By Adonis Byemelwa
Arusha didn’t just host a guest—it faced a mirror. When Prof. PLO Lumumba stepped onto the stage, the mood shifted. No pleasantries, no polished script—just a bold question: What makes Arusha worth bragging about? Invited by Regional Commissioner Paul Makonda, Lumumba wasn’t there to flatter. He came to provoke, to push past the brochures and into the heart of Africa’s economic hesitation.
His voice carried the weight of lived experience, calling out not Arusha’s beauty, but its untapped power. And on May 3rd, 2025, that message landed not as criticism, but as a challenge: to believe in more—and to act on it.
Makonda spoke of wildlife, of minerals, of world-class beef and breathtaking landscapes. But Lumumba wasn’t content with nature’s abundance. He wanted to know: What are we doing with it? And more importantly, what are we not doing? In that moment, he told a story, quiet in delivery but thunderous in message, recalling the words of a Lebanese writer: that even great rivers tremble as they approach the ocean, afraid to lose their identity, fearing the vastness of becoming part of something larger. Yet eventually, through surrender, they find strength, not as mere rivers, but as part of a boundless sea. That, Lumumba argued, is what Arusha—and Africa—must become: unafraid to integrate, to evolve, to embrace its destiny not as fragmented regions but as one continental force.
This wasn’t just a speech—it was a call to memory, to imagination, and above all, to responsibility. Delivered on May 3rd, 2025, it cut through bureaucracy and pleasantries to ask a brutal question cloaked in love: When will Africa finally believe in itself?
He acknowledged the richness of Arusha—its resources, its hospitality, the unique advantage of being the headquarters of the East African Community—but quickly pivoted to a deeper, sharper question: what are we doing with all this?
With the SGR (Standard Gauge Railway) promising to turn Arusha into a dry port hub for the region, he saw opportunity knocking loudly. Yet, he wondered aloud, are we even hearing it?
He didn’t just speak, he demanded reflection. He challenged the entire notion of economic passivity wrapped in diplomacy.
His words cut through the comfort of politeness that often blankets African policy spaces. “When ministers meet, they never tell the truth. They’re too polite in the cabinet. That must stop.” It wasn’t a reprimand—it was a mirror held up to a leadership class that too often chooses consensus over courage.
In a moment both witty and piercing, Prof. Lumumba held up a Coca-Cola bottle served at his Arusha hotel—imported, like the coffee. “Why am I drinking imported Coca-Cola in a land of coffee?” he asked, exasperated. He mocked Africa’s addiction to imports—fish from China, maize from Brazil, even toothpicks. “Are there no bamboos in Africa?” The laughter came easy, but so did the sting: a continent rich in resources, yet acting like it owns nothing.
The speech didn’t spare the legacy of collapsed industries either. He referenced the once-thriving General Tyre industry in Arusha, which now exists only in memory. While China is making 500-year economic plans, he noted, Africa barely looks five years ahead.
The sense of urgency in his tone was unmistakable. This wasn’t just an economic analysis—it was a call to reimagine time itself, to stretch African thinking beyond electoral cycles and donor conferences.
Lumumba turned the conversation to energy—a pillar of any industrial revolution. He pointed out the embarrassing reality that Vietnam generates more megawatts of electricity than the entire East African Community combined.
How can a region industrialize, he asked, when its factories flicker on and off with unreliable power? His call to action was clear: harness the wind from these mountains, connect universities to real work opportunities, and stop churning out certificate-holding graduates disconnected from the economy.
He spoke passionately about the Maasai—not as a tourism brand, but as a people whose lives must materially benefit from the tourism they represent. This, he stressed, was the heart of inclusive growth. Not just GDP numbers, but real development that moves village to village. “Go to China, go to India—development starts in the village. Not the city.”
That sense of practical transformation anchored his message. He wasn’t glorifying theory—he wanted traction. He urged the growth of cottage industries, rooted in local knowledge, feeding into a regional market that should be seamless, not suffocated by tariff barriers.
Over 35 of them, he said, stand in the way of African trade, as if borders mean more than our shared destinies. “Why do we make it so hard to move onions from Tanzania to Kenya? Why is it easier to get cashews from Vietnam than from Mtwara?”
In a pointed moment that stripped away formalities, Prof. PLO Lumumba exposed the glaring economic paradox facing the East African Community. Despite a population of over 300 million, the GDPs of Kenya ($113B, 3,000 MW), Tanzania ($85B, 2,000 MW), Uganda ($55B, 1,400 MW), Rwanda ($15B, 300 MW), DRC ($80B, 2,700 MW), and Somalia ($8B, <150 MW) collectively trail behind Vietnam, whose GDP surpasses $430 billion and generates over 76,000 megawatts of electricity.
“We have the people; we have the resources—so what are we doing with that power?” Lumumba asked, visibly frustrated. “How can we talk of transformation when we can’t even keep the lights on? These numbers are not just statistics—they’re a reflection of our failure to act.” His challenge was clear: Africa must stop admiring its potential and start harnessing it.
But it’s in energy that the disparity turns damning: while the entire EAC produces under 10,000 megawatts of electricity. Lumumba didn’t offer these figures to impress, but to provoke—because for him, it wasn’t just about numbers, it was about neglect.
Standing in Arusha, he challenged Africa not to ask whether we have potential, but why we keep squandering it. His frustration echoed with lived experience: conferences are plenty, yet we drink imported coffee in coffee-growing countries, and we dream big while powering small.
Then came the emotional anchor of his message. “We Africans know what is right. But what is the value of knowing what is right if we do not do it?” His delivery wasn’t scripted; it was lived. You could hear the weight of someone who has spoken at countless conferences and watched too few ideas come to life.
He challenged Africa’s obsession with foreign goods and foreign validation. “Kenyans fly to Dubai to see animals in zoos, but how many visit Arusha?” His disdain wasn’t for travel—it was for the warped psychology of inferiority that leads Africans to trust the imported over the indigenous.
Language, he said, is not just a tool—it’s a product. And in Kiswahili, he sees not only a means of communication but an instrument of trade and unity. “Let us commodify Kiswahili. Let it carry our markets, our dreams, our power.”
As his voice rose to a crescendo, he turned back to the present moment. This conference, he warned, must not become another intellectual jamboree. There must be a follow-up. There must be accountability. There must be change. “After Arusha, let Arusha be different. Let Tanzania be different.”
And as he closed, it wasn’t with resignation, but with a spark. “God,” he said, “has conspired in your favor. Do not waste that grace.” In that hall, on that day, Prof. Lumumba didn’t just address a forum. He summoned a continent. The question now is: who will answer?
