In Madagascar, Gen Z sparked a movement; the military stole a government. The coup came wearing sneakers and slogans, proving dictatorships no longer need mustaches—just Wi-Fi and good PR.
“This is not a coup,” said Colonel Michael Randrianirina,
right after pulling off a coup. The irony could light up the Indian Ocean. On
October 12, 2025, Madagascar’s capital, Antananarivo, woke up to soldiers on
the streets, a missing president, and a colonel suddenly declaring himself the
people’s voice. The president, Andry Rajoelina, fled the country in a French
military jet like a DJ skipping his own gig, leaving behind a power vacuum that
filled faster than a corrupt ballot box. By October 14, Randrianirina had
crowned himself interim president, waving the banner of “the people” like a man
stealing democracy’s wallet while shouting, “It’s for the people!”
The world calls this kind of thing a coup. But in
Madagascar, they’ve gotten so used to it, it feels like déjà vu with better
hashtags. The colonel insists he was merely answering the “incessant call” of
the people—because apparently, the people were on hold until the army picked up
the phone. The truth is simpler and uglier: the youth protested, the soldiers
waited, and when the chaos ripened, they swooped in like vultures pretending to
be doves.
Let’s not romanticize it. This wasn’t some grand Gen Z
revolution of TikTok warriors toppling tyranny with viral memes. This was a
hijacking. Young Malagasy flooded the streets, chanting for jobs, justice, and
an end to Rajoelina’s cartoonish corruption. They wanted reform, not rifles.
But as soon as the chants turned into real panic for the palace, the army
stepped in—not to protect the people, but to steal the show. The protests
became the prelude to a military encore. And in Madagascar, that’s not new theater;
that’s rerun television.
This is the tenth successful coup in Africa since 2020.
Ten. That’s more than in the entire previous two decades combined. Apparently,
“democracy” on the continent has become like a mobile data plan—cheap,
unstable, and always running out just when you need it. Soldiers no longer
bother with tanks crashing through gates; they come smiling with press
conferences, calling themselves “transitional leaders.” They don’t seize
power—they “answer the call.” They don’t overthrow governments—they “restore
stability.” And every time the world yawns, another general takes notes.
Colonel Randrianirina is no Mandela. He’s a soldier with
a sketchy past, a one-year suspended sentence for an attempted mutiny in 2023,
and now, the audacity to play savior. But his backstory has just enough grit to
sell: he’s from Madagascar’s impoverished south, a region ignored for decades.
He’s not from the dominant Merina ethnic elite who have ruled the island like
it’s their family estate. In a country where nearly 70% of people live on less
than $3 a day, that “outsider” image makes him look like Robin Hood in
camouflage. The poor see hope; the rich see a threat. But to the rest of the
world, he looks like another soldier who discovered that populism pays better
than patriotism.
When he declared himself president, he promised elections
within two years. That’s the oldest trick in the dictator playbook. Every coup
leader swears power is just a temporary layover—but somehow, they all miss
their connection. Mali’s junta said the same thing. So did Burkina Faso’s. So
did Sudan’s before drowning in its own blood. Once generals taste the luxury of
“transitional” power—state jets, foreign visits, the applause of frightened
ministers—they rarely hand it back. Democracy is always “coming soon,” but
never quite arrives.
Rajoelina’s fall wasn’t surprising. He had ruled like
Madagascar was his personal playlist—loud, repetitive, and tone-deaf. Once a
DJ-turned-president, he danced his way into power in 2009 through another coup
led by the same military unit, CAPSAT. He then held onto office through
election tricks that made democracy look like karaoke. His cronies got rich,
the poor stayed poor, and corruption spread like red dust. By 2025, the
island’s economy was staggering, and its youth were fed up. When the protests
erupted, they weren’t ideological—they were existential. But instead of
sparking reform, they opened the door for another uniform to walk in and claim
destiny.
The colonel says “power belongs to the people.” But when
a man with a gun says that, it’s usually because he’s holding it on their
behalf. Promising elections in two years is like telling a starving nation
dinner’s almost ready while locking the kitchen. And for a country that’s lived
through five coups since independence, “temporary power” always lasts just long
enough to destroy what’s left of faith.
Let’s not pretend this coup is unique. It’s part of a
continental disease—disguising dictatorship as deliverance. The people protest
corruption, and the military arrives claiming to cure it by replacing thieves
with soldiers. It’s the political equivalent of curing a fever by burning the
patient. And when the dust settles, the generals always say the same thing: “We
did it for the people.” Maybe. But somehow, the people never get to eat first.
Still, there’s something symbolic about this one. Gen Z
sparked it, but the old guard stole it. The youth of Madagascar, connected and
restless, raised their fists for justice, while the colonel raised his for
power. It’s as if the revolution sent out an invite to the future, and the
military showed up uninvited, bringing the past with them.
Randrianirina’s rise might look like a rebellion against
the Merina elite, but it’s really just another rerun of African
politics—outsiders becoming insiders, saviors turning into rulers, slogans
replacing governance. And once again, Madagascar’s people are left watching
from the sidelines, hungry for hope while power swaps hands like a game of
musical chairs where the music never stops.
The rest of the world, meanwhile, issues its routine
statements. “We are monitoring the situation,” says one diplomat after another,
as if democracy is a patient in a coma. And as they monitor, the colonel
tightens his grip, the poor tighten their belts, and the world forgets by next
Tuesday.
So, was this a Gen Z revolution or a military coup? Let’s
not kid ourselves—it was a coup wearing skinny jeans. The youth built the
bonfire, but the army cooked their dinner on it. Madagascar didn’t just lose a
president—it lost another chance to grow up politically. The colonel’s promise
of “power to the people” will fade faster than a protest hashtag, and by the
time the next coup comes around, it’ll probably have its own theme song.
In Madagascar, democracy doesn’t die—it gets remixed. And
this time, the DJ didn’t just lose the beat. The soldiers took the turntables.
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