By Oluwaseun Taiwo

When the lights went out across Antananarivo in October 2025, most people thought it was just another blackout another night of waiting in the dark. But this time, the darkness felt different. It was not just about the electricity grid failing; it was about a system that had been failing for years. Water shortages, unemployment, inflation, and neglect had quietly pushed citizens to the edge. Then, one night, the lights went off, and the people switched on.

What began as protests over water and electricity quickly evolved into a cry for justice and accountability. The youth, long accustomed to empty promises, poured into the streets demanding a government that listens. Within days, those protests transformed into something far greater: a political storm that ended with the collapse of President Andry Rajoelina’s administration and the rise of a military-led transition.

The scenes were electrifying with thousands of protesters chanting, waving flags and marching through Antananarivo. For a country that has known political turbulence before, this was not entirely new. But what made this moment different was its authenticity: the movement came from the bottom up. It was not the work of elites or opposition politicians; it was the raw frustration of ordinary people.

When parts of the military refused orders to suppress demonstrators and instead stood with them, the balance of power shifted. Within days, Colonel Michael Randrianirina announced the formation of a transitional council, promising reform, accountability, and new elections within two years. The soldiers called it a people’s correction. Critics called it a coup.

Whatever label one chooses, one truth is inescapable: the coup in Madagascar is a mirror reflecting a wider African dilemma where faith in democracy is fading, and where coups are becoming, disturbingly, fashionable again.

A Continent at a Crossroads

To fully grasp the weight of what happened, one must look beyond Madagascar’s shores. Across Africa’s Sahel region, from Mali to Burkina Faso, Niger, and Chad, the last few years have seen an unsettling resurgence of military takeovers. Each began with similar stories anger over corruption, insecurity, poverty, and governance failures. Each was justified as a correction of civilian misrule.

But history has shown that coups rarely fix what they claim to correct. In Mali, the military promised swift reforms and security improvements yet years later, instability persists. In Niger, the coup of 2023 fractured alliances and deepened economic hardship. Across the Sahel, the language of patriotism has often masked power struggles and repressive control.

Madagascar’s own upheaval fits uneasily into that pattern. While it emerged from genuine grassroots anger, the risk is that it becomes another case where the military steps in as savior but stays on as ruler. The emotional power of revolution can easily fade into the cold reality of politics. The hope that lit the streets could, without vigilance, dim once more under the fluorescent lights of another unaccountable regime.

Between Hope and History

I find this moment both moving and worrying. Moving because it demonstrates the courage of ordinary citizens who refused to remain voiceless. Their protest was not about political ideology; it was about survival and dignity. Worrying because Africa has been here before. From the Sahel to the Indian Ocean, the story repeats itself: governments fail to deliver, the people rise, the army intervenes and democracy takes a step backward.

As analysts, commentators, and citizens, we must resist the temptation to romanticize every uprising as revolution. Real revolution is not the seizure of power. Rather, it is the transformation of governance. It is the patient, often painful, rebuilding of institutions so that the state works for its citizens. Without that, every coup, no matter how popular, becomes just another reset button on a broken system.

Still, we cannot dismiss the legitimacy of people’s frustration. The youth of Madagascar, like those in Burkina Faso or Niger, are not rebels without cause; they are witnesses to chronic leadership failure. They have watched their futures shrink in a world that promises progress but delivers scarcity. Their anger is justified. But the solution must go beyond anger, it must become architecture.

What Comes Next?

Now, the challenge lies with the transitional leaders who have promised reform. Their credibility will not come from slogans but from results. The people will judge them not by speeches, but by whether the lights stay on, whether the taps run, and whether the promises of change translate into daily realities.

Across the continent, citizens are watching. They are asking the same question: what is the value of democracy if it cannot deliver basic needs? That question, more than any coup or election, defines the future of governance in Africa.

Madagascar’s turning point like those in the Sahel is a reminder that democracy without development is fragile, and leadership without empathy is doomed. People’s patience is not endless. When governments stop listening, streets become the new parliament, and protest replaces policy.

As I reflect on these events, I am struck by a simple truth: power means little when it fails to serve. The people of Madagascar and indeed, of many African nations have not rejected democracy; they have rejected disappointment. Their demand is not radical. They are asking for light, water, education and work- the basics of a dignified life.

If this new leadership listens and learns, Madagascar might yet chart a different path from the Sahel’s troubled course. But if it repeats the old script clinging to control, silencing critics, and postponing elections it will only deepen despair.

In the end, the story unfolding here is not just about one country. It is about an entire continent’s struggle to redefine what democracy should mean. It is about a generation no longer willing to wait in the dark for promises that never come.

The lights went out but the people refused to.