Tanzania:They Tried to Silence Gwajima—He Spoke Louder, Stirring Souls, Sparking Truth

By Adonis Byemelwa

What happened outside the Glory of Christ Church in Dar es Salaam on June 2nd wasn't just another run-in between the police and a controversial preacher. It was something else entirely—a chilling image of what happens when the voices that challenge power get shut down, not with argument, but with state force.

In a widely shared video clip, Josephat Gwajima stood defiant, surrounded by his purple-robed clergy. Behind him, armed police cordoned off the church’s compound in Ubungo, a dozen kilometres from the city centre.

The air was thick with tension. Moments later, stones were flying, crowds shouting, and a sharp, echoing sound rang out—either tear gas canisters or live rounds. No one could say for sure. But the message was loud enough: this wasn’t just about a church. It was about a man speaking out, and the state silencing him.

The letter from the Registrar of Civil Societies, Emmanuel R.M. Kihampa, claimed the church had breached the law by mixing politics with religion. According to the government, Gwajima’s sermons had “incited the public against the state” and “threatened peace and stability.” Under sections 17 and 39 of the Civil Societies Act, the registrar claimed authority to revoke the church’s registration—and did so, effective immediately. From that point on, Glory of Christ Tanzania Church was no longer recognised in the eyes of the law

But for the thousands who filled its pews week after week, it wasn’t just a legal technicality. It was a slap in the face. Especially after Gwajima had only recently spoken up against a growing and disturbing trend: abductions of citizens under mysterious, politically charged circumstances.

“Where are the disappeared?” he asked from his pulpit. “Why the silence?” These weren’t rants—they were the questions that people on the street were asking, too. But when he said them, it pierced deeper. It shook the illusion of control.

That same week, Gwajima vanished from public view. Attempts to reach him failed. His phones were off. Some say he went into hiding. Others say he was warned. Whatever the case, his absence left a void filled with speculation, fear, and rising support from unlikely corners.

The silence from the ruling party, Chama Cha Mapinduzi (CCM), was telling. Only one MP, Luhaga Mpina of Kisesa, publicly backed him. The rest either dodged the topic or reaffirmed party loyalty in vague terms.

President Samia Suluhu Hassan, who also chairs CCM, took a different route. In a firm and pointed speech at a special party conference on 30 May at the Jakaya Kikwete Convention Centre, she drew a line in the sand. The party, she said, must remain pure of opportunists with no moral compass. Then, with calculated bite, she dropped a name: “Let’s not Gwajimanise our party. Leave Magwajima outside.”

It was more than a jab—it was an excommunication, politically speaking. And it came just days after Gwajima’s press conference had struck a nerve nationwide. For once, the flamboyant preacher wasn’t promising helicopters for pregnant women or Japanese fishing boats for his Kawe constituency. He was speaking of fear. Of kidnappings. Of a government too quiet. His fall from the CCM’s graces didn’t just isolate him within party circles. It put him on a dangerous path—still technically an insider, but now eyed with suspicion, not solidarity. The party that once celebrated his fire now treats him like an untamed blaze. Those close to him speak in hushed tones about his safety. He has become both symbol and target.

But the story didn’t end with the police at the church or the speech in Dodoma. A respected legal heavyweight has now stepped into the fray. Peter Kibatala, one of Tanzania’s most formidable legal minds, confirmed that he has accepted a formal request from Gwajima’s church to represent them in fighting the deregistration. In his own words, “Justice must remain above politics.

The state cannot be allowed to crush religious expression simply because it is uncomfortable.” Kibatala is expected to call a press conference soon, where he’ll lay out the legal challenge ahead. And if history is anything to go by, the state should prepare for a fight it won’t win easily.

Meanwhile, outrage is spreading beyond the pulpit. Chadema, Tanzania’s leading opposition party, issued a scathing rebuke. At a press conference in Mikocheni, Deputy Chairperson John Heche called the government’s action tyrannical and unconstitutional.

“This is a pattern,” he said. “An orchestrated silencing of voices that speak hard truths. We stand against this not just for Gwajima, but for the democratic soul of the nation.” Heche also made a rallying cry to faith leaders across the country: Don’t back down. “You are the moral backbone of our society. Now, more than ever, speak.”

The Tanganyika Law Society’s President, Boniface Mwabukusi, echoed this warning. In a rare public rebuke, Mwabukusi suggested that perhaps those behind the church’s closure were also involved in the disappearances. “You can’t shut down the truth forever,” he said.

“There’s a wanton series of abductions happening in our country. People are vanishing. And the government wants to silence the few who dare to ask why.” His statement didn’t just criticise—it accused. And in doing so, added legal and moral gravity to what many had feared all along: that these acts weren’t rogue, but sanctioned.

And still, at the centre of it all is Gwajima. A preacher who once danced on the line between the sacred and the political now finds himself walking a tightrope without a net. He’s not out of the system, but he’s not inside it either. In that no-man’s land, every sermon is scrutinised, every move watched. He’s being made an example of.

But what kind of example is this? If democracy means anything, it must be the space to ask questions—even the hard ones. What happens to a country when political power defines the boundaries of faith, and dissent is rebranded as disorder? What happens when churches close not for crimes, but for calling out what everyone else is afraid to say?

The answer is unfolding right now. It's happening in how people gather outside locked church gates. In how whispers replace open dialogue. How fear seeps into pulpits. But it’s also in the defiance—the bishops in purple robes standing unarmed before police barricades. The lawyers who step forward when it’s easier to step back. The citizens who, despite everything, still believe that asking questions is not a crime.

What Tanzania faces isn’t just a political test—it’s a moral one. And the stakes are no longer abstract. They're in the lives of those disappeared, the churches silenced, and the voices that still dare to speak.

Power may have its podium, but truth has its pulpit. And even now, someone is listening. The question is no longer whether Gwajima’s church will reopen. It’s whether Tanzania can afford the cost of keeping it closed.