Echoes of the Arab Spring: Lessons Unlearned in Africa -By Oluwafemi Popoola

It was Winston Churchill who once quipped that “democracy is the worst form of government, except for all the others that have been tried.” If Churchill had lived to witness the African version of democracy, he might have amended that sentence or perhaps added a footnote about ballot boxes with nine lives, presidents who never retire, and elections that look more like coronations.

In Nigeria, President Bola Tinubu’s government is hunting down the financiers of an “alleged coup.” This sounds more like a curious pursuit, considering that the government has repeatedly insisted there was no coup at all. One wonders whether the enemy exists or if it is being manufactured to distract from the slow erosion of democratic institutions. While Nigeria chases ghosts of coup plotters and their financiers, three other African nations, Tanzania, Ivory Coast, and Cameroon, are convulsing under the weight of electoral fraud and the tyranny of endless rule. The wind of unrest carries the murmurs from Douala’s crowded lanes to Dar es Salaam’s sea-swept stalls, to Abidjan’s restless skyline. All wrapped in a veneer of democratic pretense.

The present atmosphere carries a haunting echo of the past. It reminds me of the early 2010s when Africa’s northern skies were lit up by the flames of rebellion. I was a final-year student of Mass Communication, putting the finishing touches on my project. My mind was brimming with excitement and idealism. I was eager to be unleashed into the world of journalism, ready to tell stories of a continent rising, not sinking. Back then, hope was alive in the air as young people in Tunisia and Egypt took to the streets. They chanted for liberty. They demanded dignity. They dared to dream of a new dawn.

Those moments defined an era. Mohamed Bouazizi, a Tunisian street vendor, had set himself ablaze in December 2010 to protest police harassment. This solitary act ignited a wildfire that swept across North Africa. In Tunisia, Zine El Abidine Ben Ali, who had ruled for 23 years, was forced to flee. In Egypt, the people poured into Tahrir Square, their chants of “Irhal!” — “Leave!” — echoed across continents. Hosni Mubarak, who had sat on the throne for three decades, was toppled after 18 days of unrelenting protests. The world watched in awe. The so-called “Arab Spring” became a symbol of people’s power, of the unstoppable yearning for justice.

Here we are now, more than a decade later, reliving the same script, only with different actors. Power remains a jealous lover in Africa, unwilling to let go of her suitors. The names have changed. But the greed, the manipulation, and the fear of losing control remain the same.

What Alexis de Tocqueville once described as “the habit of liberty” has, in Africa, been replaced by the habit of survival. It is where institutions bow to strongmen and ballots serve as polite fictions of consent. It is not that Africans do not understand democracy, they have simply inherited a model designed for other histories and other soils. The British exported it with pomp, the French dressed it in republican flair, and the Americans sold it as a universal cure for tyranny. Yet, as Chinua Achebe warned, “a man who brings home ant-infested faggots should not complain when lizards pay him a visit.” Imported systems, unrooted in indigenous accountability, have bred leaders who worship power and electorates who mistrust it.

In Cameroon, President Paul Biya has been in power since 1982. It was the same year the late Michael Jackson released his song Thriller. The 92-year-old president was declared “re-elected” by his ever-loyal Constitutional Council on October 12. Since then, he has vanished like a puff of smoke.

What started as a highly disputed election has now morphed into open confrontation between the army and the citizens. Protesters have been shot, others detained. Many Cameroonians are simply left wondering whether their president is even alive or just ruling via ghost protocol.

For those above 43 years old in Cameroon, Biya is the only president they have ever known. Two generations have come and gone under his watchful, immovable gaze. Many have died, and those who survive count their losses like widows tallying the years. Yet Biya, from the safety of wherever he is hiding, refuses to step aside and allow young Cameroonians a fighting chance at governance.

Not far away, in Tanzania, President Samia Suluhu Hassan, one of only two female heads of state in Africa, the other being Namibia’s Nandi-Ndaitwah, has managed to transform her gentle smile into an instrument of fear. Her critics, now jailed or exiled, have nicknamed her “Idi Amin Mama.” And quite fittingly so.

The recent Tanzanian election, if one can call it that, resembled a school play where the lead actor performs alone after disqualifying all understudies. Major opposition figures were barred from running, one locked behind bars, another disqualified on technical grounds. When the ballots became a mockery, the streets became the ballot box.

From Dar es Salaam to Arusha, waves of mostly young protesters poured into the streets to denounce the charade. They carried placards, not weapons — but the state answered with bullets. For three straight days, Tanzania burned with the fury of its youth, demanding fairness and freedom. Hundreds are reported dead, though no one can say for sure — the government saw to that with an internet blackout, severing the nation’s voice in one flick of a digital switch.

According to BBC Africa, at least two people were confirmed killed at the Namanga border, but opposition sources say the numbers climb much higher. In a country where data is now as dangerous as dissent, the dead are reduced to whispers — names lost to the silence that follows every gunshot. Because nothing says democracy quite like switching off the Wi-Fi while your citizens bleed for the right to be heard.

And so the continent continues its performance. It’s like a theatre of the absurd where “change” is always promised but seldom delivered. The curtains rise every election season, the lights dazzle, and the actors take their bows while the audience, weary and disillusioned, quietly wonders if this play will ever end differently.

Meanwhile, in Ivory Coast, the grand old man of the moment, 83-year-old President Alassane Ouattara, has secured himself a fourth term. He’s renowned for barring his strongest rivals. Ouattara reportedly won 89.8% of the vote — a margin so absurd that even dictators in training might blush. Voter turnout was barely 50%, but that didn’t stop the celebration. He smiled for the cameras as if winning by default were a democratic triumph.

What’s happening to Africa? The British historian Lord Acton once warned that “power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” And the American writer James Baldwin added, “Ignorance, allied with power, is the most ferocious enemy justice can have.” Both men might as well have been writing about the continent, where rulers refuse to retire, and citizens are made to believe that change is a dangerous dream.

The cycle is exhausting. The same promises, the same betrayals, the same disillusionment. We have gone from colonial masters to homegrown emperors. Robert Mugabe in Zimbabwe clung on till he literally couldn’t walk. What about Yoweri Museveni in Uganda, who has been serving since 1986? Teodoro Obiang Nguema Mbasogo in Equatorial Guinea, still in power since 1979, when disco was king. Denis Sassou Nguesso in Congo-Brazzaville, in charge since bell-bottoms were in style. And Isaias Afwerki in Eritrea, who doesn’t even bother with elections anymore.

The danger extends beyond the presidents. It lies in the fatigue of the people. The slow, creeping surrender that tells citizens it’s better to survive than to fight. Yet history has taught us that silence is never safety. Egypt and Tunisia proved that even the most entrenched regimes can be shaken when the streets find their voice. The youth of Africa, restless and connected, still remember that lesson, even if their rulers pretend to have forgotten.

Democracy in Africa may still be dressing for the real performance. Its costumes seem borrowed, its stage uneven, and its actors uncertain. Perhaps, in the restless energy of its young and the resilience of its people, there lies a future where the play is no longer tragic, and where the curtain finally rises on freedom that is not rehearsed, but real.

Oluwafemi Popoola is a Nigerian journalist, media strategist, and columnist. He can be reached via bromeo2013@gmail.com