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The end of January 2026 effectively marked the end of party politics in Burkina Faso. On 29 January, Captain Ibrahim Traoré’s government formally dissolved all political parties, including those that had supported his September 2022 coup.
Parties had already been suspended since Traoré took power, but the junta framed this latest step as part of a broader state “restructuring” meant to reduce social divisions.
In practice, the move shuts down what little space remained for independent civic participation and further concentrates authority in Traoré’s hands. Party assets have also been taken over by the state.
For a junta that initially relied on enthusiastic civilian backing, the decision sits awkwardly alongside its rhetoric of popular mobilisation and revolutionary renewal. Yet this trajectory is far from surprising.
Across the Sahel and elsewhere in Africa, supporters of military takeovers are discovering that early enthusiasm rarely translates into lasting political influence. Coups that begin with popular support often end with the junta sidelining or overtly suppressing the very groups that helped stabilise its hold on power. The trend goes back decades.
I have extensively studied and written on military coups for nearly a decade, especially the recent coup wave in Africa.
I argue that once in power, military rulers have little incentive to share authority. Civilian groups are useful in the first days of a takeover. They provide crowds, legitimacy, and a sense that the coup reflects public frustration.
But those same groups quickly become inconvenient. They have their own leaders, their own constituencies, and their own expectations for the transition. They can criticise delays or mobilise supporters. This independence is precisely what juntas fear.
Early civilian enthusiasm should not be mistaken for a durable mandate, nor should it be read as evidence that a transition will remain inclusive.
Burkina Faso’s recent party ban is only the latest reminder. Support from outside the barracks may help usher in or stabilise a coup, but it rarely guarantees any lasting influence over what follows.
Contrary to how we typically think of coups, military takeovers frequently attract support from at least some segments of the civilian population. Sometimes civilians actively encourage a coup. They can also help ensure that it succeeds and stabilises.
These dynamics have been especially visible during Africa’s recent wave of coups. From Mali to Niger, military interventions have been welcomed, celebrated, and even endorsed by civil society groups, political parties, and other domestic actors. For coup leaders, these alliances offer visible legitimacy and a ready-made support base.
But an equally common trend follows. While civilian groups pledge support to maintain some influence in the post-coup order, juntas frequently sideline, marginalise, or altogether suppress even their erstwhile allies.
This pattern appears across eras and regions, cutting across ideological and social lines.
After Sudan’s 1969 coup, for instance, the Communist Party initially aligned itself with the Free Officers led by Col. Jaafar Nimeiri, offering crucial political backing. But within seven months, Nimeiri began sidelining the party, removing key Communist figures from government. By 1971, he had turned on them entirely, launching a brutal crackdown that crushed the party.
A similar trajectory followed Egypt’s 2013 coup. The protest movement Tamarod openly advocated for and later endorsed General Abdelfattah el-Sisi’s takeover. The influence of the movement and other political parties soon evaporated as civic space shrank.
Today, many of the civilian groups that championed the Sahel’s recent coups are going through the same experience as their predecessors elsewhere.
In Mali, the June 5 Movement–Rally of Patriotic Forces (M5‑RFP) – a broad coalition of opposition parties, clerics and activists associated with Imam Mahmoud Dicko – has become one of the most outspoken critics of Colonel Assimi Goïta’s junta.
Yet M5‑RFP was among the coup’s earliest supporters. After months of mass protests against President Ibrahim Boubacar Keïta, the movement welcomed the military’s intervention in August 2020 and expected to help steer the transition.
That expectation faded quickly. The junta sidelined M5‑RFP during the formation of the transitional government, excluding many of its leaders from key positions.
When Goïta carried out a second coup in May 2021, removing the civilian interim leadership and consolidating the military’s control, the movement’s influence shrank even further. What began as a tactical alliance ended with M5‑RFP pushed to the margins.
The aftermath of Guinea’s 2021 coup followed a similar trajectory. Opposition leaders against former president Alpha Conde initially welcomed Gen. Mamady Doumbouya’s coup. Expecting a meaningful role in the transition, party leaders even urged the Economic Community of West African States (Ecowas) not to impose sanctions and publicly legitimised the coup as a necessary move.
But much like the Malian experience, the junta did not accommodate the parties for their support, barring them from substantial representation. Little more than a year later, party members were arrested when they voiced opposition to their lack of inclusion in the transition.
Seen in this comparative light, Burkina Faso’s recent party dissolution fits an established pattern. Early political backing does not guarantee continued access or influence once military rulers entrench themselves.
This publication originally appeared in The Conversation on Feb. 16, 2026
