In April 2025, a court in Abidjan struck Tidjane Thiam, a leading opposition figure, from Côte d’Ivoire’s electoral roll, barring him from the October presidential election. The ruling, based on a dubious claim that Thiam lost his Ivorian citizenship when he acquired French nationality in 1987, reeks of political manipulation. For a continent striving to cement democratic norms, this judicial overreach is not just a Côte d’Ivoire problem—it’s an African one. And Sierra Leone, where dual nationality issues have also reared their ugly head around elections time, should be watching closely.
The irony is bitter. President Alassane Ouattara, who has led Côte d’Ivoire since 2011, was himself disqualified from running in 2000 over questions about his nationality—a decision that fuelled a civil war costing thousands of lives. That Ouattara now presides over a system deploying the same tactic against Thiam, a distinguished son of Abidjan and former CEO of Credit Suisse, is a betrayal of his own history. Et tu, Ouattara? The man who once decried exclusion now wields it as a weapon.
Thiam’s disqualification is no isolated incident. It fits a pattern of judicial elimination that has kneecapped Ivorian democracy. Former President Laurent Gbagbo, acquitted by the International Criminal Court, remains barred from running due to a local conviction. Ex-Prime Minister Guillaume Soro languishes in exile, struck from the voter roll. Charles Blé Goudé, a prominent youth leader, faces similar legal hurdles. Meanwhile, Jean-Louis Billon, another opposition figure with a dual-national background, escapes scrutiny—fuelling suspicions that Ouattara’s ruling RHDP party is handpicking its opponents. In 2020, a token rival paved the way for Ouattara’s near-uncontested re-election. The playbook is being dusted off again.
This is not just about one man or one election. It’s about the soul of a nation and the stability of a region. Thiam, born in 1962 to a sister of Côte d’Ivoire’s founding president, Félix Houphouët-Boigny, is as Ivorian as they come. His dual nationality, a common reality for millions in Africa’s diaspora, was never a secret. He served as a minister in the 1990s and renounced his French citizenship in March 2025 to meet electoral eligibility rules. Yet, a 1961 law, rarely enforced, was exhumed to declare him “foreign.” Legal experts in Abidjan and Paris call this a fiction—a natural-born dual national cannot lose Ivorian citizenship on such grounds. The Ivorian Bar Association has condemned the ruling, citing procedural flaws and warning of electoral violence.
Africa cannot afford this. Côte d’Ivoire, a West African economic powerhouse, is a linchpin for regional stability. The 2010 civil war, sparked partly by electoral disputes, sent thousands of refugees streaming into Ghana, Liberia, and beyond. Sierra Leone knows the ripple effects of such crises all too well. Our own civil war in the 1990s, fuelled by political exclusion and resource conflicts, left scars that still shape our politics. When courts become tools to silence opposition, the risk of unrest grows. Ghana, Côte d’Ivoire’s neighbour, is already bracing for a potential new refugee crisis. ECOWAS, often slow to act, may be called upon to mediate. The stakes are high.
This saga also raises a broader question: What place does Africa’s diaspora have in shaping the continent’s future? From Sierra Leone to Nigeria, millions of Africans abroad hold dual nationalities, send remittances, and bring expertise home. Côte d’Ivoire’s move to disenfranchise Thiam signals to them – You are not welcome. Imagine if Sierra Leone barred its diaspora from voting or running for office. The outcry would be deafening. Yet, in Abidjan, this precedent is being set, threatening not just democracy but the economic and social contributions of a global Ivorian community.
Ouattara’s legacy hangs in the balance. At 83, he has yet to confirm whether he will seek a fourth term, but his party’s actions suggest a determination to cling to power at any cost. This is a dangerous game. Côte d’Ivoire’s 2020 election, marred by boycotts and violence, left 85 dead and hundreds wounded. Thiam, a moderniser with a vision of peace and regional cooperation, offered a chance to break this cycle. His platform, rooted in reversing Côte d’Ivoire’s slide to 166th on the UN Human Development Index, resonated with a weary populace. By sidelining him, Ouattara risks reigniting the very divisions he once endured.
Sierra Leoneans, like all Africans, yearn for a continent where elections are contests of ideas, not courtrooms. We know the cost of fractured governance—our own post-war recovery demanded unity and fairness. Côte d’Ivoire stands at a crossroads. If Ouattara allows this judicial charade to persist, he may secure short-term control but at a grave cost, a fractured nation and a destabilised region. The ghosts of 2010 loom large. Africa deserves better.