By Adonis Byemelwa
In Kagera Region, politics rarely feels abstract. It lives in market conversations, in WhatsApp voice notes, in roadside tea stalls where news travels faster than formal statements.
So, when residents watched Fatma Mwasa quietly hand over the office to Ramadhan Kido on Kasibante FM, many did not see a routine transfer of power. They saw the end of something personal.
By evening, the mood across Bukoba had shifted. In Kashai, shopkeeper Deus Balinandi stood outside his grocery stall, phone still in hand. “She did not govern from behind a desk,” he said softly. “She walked with us.”
In Buhembe, retired teacher Grace Nyangabo replayed clips of the ceremony for her neighbours. In Kyebitembe, boda-boda rider Robert Kato said he had never known a Regional Commissioner who answered calls directly.
Additionally, in Nyakanyasi, market vendor Beatrice Rwamugira wiped away tears while arranging tomatoes. “It feels like losing one of our own,” she said. “Not just an official, a person.”
Mwasa’s departure came as part of a broader reshuffle announced by President Samia Suluhu Hassan, a reorganisation that also touched key ministries and senior government offices. On paper, it was business as usual. In Kagera, it landed like a shock.
Mwasa arrived in 2023, stepping into a role historically dominated by military appointees. She was the first woman to lead the region since its independence.
Nonetheless, titles mattered less than tone. Residents speak about her early morning site visits, her habit of calling ward leaders when projects stalled, and her insistence that officials show up where problems actually live.
Her grassroots campaign, Ijuka Omuka, became a rallying cry, drawing support from local communities, the Kagera diaspora and private investors.
Development projects picked up pace, roads, drainage systems, markets and street lighting in Bukoba Municipality, many carried out through close coordination with residents themselves.
Still, when people here talk about Mwasa, they rarely start with infrastructure. They talk about presence. “She made government feel close,” said Hassan Mwijage, a youth organiser in Kashai.
“You could see her in the streets, not just in meetings.” That sense of accessibility built unusual loyalty. It also made her exit harder to absorb.
The formal ceremony that installed Colonel Kido was attended by government officials, political representatives, religious leaders and residents. Kido thanked President Hassan for her trust and pledged to prioritise peace and security, noting Kagera’s position as a border region.
He said his first task would be strengthening the Regional Security Committee to ensure people and property remain safe.
Mwasa, in her farewell remarks, thanked citizens and leaders across sectors, crediting teamwork and unity for the progress made during her nearly three years in office.
Still, outside the hall, conversations took a different turn. “This reshuffle reminded us how fragile a connection can be,” Grace Nyangabo said later that evening. “Today it is Mwasa. Tomorrow it could be anyone.”
Her words point to a deeper national question: who truly owns local leadership? Under Tanzania’s legal framework, the answer is clear. Section 4(2) of the Regional Administration Act, Cap. 97 states that Regional Commissioners are appointed directly by the President.
The same law gives the President power to suspend or remove them at any time. In practice, RCs serve entirely at presidential pleasure, acting as the central government’s representatives in the regions.
For critics, that concentration of authority is precisely the problem. Veteran journalist and political thinker Jenerali Ulimwengu argues that the system itself is a colonial inheritance.
“Regional Commissioners were designed to answer upward, not outward,” he said. “They are compradorial structures, tools of central control.”
He contrasted Tanzania’s model with Kenya, where residents elect county governors. “If we are serious about democracy,” Ulimwengu added, “Tanzanians should choose their own regional leaders. That is accountability.”
The critique is echoed by constitutional law scholar Elifuraha Laltaika of Tumaini University Makumira, who warns that excessive presidential power weakens local governance.
“When appointments and removals depend on a single office, communities are left exposed to abrupt political changes,” Professor Laltaika said. “It undermines participatory leadership and erodes trust.”
Nevertheless, even in Kagera, where emotion runs high, not everyone paints Mwasa’s tenure in glowing terms. Some farmers complain that vanilla prices remain unpredictable.
Coffee growers say they still receive far less than their counterparts across the border. Others point to deteriorating Tanroads and Tarura roads, lingering water shortages, and rural areas that saw few official visits.
“She came for funerals, not field tours,” said Maria Kanyesigye, a farmer outside Bukoba. “Our long-standing problems are still here.”
These frustrations matter. They complicate the narrative. However, even many critics acknowledge that Mwasa brought something rare to public office: a leadership style that felt human. That humanity is what people are mourning.
“She did not pretend to have all the answers,” said Robert Kato, the boda-boda rider. “But she listened.”
CCM members in Missenyi District echoed similar sentiments. On social media, Hassan Nassoro, a former youth mobilisation leader, and Steven Ndyakowa from the constituency MP’s office praised Mwasa’s discipline and hands-on approach. “Leadership is not about titles,” they said. “It is about service.”
As Colonel Kido settles into his new role, residents are trying to recalibrate their expectations. He arrives with a security-first mandate, shaped by Kagera’s geography and regional dynamics. Some welcome that focus. Others worry that the softer, community-centred leadership they experienced may fade.
For now, daily life continues. Markets open at dawn. Radios hum in small shops. Motorbikes weave through Bukoba’s streets. However, beneath the routines, a quiet ache lingers.
Beatrice Rwamugira packed up her stall late one afternoon and paused before heading home. “We know the President has the power,” she said. “But power does not feel what we feel.”
Her voice captures the moment better than any legal clause. This reshuffle may be constitutionally sound. It may even be strategically necessary.
So far in Kagera, it has also exposed the emotional cost of centralised authority, how quickly a leader can be reassigned, and how deeply communities can feel the loss.
Mwasa made many residents feel seen. Her departure has reminded them how rare that is. As one elderly man in Kyebitembe put it, watching traffic pass by, “Government changes fast. However, memories stay.” Moreover, in Kagera, those memories are still very fresh.
