“Bienvenue a Bamako!” The fixer, the minder and the men linked to the Malian government were waiting for us at the airport in Bamako. Polite, smiling – and watchful.

It was late December, and we had just taken an Air Burkina flight from Dakar, Senegal across the Sahel, where a storm of political upheaval and armed violence has unsettled the region in recent years.

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Mali sits at the centre of a reckoning. After two military coups in 2020 and 2021, the country severed ties with its former colonial ruler, France, expelled French forces, pushed out the United Nations peacekeeping mission, and redrew its alliances

Alongside Burkina Faso and Niger, now also ruled by military governments backed by Russian mercenaries, it formed the Alliance of Sahel States (AES) in September 2023. Together, the regional grouping withdrew from the wider Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS) bloc, accusing it of serving foreign interests rather than African ones.

This month, leaders from the three countries converged in Bamako for the Confederal Summit of Heads of State of the AES, the second such meeting since the alliance was formed. And we were there to cover it.

The summit was a ribbon-cutting moment. Leaders of the three countries inaugurated a new Sahel Investment and Development Bank meant to finance infrastructure projects without reliance on Western lenders; a new television channel built around a shared narrative and presented as giving voice to the people of the Sahel; and a joint military force intended to operate across borders against armed groups. It was a moment to celebrate achievements more than to sign new agreements.

But the reason behind the urgency of those announcements lay beyond the summit hall.

In this layered terrain of fracture and identity, armed groups have found room not only to manoeuvre, but to grow. Jama’at Nusrat al-Islam wal-Muslimin (JNIM), an al-Qaeda affiliate, has expanded from rural Mali, launching attacks across the region and reaching the coast of Benin, exploiting weak state presence and long-unresolved grievances.

As our plane descended toward Bamako, I looked out at an endless stretch of earth, wondering how much of it was now under the control of al-Qaeda affiliates.

From the airport, our minders drove us fast through the city. Motorbikes swerved around us, street hawkers peddled their wares, and Malian pop blared from speakers. At first, this did not feel like a capital under siege. Yet since September, armed groups have been operating a blockade around Bamako, choking off fuel and goods, the military government said.

We drove past petrol stations where long queues stretched into the night. Life continued even as fuel grew scarce. People sat patiently, waiting their turn. Anger seemed to have given way to indifference, while rumours swirled that the authorities had struck quiet deals with the very fighters they claimed to be fighting, simply to keep the city moving.

Motorcycles line up near a closed petrol station, amid ongoing fuel shortages caused by a blockade imposed by al Qaeda-linked fighters in early September, in Bamako, Mali [Stringer/Reuters]

‘To become one country, to hold each other’s hand’

Our minders drove us on to the Sahel Alliance Square, a newly created public space built to celebrate the union of the three countries and its people.

On the way, Malian forces sped past, perhaps toward a front line that feels ever closer, as gunmen linked to JNIM have set up checkpoints disrupting trade routes to the capital in recent months. In September 2024, they also carried out coordinated attacks inside Bamako, hitting a military police school housing elite units, nearby neighbourhoods, and the military airport on the city’s outskirts. And yet, Bamako carries on, as if the war were taking place in a faraway land.

At Sahel Alliance Square, a few hundred young people gathered and cheered as the Malian forces went by, drawn by loud music, trivia questions on stage and the MC’s promise of small prizes.

The questions were simple: Name the AES countries? Name the leaders?

A microphone was handed to the children. The alliance leaders’ names were drilled in: Abdourahamane Tchiani of Niger. Ibrahim Traore of Burkina Faso. Assimi Goita of Mali. Repeated again and again until they stuck.

Correct answers won a prize: a T-shirt stamped with the faces of the alliance leaders.

Moussa Niare, 12 years old and a resident of Bamako, clutched a shirt bearing the faces of the three military leaders.

“They’ve gathered together to become one country, to hold each other’s hand, and to fight a common enemy,” he told us with buoyant confidence, as the government’s attempt to sell the new alliance to the public appeared to be cultivating loyalty among the young.

France out, Russia in

While Mali, Burkina Faso and Niger went through separate political transitions, the paths that brought them into a shared alliance followed a similar pattern.

Between 2020 and 2023, each country saw its democratically elected leadership removed by the military, the takeovers framed as necessary corrections.

In Mali, Colonel Goita seized power after months of protest and amid claims that President Ibrahim Boubacar Keita had failed to curb corruption or halt the advance of armed groups.

In Burkina Faso, the army ousted President Roch Marc Christian Kabore in early 2022 as insecurity worsened; later that year, Captain Traore emerged from a counter-coup, promising a more decisive response to the rebellion.

In Niger, soldiers led by General Tchiani detained President Mohamed Bazoum in July 2023, accusing his government of failing to safeguard national security and of leaning too heavily on foreign partners.

What began as separate seizures of power have since become a shared political project, now expressed through a formal alliance. The gathering in Bamako was to give shape to their union.

One of the key conclusions of the AES summit was the announced launch of a joint military battalion aimed at fighting armed groups across the Sahel.

This follows months of escalating violence, as regional armies assisted by Russian mercenaries push back against armed groups who have been launching attacks for over a decade.

Under the previous civilian governments, former colonial ruler France had a strong diplomatic and military presence. French troops, whose presence in the region dates back to independence, are now being pushed out, as military rulers recast sovereignty as both a political and security imperative. The last troops left Mali in 2022, but at its peak, France had more than 5,000 soldiers deployed there. When they withdrew, the country became a symbol of strategic failure for France’s Emmanuel Macron.

