Tengréla, Ivory Coast
Tuesday, November 11, 2025
“You never know if you’ll make it back alive,” Baba whispers, staring into space. In northern Ivory Coast, he and dozens of his colleagues are preparing to set off again for neighboring Mali, their tanker trucks loaded with fuel and anxiety.
One acronym strikes fear into the hearts of all truck drivers: JNIM, the name of the jihadist group affiliated with Al-Qaeda that decreed two months ago that no more tanker trucks would be allowed to enter Mali from a neighboring country.
Since then, hundreds of trucks from Abidjan and Dakar have been set on fire as part of JNIM’s economic jihad strategy, which seeks to stifle Bamako and the Malian government.
“By economically suffocating the country, JNIM is seeking to gain popular support by accusing the military government of incompetence,” notes Bakary Sambe of the Senegal-based think tank Timbuktu Institute, who refers to “a structural problem of insecurity.”
Over more than 300 kilometers in northern Ivory Coast, from Niakaramandougou to Tengréla, the last town before Mali, we met dozens of drivers who explained that they continue to drive out of financial “necessity,” “patriotism,” and a good dose of courage
Since then, hundreds of trucks have been set ablaze, selling fuel from Abidjan or Dakar, and are part of JNIMs economic jihad strategy, which aims, among other things, to strangle Bamako and the government.
In 2023, more than half of the petroleum products exported by Côte dIvoire were destined for Mali. Malian trucks load up in Yamoussoukro or Abidjan before crossing one of two corridors into the country: the Tengréla corridor or the Pogo corridor, where military escorts take over on the Malian side, all the way to Bamako. An escort can consist of several hundred tankers.
But even under escort, convoys are frequently targeted. The most dangerous areas in southern Mali are the Kadiana-Kolondiéba and Loulouni-Sikasso axes. (Photo by Issouf SANOGO / AFP)
“We’re doing this because we love our country. We don’t want Malians to run out of fuel,” says Baba (name changed), 30, wearing a Manchester United jersey.
“If we die, it’s for a good cause,” says Mamadou Diallo, 55, with a serious look on his face, taking a break in a parking lot in Niakaramandougou, five hours from the border.
The families fear each departure. “But staying unemployed is impossible,” sighs Yoro, another truck driver.
A little further north, in Kolia, Sidiki Dembélé has lunch with a colleague, trucks lined up along the roadside, engines purring softly, ready to set off again.
On the other side of the road, to lighten the mood, young people dance to “Y que fue,” a Latin hit made famous by global soccer star Lamine Yamal.
“If the trucks stop, the whole country grinds to a halt,” he explains, between mouthfuls of rice topped with peanut sauce.
In 2023, more than half of the petroleum products exported by Côte d’Ivoire were destined for Mali.
Malian trucks load up in Yamoussoukro or Abidjan before taking one of two corridors to their country: the Tengréla corridor or the Pogo corridor, where military escorts take over on the Malian side, all the way to Bamako. An escort can consist of up to several hundred tankers.
But even under escort, convoys are frequently targeted. The most dangerous areas in southern Mali are the Kadiana-Kolondiéba and Loulouni-Sikasso routes.
“Two months ago, I saw jihadists burn two trucks. The drivers died. I was right behind them. Miraculously, they let me pass,” says Moussa, 38, wearing an oil-stained red polo shirt.
Bablen Sacko also narrowly escaped an ambush.
“Some apprentices died, right behind us,” he says. Then, in a firm voice: “Everyone has a role to play in building the country. Ours is to supply Mali with fuel. We do it out of patriotism.”
– Risk premium –
But behind the pride lies bitterness. The drivers denounce their appalling working conditions. “No contract, no insurance, no pension. If you die, that’s it. After your funeral, you’re forgotten,” laments Bablen Sacko.
With a monthly salary of barely 100,000 CFA francs ($120) and a bonus of 50,000 (US$56) per trip, Yoro is demanding a risk premium, “because you never know if you’ll make it back alive.”
Faced with this growing insecurity, some Ivorian transporters have given up on the Mali route.
In Boundiali, Broulaye Konaté, who manages a fleet of 45 trucks, has decided to ground his fleet.
“I asked a driver to deliver fertilizer to Mali. He refused. The truck is still parked in Abidjan,” he says.
For Souleymane Traoré, an Ivorian driver who has been working on the Mali route for seven years, every journey is now an ordeal. “You set off with fear in your stomach,” he says.
He remembers recently counting, as he was returning to Côte d’Ivoire, “fifty-two burned-out fuel tankers. And six more burned further on,” between Kadiana and Tengréla.
Malian Prime Minister Abdoulaye Maïga recently described the fuel that Mali has been receiving lately as “human blood,” in recognition of the soldiers and drivers killed on the roads.
“The situation is likely to remain the same in the coming days with regard to fuel supplies. On the political front, there is more uncertainty: I don’t think JNIM has the capacity or intention to take Bamako, but the threat they pose to the city is unprecedented,” concludes Charlie Werb, an analyst at Aldebaran Threat Consultants (ATC).
Humaniterre with AFP
