By Adonis Byemelwa
The warning landed with unusual sharpness. When George Mcheche Masaju, Tanzania’s Chief Justice, cautioned judges against “living by instructions,” the words sounded less like routine judicial advice and more like frustration finally spoken aloud.
Those listening closely heard irritation beneath the calm tone, a senior jurist wrestling with an institution expected to be independent while constantly negotiating invisible pressures.
His remarks arrived at a moment when public confidence in the courts feels both fragile and fiercely contested. Social media conversations lit up almost instantly, not because the message was unfamiliar, but because many citizens felt they had heard versions of it before. Independence, they argued, has long been promised; the harder question is whether the system truly allows it to exist.
Masaju himself has raised similar concerns more than twice in recent years, repeatedly urging judicial officers to act decisively without waiting for signals from above. Each time, the message sounded principled. However, repetition has created its own discomfort, because repeated warnings often signal unresolved problems rather than solved ones.
The contradiction sits at the heart of Tanzania’s justice system. Courts are constitutionally independent, yet financially tethered to executive budgeting decisions. Judges may be told to act boldly, but the institution still relies on allocations negotiated through government structures, raising the uncomfortable question: can independence fully breathe without financial autonomy?
Former president John Magufuli once approached the dilemma differently. Known for blunt public interventions, he openly warned government state attorneys against losing cases through negligence or incompetence, promising harsh consequences if public resources were wasted through poor legal preparation or corruption.
Magufuli also emphasised investment, setting aside more than 250 billion Tanzanian shillings for strengthening judicial infrastructure and performance. Court buildings rose, digital systems expanded, and expectations sharpened. The message was unmistakable: if taxpayers fund justice generously, then professionalism must follow without excuses.
Nevertheless, investment alone does not silence criticism. Billionaire Rostam Aziz once mocked the judiciary as “toothless,” suggesting that a single phone call could soften, or even quietly reverse, outcomes in lower courts. Though he later apologised, describing the remark as a slip of the tongue amid growing public buzz, the damage had already travelled far, lingering because it echoed suspicions many Tanzanians had long whispered in private.
Such accusations rarely come with courtroom proof, but perception matters almost as much as fact. Every delayed ruling, every procedural misstep, and every adjournment fuels suspicion that unseen forces still hover around legal outcomes. Judges therefore carry not only legal responsibility but also the burden of rebuilding credibility case by case.
That tension was impossible to ignore when the High Court Sub-Registry in Dar es Salaam delivered a critical ruling in the treason proceedings involving opposition figure Tundu Lissu. Though Masaju never mentioned the matter directly in his speech, many observers sensed the case lingering in the background of his frustration.
On February 24, 2026, a three-judge panel of the High Court of Tanzania, led by Principal Judge Dunstan Ndunguru alongside Justices James Karayemaha and Ferdinand Kiwonde, rejected the prosecution’s request to introduce additional evidence. The ruling did not shout politics; it leaned firmly on procedure, grounding itself in statutory interpretation rather than rhetoric.
Judges agreed with an objection raised personally by Lissu, finding that the prosecution’s notice violated Section 308 of the Criminal Procedure Act, Revised Edition 2023. The law permits notification when introducing a new witness, they ruled, but does not allow additional material through a witness already listed.
The prosecution had argued otherwise. Senior State Attorney Nassoro Katuga insisted they were not calling anyone new but simply introducing extra material through Assistant Commissioner of Police Amin Mahamba, an existing witness. The distinction mattered enormously because procedure, not intention, determines admissibility once a trial reaches advanced stages.
By the time the ruling arrived, roughly fifteen witnesses had already testified out of an expected thirty. Proceedings remained at the prosecution stage, yet delays had accumulated long enough to provoke public impatience. In politically sensitive trials, time itself becomes a character — stretching uncertainty and feeding speculation far beyond courtroom walls.
Masaju’s irritation during his remarks became visible when he challenged lawyers not to mislead courts through selective citation of subsections. Observers noted the unusually pointed tone. It sounded like a jurist weary of procedural gamesmanship, especially when technical manoeuvres threaten to prolong already sensitive cases.
He did not mention Lissu’s name, yet the timing made silence louder than reference. A judiciary attempting to demonstrate firmness cannot afford perceptions of endless adjournments or tactical delays. Each postponement risks reinforcing the narrative that powerful cases move according to invisible negotiations rather than legal calendars.
Social media commentary reflected that unease almost immediately. Some users praised the High Court for enforcing procedural discipline against the prosecution, interpreting the rejection of fresh evidence as proof that judicial officers could stand their ground. Others argued the very need for such rulings exposed deeper weaknesses in prosecutorial preparation.
The treason charge itself carries immense political gravity. Prosecutors allege that on April 3, 2025, in Dar es Salaam, Lissu urged citizens to block the general election, statements authorities say encouraged rebellion and disruption. Supporters frame the accusations as a political interpretation of speech, ensuring every procedural decision attracts national scrutiny.
This is where Masaju’s warning intersects with lived institutional reality. Judges cannot openly debate political consequences, yet they feel them indirectly through public expectation, media pressure, and institutional memory. Independence, in practice, becomes less a declaration and more a daily negotiation between law, perception, and administrative survival.
Budget dependency complicates matters further. Even the most principled judge operates within systems requiring staffing approvals, infrastructure funding, and operational resources tied to executive processes. Critics, therefore, ask whether courage alone can secure independence when financial oxygen still flows through another branch of government.
Masaju’s remarks may ultimately reveal less about disobedient judges and more about structural anxiety. Leaders do not repeatedly warn professionals to act independently unless hesitation has become normalised somewhere within the system. His frustration sounded like that of a captain urging a capable crew to trust their training despite unpredictable waters.
Whether the judiciary emerges stronger will depend on consistency rather than speeches. Firm procedural rulings, timely trials, professional prosecutors, and transparent administration gradually restore confidence in ways declarations cannot. Tanzania’s courts now stand at a delicate moment where every decision, especially in high-profile cases, quietly answers the Chief Justice’s question: can justice truly stand without instructions?
