The Untold History of Sanmatenga, Burkina Faso: A Microcosm of Global Struggles
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Nestled in the heart of Burkina Faso, the Sanmatenga province is more than just a geographic location—it’s a living archive of West African history. Long before colonial borders were drawn, this region was a nexus for the Mossi Kingdoms, whose influence stretched across the Sahel. The Mossi people, known for their warrior culture and intricate governance systems, left an indelible mark on Sanmatenga’s identity.
Yet, today, Sanmatenga finds itself at the intersection of global crises: climate change, jihadist insurgencies, and the scramble for dwindling natural resources. To understand its present, we must excavate its past.
The Mossi Kingdoms (11th–19th centuries) were masterful at balancing centralized authority with local autonomy. Sanmatenga, as a key province, thrived under the Nakomse (nobility) and Tengbiise (earth priests), who mediated between the spiritual and political realms. Unlike Europe’s feudal systems, Mossi rulers derived legitimacy from their ability to negotiate—not dominate—the land and its people.
This legacy of resilience echoes today. As Burkina Faso grapples with coups and extremist violence, Sanmatenga’s communities revive traditional conflict-resolution models, like the Kougri assemblies, where elders mediate disputes without state intervention. In an era of failing governments, these grassroots systems offer a blueprint for stability.
Sanmatenga was once the granary of Burkina Faso, its fertile plains feeding millions. But decades of erratic rainfall, deforestation, and soil degradation have turned fields into cracked earth. The Harmattan winds, now fiercer with climate change, strip away topsoil, while temperatures rise twice as fast as the global average.
Farmers like Amadou Zongo, 62, recount how millet yields have halved in his lifetime. "Our ancestors prayed to Tengkouga (the rain spirit)," he says. "Now, even the spirits are silent." The UN estimates that 80% of Sanmatenga’s population faces food insecurity, a crisis mirrored across the Sahel.
Faced with collapse, locals innovate. NGOs promote zaï pits—centuries-old Mossi techniques to trap rainwater—while women’s cooperatives reintroduce drought-resistant crops like fonio. Yet, these efforts clash with a harsh reality: 40% of Burkinabé youth now seek migration routes to Europe. Sanmatenga’s villages are emptying, their stories lost to the Mediterranean’s depths.
Since 2015, Sanmatenga has been a battleground between state forces, jihadists, and ethnic militias. Groups like Ansarul Islam exploit historical grievances, framing their fight as a revolt against the Mossi-dominated government. But this narrative distorts history: the Mossi and Fulani once coexisted through trade and intermarriage.
Today, massacres in towns like Barsalogho fracture these bonds. A Fulani herder, speaking anonymously, admits: "We no longer share water with Mossi farmers. Fear is the new law." The conflict has displaced 2 million Burkinabé—Africa’s fastest-growing crisis.
Foreign powers fuel the fire. France’s withdrawal from Mali pushed jihadists into Burkina Faso, while Wagner Group mercenaries offer the junta a Faustian bargain: security in exchange for gold mines. Sanmatenga’s ancient trade routes now smuggle weapons instead of salt and kola nuts.
Burkina Faso is Africa’s 4th-largest gold producer, yet Sanmatenga’s miners earn $2/day. Industrial mines, owned by Canadian and Russian firms, leach cyanide into waterways, poisoning the Nakambé River. Artisanal miners, often children, tunnel into unstable pits. In 2022, a collapse in Gangaol killed 18—a footnote in global news.
Protests against mining giants are met with bullets. In 2023, the junta banned "unauthorized gatherings," citing "terrorist infiltration." But youth groups like Balai Citoyen (Citizen’s Broom) organize clandestinely, invoking Thomas Sankara’s legacy. Their slogan: "Our gold builds Dubai’s skyscrapers, while our schools crumble."
Sanmatenga’s borders, like all Sahelian states, were carved by the 1898 Franco-British convention—a deal made over brandy, ignoring ethnic ties. The Mossi Kingdom was split between Burkina Faso, Ghana, and Ivory Coast, dividing families. Today, this fuels separatist movements like the Azawad and Loroum rebellions.
Amidst the chaos, historians and activists digitize oral traditions. Projects like Sankofa Chronicles record griots’ songs in Mossi, Fula, and Dyula, preserving languages that colonial schools tried to erase. In a world obsessed with "the next crisis," these efforts reclaim agency: "If we lose our stories, we become ghosts," says archivist Aïssata Sawadogo.
While men dominate headlines, women sustain Sanmatenga. During droughts, they walk 10km daily for water; during attacks, they hide children in caves. Groups like Femmes Battantes (Fighting Women) run underground schools, defying jihadist bans on girls’ education. Their resilience mirrors the Lelenga priestesses of Mossi lore, who communed with ancestors to guide kings.
Yet bravery has costs. In 2021, jihadists flogged 15 women in Dablo for "immodest dress." Some fled to Ouagadougou’s slums; others returned, vowing to fight. "They took our dignity, not our will," says Mariam Ouedraogo, 34, who now trains women in first aid.
Sanmatenga’s youth face a brutal choice: join the army (and risk summary executions), enlist with jihadists (for $100/month), or flee. But a minority chooses a fourth path: activism. In Kaya, the Collectif des Jeunes Engagés uses hip-hop to critique corruption, their lyrics blending Moore and French.
Social media is their weapon. When the junta shut down the internet in 2023, hackers restored access via mesh networks. "We’re rewriting the rules," says coder Ibrahim Traoré (no relation to the junta leader). Their meme wars—mocking generals as "colonial puppets"—go viral, proving satire cuts deeper than bullets.
While Ukraine’s refugees dominate Western media, Sanmatenga’s 500,000 displaced vanish into statistics. In makeshift camps like Pissila, children die from malaria in tents branded with USAID logos. The UN’s $800M appeal for Burkina Faso is only 12% funded.
"Why does CNN care about Kyiv but not Kaya?" asks nurse Fatimata Zongo. The answer lies in geopolitics: no oil, no strategic ports, just "another African tragedy." Yet here, too, lies hope. Local NGOs like Terres Rouges bypass red tape, delivering aid via motorbike convoys—a modern twist on Mossi cavalry.
Before colonization, Tengkouga shrines dotted Sanmatenga’s forests—nature and culture intertwined. Now, eco-activists replant these groves, both as carbon sinks and cultural anchors. "A tree is resistance," explains elder Boureima Nikiéma.
Thomas Sankara’s 1980s revolution—land reforms, vaccination drives, women’s rights—was crushed in a coup. Yet his ghost haunts Sanmatenga. Farmers quote his speeches; murals of his face outnumber junta posters. In a world of authoritarianism, his ideals remain subversive.
Sanmatenga’s struggles are not unique. From Syria’s droughts to Myanmar’s junta, the same forces collide: climate collapse, resource greed, and the weaponization of identity. But here, history isn’t just studied—it’s lived. As the Mossi proverb goes: "When the music changes, so must the dance." In Sanmatenga, the dance is one of survival, and the world would do well to listen.