AU’s Double Standard on Madagascar: When “Zero Tolerance” Becomes Selective Amnesia

By Adonis Byemelwa

The African Union’s latest pronouncement on Madagascar feels like déjà vu dressed in diplomatic robes. In its emergency session on October 13th, the Peace and Security Council (PSC) in Addis Ababa once again pulled out its favourite clause, the “zero tolerance for unconstitutional changes of government” under Article 4(p) of the Constitutive Act.

 It reaffirmed earlier declarations, restating that any form of unconstitutional power grab is a red line. Yet, the statement’s silence is louder than its words.

 It deliberately omits the Union’s own 2013 decision, one that recognised that not all power shifts born outside rigid constitutional channels are inherently illegitimate.

The 2013 position, endorsed at the highest level, acknowledged that when governments slide into total authoritarianism and constitutional means of change are no longer available, the people have a right to reclaim their future peacefully.

The question then is: what makes Madagascar different from Egypt, Zimbabwe, Sudan, or Mali, countries where the AU looked the other way or even tacitly nodded at “good coups”?

 The Malagasy people’s actions, by most measures, fit the AU’s own 2013 thresholds: peaceful protests, widespread participation, and minimal military interference.

Yet, the same organisation that once hailed the “people’s right to resist oppression” now threatens to invoke Article 7(1)(g) against them, a move that could see Madagascar suspended from AU activities.

 This contradiction reveals something deeper than legal inconsistency; it exposes a credibility crisis within the AU’s governance architecture.

The selective memory and shifting goalposts undermine continental legitimacy and weaken the Union’s moral authority to speak on democracy and governance.

What is unfolding in Madagascar is not just another political episode; it’s a mirror reflecting Africa’s unfinished democratic project.

The AU’s credibility now hinges on whether it can evolve from being a reactive observer issuing hollow communiqués to becoming a principled mediator capable of distinguishing between power grabs and genuine popular reclamations of sovereignty.

 If the Union continues to respond to political crises with reflexive condemnations while ignoring its own precedents, it risks alienating the very citizens whose legitimacy it claims to defend.

 The Malagasy case is therefore not a local crisis but a continental litmus test: can the AU uphold its own doctrine of people’s sovereignty, or will it once again retreat into the comfort of diplomatic contradiction?

At its core, this is about more than constitutionalism; it’s about the AU’s moral consistency. Africa doesn’t need another set of stiff, bureaucratic statements; it needs an honest reckoning with the lived realities of its people.

The Malagasy uprising, much like others before it, stems from deep-seated grievances, inequality, political exclusion, and economic despair. To threaten punishment without addressing these roots is to treat a symptom and ignore the disease.

 If the AU genuinely seeks stability, it must rediscover the spirit of its 2013 decision: that legitimacy flows not from procedure alone, but from the will of the people.