History belongs to those who hold power because it is power that determines who is remembered and who is forgotten. In the global order, not all nations are equal, and some are never meant to be. Africa, rich in history, resilience, and potential, has been deliberately kept at the margins of strategic power. Not because it lacks the capacity to rise, but because its rise threatens the very foundations of global dominance.
Why has an entire continent been excluded from nuclear power while others remain heavily armed? Because a strong Africa challenges the existing order. It disrupts the carefully maintained balance that keeps it dependent. It demands a seat at the table, not as a subject, but as a sovereign power. And for those who have long benefited from Africa’s weakness, that is the real threat. To fully understand this exclusion, we must look beyond surface-level nuclear capability.
It isn’t merely a question of scientific advancement or technological progress. Instead, it is rooted in a deeper, more complex story, one shaped by the legacies of colonialism, the manoeuvres of great power politics, and a racialized global order that continues to benefit from Africa’s resources while turning a blind eye to its rightful place on the global stage. Although Africa’s resources have powered nuclear ambitions elsewhere, African voices remain excluded from the strategic decisions that shape the world’s future. This silence isn’t incidental– it is deliberate, and it is time we ask why.
The truth is, Africa didn’t simply step away from the nuclear path; it was pushed away. The decision to remain nuclear-free, often viewed as a moral stance, was influenced by intense pressure from powerful countries with significant stakes. When African nations signed the Treaty of Pelindaba in 1996, guaranteeing never to build nuclear weapons, the world applauded. But behind the applause was relief from former colonial powers and global giants, who worried about what a nuclear-armed Africa could mean for their interests. After all, a continent with its own nuclear deterrent wouldn’t be as easy to influence, exploit, or ignore.
Instead of supporting Africa’s right to develop strategic capabilities, a major power pushed for disarmament in Africa. They called it peacebuilding. But in truth, it kept the power balance heavily skewed in their favor. African uranium powered their bombs and lit their cities, while Africans were told they didn’t need such power themselves. One can see that they didn’t disarm Africa to save it; they disarmed it to dominate it.
Disarmament in Africa was not a mutual agreement; it was an imposition. And in that imposition, the message is clear: Africa can mine uranium but can never hold the fire. Until that double standard is broken, there will be no true justice, only chains disguised as treaties, and no real peace, only the illusion of safety granted by those who still hold the trigger.
And beneath that domination lies a deeper, more insidious force, racism. Africa’s exclusion from the nuclear world is not just geopolitical; it is racialized. The global nuclear order has always been selective about who gets to have power and who doesn’t. As author and activist Arundhati Roy puts it, nuclear weapons have been kept at “the very heart of whiteness”. That means decisions about who can build the bomb, who is trusted to use it, and who is worth listening to have all been shaped by racial bias.
Libya exemplifies how this racialized order manifests in reality. When Muammar Qaddafi, an African leader, dared to pursue nuclear weapons, he wasn’t regarded as a sovereign equal; he was quickly labeled a threat. His ambitions weren’t met with dialogue but with hostility and containment, revealing the double standard where nuclear capability is only accepted in the hands of the powerful. NATO later bombed Libya under false pretenses, and Western-backed rebels dragged Qaddafi through the streets, torturing and executing him on camera. Libya, once Africa’s most prosperous nation, was shattered, and its people suffered in a failed state created not by civil unrest but by deliberate destruction aimed at crushing the dream of a powerful Africa.
Libya was punished for dreaming of African strength, and now the Sahel region faces a similar fate. Nations like Niger, whose uranium powered Western nuclear arsenals for decades, are rising to reclaim their resources and sovereignty. In return, they face harsh sanctions and military intervention. Their message is unmistakable: Africa can power our empires, but it has no right to power itself. The idea of a nuclear-armed Africa makes many uncomfortable, not because it is unsafe, but because it challenges a world that still doesn’t see African states as equals.
The same racial double standard became painfully obvious after Africa took a collective step toward disarmament. When African nations signed the Pelindaba Treaty, pledging never to pursue nuclear weapons, South Africa stood out as the only country on the continent that had actually built the bomb during apartheid. However, when the white regime saw its political power declining, it rushed to dismantle the arsenal, not out of goodwill toward global peace, but to make sure that nuclear capability would never fall into the hands of the Black majority. The weapons were not destroyed in the name of disarmament; they were destroyed to maintain racial control.
Africa’s nuclear absence isn’t a symbol of peace; it’s a reminder of power taken, denied, and controlled. Though many African nations take pride in their continent’s nuclear weapon-free status, that pride cannot protect them from a world order still ruled by those who hold the ultimate tools of destruction.
Disarmament in Africa was not a mutual agreement; it was an imposition. And in that imposition, the message is clear: Africa can mine uranium but can never hold the fire. Until that double standard is broken, there will be no true justice, only chains disguised as treaties, and no real peace, only the illusion of safety granted by those who still hold the trigger.
