They pledged to reclaim control. To restore security. To return to Niger its sovereignty and its dignity. Three years on from the coup d’État of July 2023, the Conseil national pour la sauvegarde de la patrie (CNSP) continues to present its seizure of power as a historic rupture.
Yet far from Niamey, a different reality is taking shape.
In areas regularly struck by armed groups, communities still live with fear, uncertainty and, at times, the sense of having been left to fend for themselves. Villages are hit, families displaced, economic activity paralysed. And one question keeps returning with insistence: where are the leaders when the attacks come?
That is perhaps where one of the most troubling contradictions of this military transition resides.
A promise of protection that seldom reaches the danger zones
Since taking power, the CNSP has made security the principal argument for its legitimacy. The overthrow of President Mohamed Bazoum was justified, among other reasons, by the deterioration of the security situation.
The commitment was unambiguous: to do better.
Yet in the regions most exposed to violence, particularly in the west of the country, attacks continue to set the rhythm of daily life. Against that backdrop, one observation fuels the doubts: the officials who embody the transition rarely appear in the areas directly affected, at the very moment when residents are contending with the aftermath.
The authorities communicate from the capital. They announce operations, praise military victories, promise responses. For the populations living close to the most dangerous zones, however, the question is far more concrete: who comes to assess the damage? Who meets the affected families? Who explains what happened and what will be done to prevent it from happening again?
A government that has made security its central justification cannot indefinitely confine itself to discussing war from offices in the capital.
The capital fortified, the periphery under strain
This is among the most visible paradoxes of the system established since the coup.
At the summit, the regime’s own protection has become an absolute priority. Signs of mistrust within the military apparatus, reshuffles in the hierarchy and the multiplication of control measures all point to a power preoccupied with its own stability.
Meanwhile, far from the political centre, the population faces another form of insecurity: the kind that kills, displaces, closes schools, destroys local economies and upends daily life.
Two realities appear to coexist. On one side, a government focused on its survival and on securing its own apparatus. On the other, citizens still waiting for the promise of protection made in the aftermath of the coup to take concrete form in their lives.
Sovereignty, after all, should not stop at the gates of Niamey.
Communities bearing the heaviest cost
Behind every military statement lies a reality that official figures rarely convey in full.
- Families abandoning their villages;
- Farmers hesitant to return to their fields;
- Traders whose businesses have been brought to a standstill;
- Children whose schooling has been disrupted;
- Entire communities living in anticipation of the next attack.
It is precisely in these territories that the success or failure of the transition ought to be measured. Not only in official ceremonies. Not solely in speeches about sovereignty. But in the state’s capacity to protect those who have neither an escort, nor a palace, nor a dedicated security detail.
The problem is not exclusively military. It is also political. When a population feels that its leaders are visible at ceremonies, in speeches and in announcements, yet absent when danger strikes, trust inevitably begins to erode.
A transition more accustomed to communicating than to confronting the ground
The CNSP has built much of its image on a break with the previous system. New partners, a new diplomatic discourse, the denunciation of foreign influence: communication around sovereignty has become one of the pillars of the regime.
But communication does not substitute for presence.
A state may announce victories. It may denounce its adversaries. It may mobilise the vocabulary of patriotism and resistance. Yet one question persists: do the people genuinely feel better protected?
This is where official discourse meets its limits. Sovereignty is not measured only by the number of foreign partners expelled or welcomed. It is also measured by a state’s ability to control its territory and protect its citizens, particularly those living in the most vulnerable areas.
When attacks continue and populations remain exposed, slogans eventually collide with a reality far harder to disguise.
Beyond one man, an entire system of governance
The question now facing Niger extends beyond General Abdourahamane Tiani as an individual. It concerns a whole system of governance.
Can a seizure of power be justified by the previous regime’s security failures without accepting, three years later, to be judged on the same ground? Can proximity to the people be claimed while the populations of the most exposed areas await a more visible state presence? And above all, how long can a transition ask the population to wait while the promise that underpinned its accession to power remains largely unfulfilled?
The only yardstick that counts
True patriotism is not measured by the force of a speech. It is also measured by a leader’s capacity to look his people’s suffering in the face. To travel where the state is expected. To acknowledge failures as well as victories. And to understand that a power does not protect a nation from the offices of the capital alone.
In Niger, the authorities continue to speak of sovereignty, security and rupture. But in the areas where attacks persist, another reality imposes its own questions.
Can a regime present itself as the saviour of a people without going to meet those who live daily with the consequences of insecurity? That may well be where the true assessment of the transition lies. Not in slogans. Not in ceremonies. Not in televised statements. But on those roads, in those villages and among those families who, when attacks occur, are still waiting to learn whether the state will truly come to them.
For governing a country at war does not consist solely of protecting the government. It consists, first and foremost, of not leaving the people alone to face the war.