Cotonou Changes Its General in Silence While the North Bleeds

On 4 November 2026, Benin's Council of Ministers announced a change at the head of the army. No speech. No justification. Just a list of names and job titles, as if the fate of men in uniform could be settled in a drawer. Corps General Abou Issa replaces General Fructueux Gbaguidi, who had held the post since 2022. The government gave no official reason. We, the citizens, are expected to make do with an administrative formula.

But let us ask the question this silence would like to smother: why does a chief of staff change when the country is at war against terrorism? A soldier has the right to know why his commander is leaving. A mother in the North has the right to know who is protecting her village. And a people has the right to know who holds the reins of its defence.

Gbaguidi's record cannot be reduced to a name on a list. For four years, his mandate was dominated by the fight against jihadist groups in the north of the country, a zone where border villages live under the constant threat of ambushes and incursions. Under his leadership, the army undertook an overhaul of its defence architecture in the North, introduced drones into its operations, and modernised military education. These reforms were necessary. They are not sufficient on their own, but they show that an army can learn, adapt and modernise.

The jihadist attacks have come at a heavy price. Beninese soldiers have died, and military families are mourning sons, husbands and fathers. Yet the troops hold the ground. This resistance does not come from a central state that content itself with communiqués, but from the courage of soldiers who are poorly equipped against armed groups that strike fast, vanish and return. Those who fall at the front deserve better than a nomination murmured at the Council of Ministers.

And at that very moment, the commander-in-chief of the Armed Forces of Haiti was making an official visit to Benin. A coincidence, perhaps. But in matters of defence, coincidences are never innocent. They demand explanations, and the people of Benin have not received those explanations.

Further east, East Africa is living through another drama, just as brutal. Around Moyale, a border town between Ethiopia and Kenya, fierce fighting has pitted two Ethiopian communities against each other over territorial disputes. The result: some 50,000 Ethiopians have fled to neighbouring Kenya within a few weeks. They walked away with whatever they could carry. They left behind homes, fields and livestock. According to Kenyan authorities, at least 11,000 of them, mainly women and children, are living in temporary sites, most of them schools. More than 25,000 others have been taken in by local communities, themselves already poor, in a semi-arid region where water is a scarce commodity.

Picture the scene. A school where the exercise books have been packed away to make room for mattresses. A little girl who no longer goes to class because her classroom has become an improvised dormitory. Children who still hear, across the border, the fire of heavy artillery. According to the Red Cross, stray bullets have killed three people and wounded twenty others on the Kenyan side. These are not statistics. These are lives torn apart by a war that does not concern them, but that strikes them all the same.

The United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees puts it with diplomatic restraint: this influx poses a "challenge in mobilising resources." Translation: the world is watching, but it is not paying. Kenya is hosting, as it always has, and it is doing so with its own limited means. It is African generosity that carries the weight of crises Africa did not create, while international donors debate their budget priorities.

These two stories, seemingly separate, tell the same story of failure. In one case, a government changes its officers without being held to account. In the other, communities kill each other over territories while judicial and political institutions fail to settle the disputes. In both cases, it is civilians who pay the price. Always the civilians.

We must stop tolerating this logic. A state that does not justify its military decisions breeds distrust and weakens the confidence soldiers must have in their chain of command. A state that lets territorial conflicts rot without credible arbitration opens the door to militias, warlords and foreign manipulation. Democracy is not a decoration. It is measured by a government's capacity to explain, to answer and to correct itself.

And yet there is a way forward. Botswana built its stability on strong institutions, transparent governance and rigorous management of its resources. Mauritius has shown that a small state can build an open economy, an independent judiciary and peaceful alternation of power. Senegal, despite its tensions, has proven that citizen pressure and a vigilant civil society can compel those in power to respect the rules of the game. These countries are not perfect. But they remind us that a continent that demands accountability from its leaders is a continent that moves forward.

For Benin, we demand three simple things. First, that major military appointments be accompanied by a public justification and subjected to oversight by the National Assembly. Second, that the fight against terrorism in the North rest on a clear strategy, published, evaluated, with measurable objectives and real protection for local populations. Third, that the families of fallen soldiers be treated with the dignity they deserve, so that the appointment of a general does not become a pretext for burying the losses.

For Ethiopia and Kenya, the responsibility is regional and continental. The Intergovernmental Authority on Development (IGAD) and the African Union must shake off their torpor and propose serious mediation on border conflicts, with arbitration mechanisms, verification commissions and sanctions against those who arm the belligerents. International partners must fund the reception of displaced people instead of merely taking note. And civil society, churches, youth associations and local entrepreneurs must organise solidarity between communities so that hatred does not become destiny.

So what must the Beninese citizen do? He must ask the question the government is dodging. He must demand answers from his deputies, his local elected officials and the press. He must refuse to let security become a restricted domain where no one is ever held to account. And the African citizen, wherever he lives, must refuse indifference. A continent is not saved by the silence of its offices, but by the demands of its peoples.

We are Africans. These soldiers are our sons. These refugees are our brothers and sisters. And this official silence is not an accident. It is proof that we still have a long way to go before transparency becomes the rule, and not the exception.

Based on reporting by ACSS-EMAIL