In a move that has sent tremors through the cocktail hour of Quai d'Orsay, Burkina Faso has officially told France to take its baguettes and berets elsewhere. The military junta, for whom the phrase 'diplomatic niceties' is apparently a foreign concept, declared the 1961 military agreements null and void. This is not a divorce, it is a full-blown bonfire of the Gallic vanities.
President Ibrahim Traoré, a man whose patience with European paternalism appears to be thinner than the ice on a Parisian pavement in February, has decided that Burkina Faso's security needs may be better served by gentlemen who prefer their winters cold and their vodka colder. The Russians, naturally, are delighted. One can almost hear the corks popping from Moscow to Minsk. It is a shift that reeks of realpolitik and the distinct aroma of borscht.
The Sahel, that vast and dusty theatre of geopolitical theatre, is now playing host to a new act. France, once the sheriff of this particular patch of sand, is being shown the door. The flags are being lowered, and the tricolour is being replaced by something more... Slavic. This is not merely a diplomatic hiccup, it is a geopolitical earthquake with an aftershock of schadenfreude.
Let us be honest: France's relationship with its former colonies has always been a bit like a bad marriage. Overbearing, condescending, and with a tendency to leave the toilet seat up. The Burkinabé have simply decided to file for divorce and move in with a new partner who promises not to tell them how to fold their laundry. The irony, of course, is that Russia's interest in the Sahel is about as altruistic as a loan shark's interest in your grandmother's pension. But when you are staring down the barrel of jihadist insurgency, you take your friends where you find them.
The West, meanwhile, is wringing its hands and tutting into its cappuccino. 'This is a setback for regional stability,' they intone, as if the previous arrangement was a paragon of peace. Burkina Faso has been bleeding from a thousand cuts, and France's response was roughly equivalent to offering a sticking plaster made of croissant crumbs. Small wonder the junta decided to seek a more robust partner.
What does this mean for the average Burkinabé? Not much, in the short term. The sun will still rise, the goats will still bleat, and the insurgency will still gnaw at the fringes of society. But symbolically, this is a hammer blow to France's pretensions of global influence. The Sahel is no longer a French lake. It is becoming a Russian pond, and every crocodile in the neighbourhood is taking notes.
So raise a glass of something bracing to the new alliance. It may not be pretty, it may not be wise, but by God it is a spectacle. The clown car of international diplomacy has just added another passenger, and the clown is holding a Kalashnikov. Hold onto your hats, mes amis. The circus is coming to town.
