By Adonis Byemelwa
In a crowded courtroom in Dar es Salaam, where ceiling fans stir the humid coastal air, and conversations lower themselves into expectant murmurs, Tanzania’s most closely followed treason trial once unfolded in full public view.
Early last year, hearings involving opposition politician Tundu Lissu were broadcast live across television and streamed widely on social media, an open courts experiment that turned legal argument into shared national theatre.
Office workers delayed meetings, students lingered around campus televisions, and hotel bars filled long before sunset as patrons paused meals or drinks to watch testimony unfold. Then the broadcasts stopped.
After a government directive ended live coverage, updates returned in fragments through written reports and carefully worded news bulletins, leaving citizens piecing together courtroom drama from secondhand accounts, a change many quietly interpreted as an effort to contain embarrassment rather than protect procedure.
Now, inside the High Court of Tanzania, the trial proceeds without cameras, yet the sense of performance has not disappeared. Observers lean forward, journalists compare notes in hurried whispers, and every objection carries the faint echo of audiences who once watched in real time.
The charges, prosecutors say, arise from allegations that Lissu encouraged supporters to disrupt the 2025 elections, conduct they argue amounts to treason against the state. Conviction could bring severe punishment, and government lawyers maintain the case concerns national stability rather than politics.
Lissu, representing himself after months in detention, counters that dissent is being reframed as conspiracy, a dispute that has shaped nearly every exchange before the bench.
That tension surfaced sharply during February hearings when prosecutors sought restrictions on online commentary, arguing that criticism of witnesses risked intimidation and prejudice. Invoking contempt provisions, state attorneys urged judges to intervene.
Lissu responded with urgency, insisting that complaints about commentators belonged in separate proceedings and warning against creating darkness around a trial already burdened by suspicion. Presiding judge Dunstan Ndunguru answered calmly.
Contempt powers, he said, rested with the court alone. If violations appeared, judges would act independently. Proceedings continued, leaving both sides to return to evidence, the terrain where the contest has become most visible.
Cross-examinations soon revealed why transparency mattered. A police detective testified that he arrested a suspect accused of stopping an election, yet under questioning acknowledged he could not identify the statute criminalising such conduct. Another investigator earlier insisted that disrupting voting was illegal, only to concede he did not remember the law.
Prosecutors argue that individual lapses do not erase the wider narrative they intend to establish, citing intelligence reports gathered in Arusha. Defence questioning, however, has repeatedly highlighted gaps between certainty expressed aloud and precision required on paper.
Witnesses appearing under protection measures have faced equally searching scrutiny. Earlier rulings permitted anonymity under new regulations, though judges ordered modifications after Lissu argued that completely concealed testimony prevented assessment of demeanour.
The revised booth allows judges visibility while shielding witnesses from the accused, a compromise reflecting competing fears. Prosecutors emphasise safety in a charged political climate; Lissu counters that anonymity risks insulating unreliable accounts from challenge. Debate over fairness lingers even when testimony turns unexpectedly human.
One Bajaji driver described watching speeches online and feeling inspired to disrupt voting by throwing stones. Asked to compare testimony with his written statement, he admitted several dramatic details, including references to smartphones and specific remarks attributed to Lissu, were missing.
Another witness, claiming loyalty to Chama cha Demokrasia na Maendeleo (Chadema), said membership rested on faith rather than documentation, an answer that prompted murmurs among observers.
Lissu’s questioning alternates between familiarity and insistence. He jokes about neighbourhoods, then returns abruptly to contradictions, guiding witnesses toward admissions that shape the day’s headlines.
The hearings also reveal moments rarely captured in formal transcripts. Laughter erupted when an officer walked away still gripping a microphone. On another afternoon, a witness defended omissions by explaining he had been writing a statement, not a book, drawing smiles that quickly faded once questioning resumed.
Each adjournment carries a heavier consequence for the accused, who reminds judges that delays return him to prison. During one pause, prosecutors sought leave after a colleague’s bereavement. Lissu supported the request, saying compassion should survive even inside adversarial spaces, a remark that softened the room.
Beyond testimony, the case unfolds against a wider political backdrop. Lissu, survivor of a 2017 assassination attempt and prominent critic of President Samia Suluhu Hassan, was arrested in April 2025 amid escalating election tensions.
Supporters portray him as targeted for opposition activity; officials insist the prosecution demonstrates equal accountability before the law. International observers monitor proceedings closely, viewing them as a test of judicial independence in a country balancing stability with demands for broader democratic participation.
Legal analysts note that treason cases often hinge less on dramatic acts than on demonstrating intent. Political speech, investigative method, and witness credibility intertwine, leaving judges to weigh nuance alongside statute.
The defence has introduced numerous exhibits drawn from prosecution statements, highlighting differences between written accounts and oral recollections. Prosecutors caution that their evidentiary strategy remains incomplete, arguing that early contradictions may appear less significant once the full narrative emerges.
Outside courthouse gates, conversation rarely settles. Supporters analyse transcripts over tea, critics debate legality during evening broadcasts, and taxi drivers recount courtroom exchanges as though describing football matches.
Some remember the early months when televisions flickered with live hearings, strangers sharing tables in roadside eateries to follow arguments. Others say the quieter present feels more uncertain, dependent on fragments assembled overnight by reporters.
Inside, ideology often yields to routine. Lawyers shuffle files, police officers wait silently, and clerks adjust microphones between witnesses. However, tension returns whenever contradictions surface.
Each admission, each missing sentence, reshapes perception of what the state can ultimately prove. Whether these moments reflect investigative weakness or simply the strain of testimony under pressure remains contested, and judges rarely reveal reaction beyond measured questions.
As the hearings adjourned again, observers lingered outside, replaying exchanges with the intensity once reserved for live broadcasts. The absence of cameras has not diminished fascination; if anything, it has deepened speculation, encouraging citizens to imagine scenes they cannot directly see. Some wonder whether the trial will ultimately be remembered for the allegations that launched it or for the scrutiny it has applied to investigative practice.
In conversations across the city, people describe following the proceedings as both exhausting and irresistible, a reminder that justice is rarely abstract when personalities collide with institutions. The courtroom has become a stage where legal language meets lived experience, where humour interrupts accusation and patience compete with frustration.
For some, Lissu’s persistence represents resilience; for others, it risks transforming serious allegations into spectacle. Judges, seated above the exchanges, must eventually translate that theatre into findings grounded in law.
Until then, proceedings continue with deliberate cadence, each witness adding another fragment to a puzzle still incomplete. Prosecutors prepare further testimony, defence exhibits accumulate, and spectators wait for clarity that may arrive only at judgment. Until that moment, Tanzania’s justice system remains under uncommon observation, measured not only by verdict but by the patience and transparency displayed along the way.
In the quiet after adjournment, court staff stack files, lights dim, and conversations drift toward tomorrow’s testimony. Outside, traffic resumes, vendors call customers, and the city absorbs another chapter of a trial that refuses to settle quietly, leaving citizens waiting for answers that may redefine not only one politician’s fate but also the boundaries between dissent, authority, and accountability in a democracy still negotiating its future before the watching public eye.
