré, however, maintained that sovereignty and stability were prerequisites for democracy, not its enemies. His government delayed elections originally promised for 2024, arguing that securing the country came first. Critics warned of a return to military authoritarianism, but among many Burkinabè, the captain remained a figure of hope.
The historical parallels were not lost on those watching closely. Thomas Sankara, often called “Africa’s Che Guevara,” had ruled Burkina Faso from 1983 until his assassination in 1987. Sankara had nationalized land and industries, championed women’s rights, and defied foreign powers. Traoré rarely invoked Sankara directly, careful perhaps not to awaken old divisions. Yet the echoes were unmistakable. Both leaders came to power young, spoke in the language of dignity and self-reliance, and faced enormous international pressure.
In Bamako, Niamey, and even beyond West Africa, a pattern began to emerge. Military governments in Mali and Niger deepened their alliances with each other, suspending ties with former colonial powers and calling for greater regional cooperation outside Western influence. Economic sanctions imposed by the Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS) failed to dislodge the juntas. Instead, they seemed to harden public opinion against external pressure.
On the streets of Ouagadougou, there were no illusions about the scale of the challenge. In neighborhoods where improvised shelters housed those displaced by conflict, talk of revolution was tempered by daily struggles to find food and medicine. Yet there was a different kind of hope, a quieter one, rooted not in slogans but in the visible efforts to rebuild from within.
Traoré’s approach remained cautious. Unlike Sankara, he avoided sweeping nationalizations and refrained from provocative denunciations of global powers. He focused instead on security, food production, and gradual economic reforms. His background as a soldier, not a political ideologue, shaped his methods. There were no mass political purges, no flamboyant displays of anti-imperialism. There was only the steady work of repairing a fractured state.
It was too early to say whether this would mark the beginning of a second wave of African revolutions. The first, in the post-independence era, had been filled with soaring rhetoric and often ended in disappointment or dictatorship. Traoré’s revolution, if it could be called that, looked different. It was quieter, more localized, and deeply pragmatic. It was less about ideological purity and more about restoring basic functions of government in places long abandoned by both national elites and foreign allies.
In the meantime, the images from Ouagadougou continued to spread. Photographs showed Traoré not in palaces or conference rooms, but walking dusty roads in uniform, surrounded by villagers. Videos captured him visiting frontline troops, his words unpolished and direct. In a region where many leaders were seen as remote and untouchable, these images mattered. They offered a different vision of leadership, one grounded in presence rather than performance.
Whether this would be enough to sustain change remained uncertain. The forces arrayed against true sovereignty were vast. Corporations, military alliances, and entrenched local elites would not easily relinquish their hold. History showed that charismatic leaders could fall quickly, brought down by betrayal, foreign intervention, or the grinding weight of expectations unmet.
For now, though, Ibrahim Traoré remained standing. His rise had already shifted the political landscape of West Africa, if not yet through sweeping revolutions, then through the slow, patient erosion of old assumptions.
In the red dust of Ouagadougou, under a heavy sky, the question lingered. Could a quiet revolution, born from necessity and kept alive by endurance, truly change the course of a continent?
The answer, like so much else in Africa’s history, would not come with fireworks or headlines. It would come, if it came at all, in the everyday choices of those who refused to surrender to despair.