I was born in 1975 in Burundi, a small landlocked country in East Africa — beautiful, wounded, and, for most of my life, broken by power struggles that left no room for peace. If you ask me how many coups I’ve survived, the honest answer is: at least five, though it often felt like more. The air was thick with fear. The radio was never just background noise — it was the drumbeat of destiny. And silence, more than anything, became our way of life.
This isn’t a history lesson. This is a memoir of survival — not just mine, but of a people caught in the crossfire between dreams and bullets.
The First Coups: A Childhood Without Stability
By the time I was old enough to walk, my country had already seen its first president, Michel Micombero, overthrown in a military coup in 1976. Colonel Jean-Baptiste Bagaza took over, promising reform. Like many who seize power with guns, he brought control, not peace.
In 1987, Bagaza himself was overthrown by Pierre Buyoya while out of the country. These transitions weren’t like elections — they were violent erasures of the past. A new name on the currency, a new portrait on the wall, but always the same shadow of the army hanging over everything.
My childhood was lived between whispers. You didn’t ask questions about politics. You didn’t say names out loud. People disappeared. Soldiers showed up at night. You learned very young to listen before speaking — or not to speak at all.
1993 – The Coup That Shattered Everything
Then came 1993, a year burned into my memory and our nation’s soul.
That year, Melchior Ndadaye became the first democratically elected president of Burundi — and the first Hutu to lead the country after decades of Tutsi-dominated military rule. He was a man of peace, a teacher, a father — and a symbol of a new beginning.
But the army didn’t want a beginning. They wanted continuity — their continuity. On October 21, 1993, Ndadaye was captured and brutally murdered in a military compound. His ministers and allies — Pontien Karibwami, Gilles Bimazubute, and others — were also killed. Some beaten. Some tortured. Some shot like animals.
And with that, the country exploded.
Neighbors turned on each other. Massacres swept through the hills. The army retaliated against civilians. Rebels rose in response. Burundi was not just a country in crisis — it became a nation at war with itself.
I remember running. I remember hiding. I remember the sound of gunfire, the smell of fear. I remember classmates who never came back to school. I remember not feeling surprised. I remember that most of all.
1994 – When the Sky Fell
As if Burundi had not suffered enough, our new president Cyprien Ntaryamira was killed in April 1994, when the plane he shared with Rwandan President Juvénal Habyarimana was shot down in Kigali. That event sparked the Rwandan Genocide, but in Burundi, it deepened our descent into chaos. Leadership became a rotating door. Assassinations became headlines. And the people? We buried more than we could count.
1996 – Coup Number Four
In 1996, Pierre Buyoya returned to power through another coup, ousting President Sylvestre Ntibantunganya, who had sought refuge in the American embassy. By then, order had become a euphemism. We no longer asked who was in charge — we asked who was still alive.
Burundi stayed in a state of conflict until 2005. That’s over a decade of displacement, fear, hunger, and silence. Hundreds of thousands died. Many fled. I was one of them.
2015 – Even When the Guns Went Quiet, The Fear Remained
In 2015, President Pierre Nkurunziza announced he would run for a third term, defying the constitution and the Arusha peace agreement. Protesters filled the streets. The army split. A failed coup attempt followed.
I was no longer in Burundi. But my body remembered the rhythm of crisis — how quickly the news changes, how slowly the trauma heals.
In 2020, Nkurunziza died — officially of a heart attack. Many of us suspect otherwise. But no one asks. Not out loud.
So How Many Coups Have I Survived?
Five, if you’re counting the ones that made the newspapers.
Many more, if you include the nights of gunfire, the months in hiding, the funerals without bodies.
More still, if you include the slow coups — the ones against hope, against truth, against memory.
Why This Story Matters
This story isn’t about politics. It’s about what happens to a child who grows up afraid to dream, what happens to a people who learn to expect betrayal, what happens to a nation that buries its future with every leader it loses.
People ask me why I’m so pessimistic.
Why I sound cynical.
Why I don’t believe in easy answers for Africa.
And I say: I survived Burundi.
I survived forgetting.
Now, I choose to remember.
Because if we do not speak our truth, they will rewrite it.
And the next child born under a military regime will grow up thinking this was normal.
It was not.
Have you lived through a coup? Are you from Burundi, or a country that’s been silenced by history? Leave a comment — let’s share what they tried to erase.
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