By Adonis Byemelwa
It was never going to be just another day in court today, 19th May 2025. The treason trial of Tanzanian opposition leader Tundu Lissu unfolded not only as a legal proceeding but also as an emotionally charged reckoning for a nation grappling with questions of justice, democracy, and its place in the East African community.
What transpired inside that courtroom offered more than just arguments and legal briefs—it exposed the deep tensions simmering beneath the surface of Tanzania’s political landscape and its diplomatic posture.
Lissu, a seasoned lawyer and fierce critic of the government, entered the courtroom flanked by officers, yet walked with the composure of a man far from defeated. Dressed in a navy-blue suit and armed with a battered briefcase full of thick legal tomes, he seemed more professor than prisoner.
As he addressed the court, firm, calm, and almost teacherly—it was clear this wasn’t only about his freedom. “Let us not cry,” he told his tearful supporters. “Everything will be fine. The law is still ours to use.” In that moment, the courtroom wasn’t just a place of judgment. It became a stage for defiance, a pulpit for principle.
The emotion in the room was palpable. Veteran journalist Jenerali Ulimwengu wept openly. So did a Chadema cadre in the gallery, his sobs cutting through the heavy courtroom silence. Even former Chadema Northern Zone chairman Godbless Lema was seen discreetly wiping away tears.
For those who have followed Lissu’s journey—his survival after an assassination attempt, his exile, his return—this trial carries a heavy emotional toll. But Lissu stood centered, a symbol of perseverance in the face of profound state pressure.
Then came the legal theater. Prosecutors, who had once claimed to possess all the necessary evidence, made an awkward pivot, requesting a 14-day extension to complete investigations. This contradiction didn’t sit well with the defence team—senior advocates Mpale Mpoki, Dr. Rugemeleza Nshala, and Peter Kibatala—who pressed for accountability. “You told us the evidence was online. What’s the delay now?” they asked pointedly.
But it wasn’t just the delay that stirred discontent. Lissu’s treatment inside the courtroom became another flashpoint. Surrounded tightly by prison officers, he cut the image of a man already condemned.
The defence challenged this optics, reminding the court—and the public—that “a suspect is not a convict.” Dr. Nshala urged the court to tone down the security display, calling it prejudicial. In a rare and telling moment of balance, the court agreed, ordering that unless specific threats were presented, Lissu should not be flanked by security officers in future proceedings.
Even on procedural matters, the court acknowledged the extraordinary nature of the case. Though virtual hearings are permitted under Tanzanian law, the presiding judge ruled that due to the public interest and gravity of the charges, all future sessions must be conducted in person. That decision marked a subtle but significant nod to transparency, at least for now.
The trial is adjourned until 2 June 2025. Between now and then, the prosecution has a clear mandate: complete the investigation, or risk further erosion of credibility.
Nonetheless, the courtroom drama was just one half of today’s political earthquake. Outside those walls, a diplomatic firestorm continued to rage. Kenya’s former Chief Justice Dr. Willy Mutunga, detained at Julius Nyerere International Airport, remains at the center of a growing regional controversy.
His detention, which occurred the same day Lissu stood trial, has sparked an outcry across East Africa, drawing sharp rebukes from legal communities and human rights advocates who argue it directly violates the East African Community (EAC) Treaty.
Kenyan constitutional lawyer Willis Otieno didn’t mince words. “Detaining former Chief Justice @WMutunga at an airport without cause is not just a diplomatic embarrassment—it is a direct violation of the East African Community Treaty,” he posted on X. He invoked Article 6 of the EAC Treaty, which affirms commitments to human rights, justice, and rule of law—principles that, he warned, were being cast aside.
And Mutunga wasn’t alone. Former Kenyan justice minister Martha Karua, lawyer Gloria Kimani, and rights activist Lynn Ngugi—all in Tanzania to observe Lissu’s trial—were similarly detained, interrogated, and then swiftly deported. Their only crime, it seems, was seeking to witness a trial that has become a regional bellwether for democracy. Karua, long a champion of constitutional justice across East Africa, described the experience as “an attempt to intimidate and silence those who seek justice.”
Tanzania’s President Samia Suluhu Hassan didn’t back down. Speaking during the launch of the 2024 edition of the country’s Foreign Policy, she sent a stark warning: “Foreign activists are not welcome to meddle.” Her government’s message was clear—sovereignty first, scrutiny later, if at all.
But that posture is proving costly. The backlash has spilled beyond activists and lawyers. Kenya’s Principal Secretary for Foreign Affairs, Korir Sing’oei, publicly called on Tanzania to release Mutunga and his delegation.
Tanganyika Law Society President Boniface Mwabukusi warned that the country’s actions are corroding trust in regional legal cooperation. And ordinary citizens—those who rely on shared legal protections across borders—are now watching closely, wondering what the EAC Treaty guarantees when its foundational values are so easily discarded.
This isn’t just about diplomatic etiquette or courtroom procedure. It’s about the kind of East Africa being shaped right now—whether it’s one where political differences are criminalized, observers are deported, and dissent is feared, or one where justice is defended, no matter how uncomfortable the questions may be.
Tundu Lissu’s words today weren’t just a courtroom plea. They were a regional challenge: “Let them bring their accusations. We shall bring the law.”
In that brief moment, his voice reached far beyond the courthouse—to Nairobi, to Kampala, to Kigali, to Bujumbura, and even to the halls of Arusha where the EAC sits. And whether those echoes will spark reform or be silenced will say everything about East Africa’s democratic trajectory.