But even before that, French diplomacy appeared tone deaf, and patronising at best, failing to grasp the aspirations of its former colonies. The common regional currency, the CFA franc, still anchored to the French treasury, has become a powerful symbol of that resentment.

Now, French state television and radio have been banned in Mali. In what was once the heart of Francophone West Africa, French media has become shorthand for interference. What was lost was not only influence, but credibility. France was no longer seen as guaranteeing stability, but as producing instability.

Across the Sahel and beyond, anti-French sentiment is surging, often expressed in French itself – the language of the coloniser is now also the language of resistance.

Captain Ibrahim Traore of Burkina Faso attends the Alliance of Sahel States (AES) second summit in Bamako, Mali [Mali Government Information Center via AP]

‘Like a marriage of reason’

At the end of the summit, Mali’s Goita was preparing to hand over the AES’s rotating leadership to Traore of Burkina Faso.

Young, charismatic, and the new rock star of Pan-Africanism, Traore, in particular, has captured young audiences with help from a loose ecosystem of pro-Russian messaging and Africanist influencers. Across social media platforms, short videos circulate relentlessly: speeches clipped for virality, images of defiance, and slogans reduced to shareable fragments.

Meanwhile, in Burkina Faso, journalists and civil society actors who have criticised the military rules have been sent to the front line under a conscription policy introduced by Traore. Human rights groups outspoken about alleged extrajudicial killings say they have been silenced or sidelined. But much of it is dismissed as collateral, the price, supporters argue, of sovereignty finally reclaimed.

Before the ceremony, we met Mali’s finance minister. At first, he was confident, rehearsed, assured. But when pressed about financing for the ambitious infrastructure projects the three governments have laid out for the Sahel, his composure faltered and his words stuttered. This was a government official unaccustomed to being questioned. The microphone was removed. Later, away from the camera, he told me, “The IMF won’t release loans until Mali has ironed out its relations with France.”

The spokesperson, irritated by my questions, took me aside. As he adjusted the collar of my suit, slowly and patronisingly, he said he sometimes thought about putting journalists in jail “just for fun”.

He did not question the organisation I worked for. He questioned my French passport; my allegiance. I told him my allegiance was to the truth. He smiled, as if that answer confirmed his suspicions.

In the worldview of Mali’s military government – men shaped by years on the front line, living with a permanent sense of threat – journalists and critics are part of the problem. Creating safety was the challenge. The alliance, the spokesperson explained, was the solution to what they could not find within regional body, ECOWAS.

The half-century-old West African institution is a bloc that the three countries had once helped shape. Now, the AES leaders say its ageing, democratically elected presidents have grown detached, more invested in maintaining one another in office than in confronting the region’s crises. In response, they are promoting the AES as an alternative.

As the Sahel alliance grows, it’s also building new infrastructure.

At its new television channel in Bamako, preparations were under way. The ON AIR sign glowed. State-of-the-art cameras sat on tripods like polished weapons.

The channel’s director, Salif Sanogo, told me it would be “a tool to fight disinformation,” a way to counter Western, and more specifically French, narratives and “give voice to the people of the Sahel, by the people of the Sahel”.

The cameras had been bought abroad. The installation was overseen by a French production company. The irony went unremarked.

To defend the alliance, he offered a metaphor. “It’s like a marriage of reason,” he said. “It’s easier to make decisions when you’re married to three. When you’re married to 15, it’s a mess.” He was referring to the 15 member states of ECOWAS.

‘We will survive this, too’

Two years into the AES alliance, they have moved faster than the legacy regional bloc they left behind. A joint military force now binds their borders together, presented as a matter of survival rather than ambition. A mutual defence pact recasts coups and external pressure as shared threats, not national failures. A common Sahel investment and development bank, meant to finance roads, energy, and mineral extraction without recourse to Western lenders, offers sovereignty, they say, without conditions. A common currency is under discussion.

A shared news channel is intended to project a single narrative outward, even as space for independent media contracts at home. And after withdrawing from the International Criminal Court, they have proposed a Sahel penal court, one that would try serious crimes and human rights violations on their own terms. Justice brought home, or justice brought under control, depending on who you ask.

What is taking shape is not just an alliance, but an alternative architecture, built quickly, deliberately, and in full view of its critics.

Where ECOWAS built norms slowly, through elections, mediation, and consensus, AES is building structure. Where ECOWAS insists on patience, AES insists on speed.

To supporters, this is overdue self-determination, dignity restored after decades of dependency. To critics, it is power concentrated in uniforms, accountability postponed, repression dressed up as emancipation.

From the summit stage as he took over the alliance’s leadership, Traore redrew the enemy: Not al-Qaeda. Not ISIL. Not even France. But their African neighbours, cast as the enemy within. He warned of what he called a “black winter”, a speech that held the room and travelled far beyond it, drawing millions of viewers online.

“Why are we, Black people, trying to cultivate hatred among ourselves,” he asked, “and through hypocrisy calling ourselves brothers? We have only two choices: either we put an end to imperialism once and for all, or we remain slaves until we disappear.”

Away from the summit’s “black winter”, under a sunlit sky in Bamako, life moved on with a quieter rhythm. Music drifted through public squares and streets, carrying a familiarity that cut across the tension of speeches and slogans. It was Amadou and Mariam, Mali’s most internationally known musical duo, whose songs once carried the country’s everyday joys far beyond its borders. Amadou died suddenly this year. But the melody lingers.

Its lyrics hold the secret of the largest alliance of all. Not one forged by treaties or uniforms, but by people, across Mali and the Sahel, in all their diversity.

“Sabali”, Mariam sings.

“Forbearance.

“We have survived worse. We will survive this, too.”