By Adonis Byemelwa
On the morning of May 24th, 2025, in Dar es Salaam, Bishop Josephat Gwajima stepped into the spotlight—not as a preacher or MP, but as a concerned citizen alarmed by the silence surrounding a surge in abductions. His tone was not political, but personal, marked by urgency, frustration, and a deep sense of duty. It wasn’t just a speech; it was a cry for accountability that echoed the fear and uncertainty many Tanzanians quietly live with every day.
With the weight of over 80 alleged cases, some disturbingly public and brutal, Gwajima pulled no punches. He recounted the case of Ally Kibao, dragged out of his car in full view of onlookers, and later found lifeless.
He spoke of the haunting disappearance of Mdude, a Chadema activist reportedly taken in front of his family. He evoked a chilling picture—one that many Tanzanians have come to know all too well: unexplained disappearances, bruised bodies reappearing days later, or not at all.
But what followed wasn’t what you’d expect in a country that claims to cherish free speech. By the next morning, media houses that had initially carried his press statement—Millard Ayo, ITV, Global Online TV—had mysteriously taken their posts down. Even The Chanzo, a respected and independent platform known for amplifying underrepresented voices, removed its full coverage of the event.
According to internal whispers, they’d been warned: publishing “unbalanced content” like Gwajima’s address—meaning, coverage that didn’t include an official government response—could put their publishing license at risk. That warning allegedly came from none other than the Tanzania Communications Regulatory Authority (TCRA). But how can you quote a government that has remained conspicuously silent?
On the surface, Gwajima’s address might appear politically risky, especially in a climate where criticising the ruling party can quickly be labelled as betrayal. Yet the raw emotion in his words told a different story. “If your child or your father was taken in front of you and disappeared,” he asked, voice tight with anguish, “how would you feel?” It wasn’t grandstanding. It felt like something else—a breaking point.
That humanity in his message struck a chord across Tanzania. From Arusha to Mbeya, people took to social media, group chats, and whispered circles to say what many had long felt: finally, someone from within the ruling system had dared to speak aloud what they feared even to think.
But the machinery of power reacted in the way it often does to discomfort—it erased. Gwajima was unceremoniously removed from the official CCM Parliamentary WhatsApp group, a petty move on the surface, but one heavy with symbolism. In the coded language of party politics, it hinted at exile. The question now is not if the party will move against him formally—it’s when.
Several faith leaders, including Bishop Emausi Mwamakula, have come to his defence. Mwamakula bluntly noted that Gwajima’s message was nothing new—only that this time, it came from someone inside the power structure, not outside it. He even went further, suggesting that the real issue is the centralisation of power within the ruling party, where institutions of security no longer appear to serve the people, but a party chair.
Some party members, however, were quick to frame the Bishop’s remarks as political theatre. Kinondoni MP Abbas Tarimba called for CCM’s ethics committee to investigate him.
Jerry Muro accused Gwajima of selective outrage—why not, he asked, speak also for fallen officers like General Amran Kombe? The implication was clear: if you’re going to be righteous, be righteous for everyone. But these criticisms feel like a dodge, avoiding the real, urgent question at the heart of Gwajima’s speech.
Instead of addressing the concern, they attacked the man. It’s a textbook case of argumentum ad hominem, where character assassination replaces real dialogue. It’s easier to paint Gwajima as power-hungry than to engage with the truth of his words. But doing so is costly—not just to him, but to the soul of Tanzanian democracy.
Because here’s the painful truth: it’s dangerous to think independently in today’s CCM. To question, even gently, is to risk censure. To challenge openly, like Gwajima just did, is to risk everything. And still, more and more Tanzanians seem willing to say: this isn’t the country we want. This isn’t the country we were promised.
As the political season edges closer, some accuse Gwajima of stoking the fires of campaign emotion. But even if electioneering were part of his motivation, does that negate the pain of families who never got answers? Does it erase the chilling testimonies of those beaten into silence and told to say, “Asante Samia”?
Still, what struck a chord with many wasn’t just what Bishop Gwajima said—it was why he felt compelled to say it. For a man long seen as aligned with the ruling establishment to step into that room, face the press, and speak with such unfiltered urgency was more than unusual.
It felt like a breaking point. And if someone from the inner circle is cracking under the weight of what’s happening, what does that say about the pressure everyone else is under?
There was a different kind of tension in his voice—not political tension, but the kind that comes from watching your people live with uncertainty, while pretending everything is fine. That invisible heaviness so many Tanzanians carry—the quiet fear during late phone calls, the instinct to check over one’s shoulder, the way families talk in hushed tones when names of the missing come up—that’s what Gwajima gave a voice to. For many, that made his words less about politics and more about collective trauma.
The silence from officials only deepens that unease. You would expect a government confident in its integrity to respond swiftly, even angrily, to claims of abductions. Instead, the only reaction has come through regulatory caution and media removals—gestures that speak more to damage control than accountability. That absence of transparency, in a moment so charged, is more than just frustrating—it’s frightening.
And for the families whose loved ones were taken—those names that Gwajima invoked, those stories that rarely make it past Twitter threads and WhatsApp forwards—this silence is a second wound. It tells them, quietly but clearly: your pain is inconvenient. Your truth is too messy. And your search for justice does not fit within the state’s preferred narrative.
Yet what’s perhaps most sobering is how normalized this climate of fear has become. We scroll past stories of kidnappings like routine news. We share missing persons posters with the grim understanding that no answers are coming. It’s in this numbness that Gwajima’s speech hit hardest—not because it exposed something new, but because it forced us to feel what we’ve numbed ourselves to.
And that’s what made the moment important, regardless of where you stand politically. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t perfectly framed. But it was real. It held up a mirror to a society trying hard to stay composed while slowly unraveling beneath the surface.
In the end, this isn’t just about Bishop Gwajima or the courage it took to speak. It’s about whether we, as a nation, can still confront uncomfortable truths. Whether we are willing to listen, even when the message challenges the stories we’ve been told.
And perhaps most of all, whether we are brave enough to protect the voices that dare to ask: what are we becoming? Because the choice isn’t just between silence and speech—it’s between decay and dignity. And history will remember which one we chose.
