On 25 September, at dusk, Antananarivo went dark. Mothers lit candles to cook dinner; children did their homework by phone light. By midnight, thousands were in the streets, demanding power — the kind that runs lights and governs nations. Years of neglected infrastructure, mounting debt, and mismanaged fuel supplies had finally caught up with the grid. Now that the blackouts have stretched into weeks, Madagascar’s quiet frustration has ignited into open revolt. The collapse of electricity has become the collapse of trust, as the people have realized that its government can no longer keep even the most basic promise: to keep the lights on.
The crisis has been building for years, but it exploded late last month. Rolling blackouts and water shortages in September triggered mass protests across the capital, leaving several injured and at least three dead. The government imposed a curfew and dismissed its energy minister, yet the damage ran far deeper than the grid.
JIRAMA, short for Jiro sy Rano Malagasy, meaning “Malagasy Electricity and Water,” has been a disaster for years. The state-owned utility company is responsible for both electricity and water, but corruption scandals, unpaid debts, and failing infrastructure have gutted its credibility. Donor aid and foreign investment were meant to fix it. They didn’t. Only 40 percent of citizens have access to electricity, and even for them the power often fails for up to 10 hours a day, cutting off water, lights, and any faith that the government is still in control of the country.
Speaking at a protest in Antananarivo, 24-year-old mother of two Vanessa Rafanomezantsoa described life without water or electricity as the new normal. Her story mirrors that of millions across Madagascar: living by candlelight and paying taxes to a state that cannot deliver its most basic service.
Economically, the crisis has become a drain that the country can’t afford. JIRAMA’s losses run into the tens of millions every year, forcing the government to prop it up with subsidies that eat into health and education budgets. The country burns imported diesel to keep emergency generators running, fuel that now makes up nearly a third of its entire energy spending. Every blackout has an economic cost: spoiled harvests, frozen factories, and lost work hours. For a country where over 70 percent of the population depends on agriculture, power cuts mean crops that can’t be stored and wages that never arrive.
The anger isn’t unique to Madagascar. Across Africa, power failures have become political events. Fuel shortages triggered riots in Sierra Leone in 2022. A nationwide blackout paralyzed Nairobi in 2023. Even South Africa’s ruling party has lost support as blackouts drag on. Infrastructure failure has turned into a political fault line.
Each blackout chips away at the state’s authority. Madagascar’s government continues borrowing for high-profile projects while basic utilities slide. JIRAMA is plagued by inefficient production and massive transmission losses, despite state subsidies averaging 1.2 percent of GDP. Meanwhile, frequent power outages pose one of the largest risks to growth, particularly for agriculture and manufacturing. Cities across the country are now openly rebelling against these blackouts, with only 36 percent of people having reliable electricity access.
But the deeper failure is institutional, not technical. Madagascar’s economy is stuck in a trap of short-termism. Leaders pursue visible development projects to appease donors and creditors, while neglecting the invisible ones, such as grids, water systems, and supply chains, that sustain real growth. The Sahofika Hydropower Project, for example, is being promoted as a symbol of progress, expected to generate 205 megawatts and serve up to eight million people. But even with ambitious plans on paper, JIRAMA’s grid currently leaks nearly 31 percent of its electricity through aging, unfinished, or underfunded infrastructure. The result is a paradox: Madagascar is investing in power plants that generate electricity that can’t be reliably distributed.
Donor institutions are watching with unease. For years, the World Bank and IMF have promoted public-private partnerships as the pathway to close Africa’s infrastructure gap. In practice, these models have shifted power toward investors and weakened state accountability. Governments under fiscal stress often prioritize projects that please creditors instead of serving citizens. In Madagascar, the result has been a grid financed by external debt and run by fragile institutions, a structure built to fail in times of crisis.
And the foreign ties don’t end there. China’s state-backed firms have become major players in Madagascar’s energy and construction sectors, offering fast financing with few strings attached. It’s an easy sell for struggling governments, but a dangerous one. The more Madagascar leans on Beijing’s money to light its cities, the more it risks handing over the switch.
That dependence carries political costs that ordinary people can feel. Chinese loans and construction deals are struck behind closed doors, often benefiting a handful of officials while leaving citizens in the dark, literally and politically. As Beijing’s influence grows over power grids, ports, and even the debt that finances them, people in Antananarivo see less sovereignty and more surrender.
That’s why the anger has spilled into the streets. People are demanding proof of governance itself rather than simply asking for reform. Diesel generators hum where the state once provided electricity. The government has pledged new investments and sought emergency IMF assistance, but these fixes sound temporary. And while Madagascar may be able to fix the wires, they can’t fix faith. Once trust burns out, no amount of electricity can bring it back.
Madagascar’s blackout revolt carries a wider warning. Infrastructure is a foundation of political order. When governments lose the ability to deliver basic utilities, they lose the foundation of legitimacy itself. From Pakistan’s failing grids to Nigeria’s water shortages, the same truth holds: When the current stops flowing, the social contract shorts out.
The lights in Antananarivo may flicker back to life, but the current that once ran between people and power — the kind no generator can restore — has already gone dark.
Featured Image Source: Adobe Stock
