By Adonis Byemelwa
The obituary of late Tanzanian CCM politician, Member of Parliament for Ismani constituency, William Lukuvi, on March 25, 2026, was supposed to be a day of quiet contemplation.
A longtime public servant, he died at 70 after suffering a heart attack while undergoing treatment at Benjamin Mkapa Hospital in Dodoma. His death was officially announced by President Samia Suluhu Hassan, who called it a loss to the nation.
However, the national mood was far from harmonised. As many mourned, a clear segment of social media users replied with indifference, mockery or even glee. The now-ritualised phrase, “death is just death,” emerged again, removing the gravitas long attached to dying and replacing it with a cold, even transactional, tone.
This reaction was not some response in a vacuum. It mirrors a bigger change in Tanzania’s public discourse, where partisan identity is an increasingly powerful shaper of emotion. Death, once an everyday experience, has given way to partisanship: Even mourning is a battleground now, rather than a shared space.
This trend was “un-African,” Prime Minister Mwigulu Nchemba said when he openly criticised it, and celebrating the death of others erodes the moral fabric of society. His comments mirrored previous concerns raised by CCM’s publicity secretary, Kenan Kihongosi, who said that political rivalry should not devolve into enmity stripped of bare common decency.
President Samia has commented on the issue directly, expressing frustrations at abusive language and normalised disrespect online. She cautioned that, while freedom of expression was indispensable, it could not come at a price of dignity and went on to add that some of the language directed at leaders would be unacceptable even in private family contexts.
Nevertheless, moral pleas from leadership have largely failed to connect with some segments of the public. This disconnect accentuated a larger problem: cries for decorum often sound hollow when parts of society feel unheard, sidelined or doubtful that justice is consistently meted out across the spectrum.
That said, the killing of Ali Mohamed Kibao in September 2024 is still one of those defining moments. Kibao, a high-ranking Chadema official, was kidnapped while on his way from Dar es Salaam to Tanga and allegedly taken off a bus in front of bystanders by armed men.
His body was discovered two days later in Ununio, showing signs of extreme violence, with acid poured on his face, according to reported autopsy results. The brutality of the incident horrified the nation and prompted widespread denunciation.
Opposition leaders, including Freeman Mbowe and Tundu Lissu, demanded an independent investigation, saying they had no confidence that state institutions could investigate a case in which security actors were implicated. The international community and human rights organisations also called for transparency and accountability.
President Samia condemned the killing as “terrible” and “brutal,” ordering investigations and pledging justice. However, for many citizens, the more lasting question has not been whether the act was condemned, but whether accountability has been convincingly meted out. In that atmosphere, grief does not dissolve; it transmutes, frequently crystallising into resentment.
This helps account for why reactions to political deaths have become so unbalanced. The death in December 2025 of Jenista Mhagama, for example, elicited mixed reactions, revealing not just personal opinions about her life but more general attitudes toward politics.
But the recent death of Suleiman Bungara, a prominent Tanzanian ACT-Wazalendo politician and former Member of Parliament for Kilwa South, was mourned widely, even outside his political base, with many declaring him a hero who fought for the rights of citizens and consistently called to account what he thought was an apolitical elite.
Such contrasts illustrate that public responses have less to do with death itself than with the beginning of legacy, fair play and identification with the departed. Where a leader is thought to be fighting for the rights of everyday people, empathy usually wins. Where they are closely linked, accurately or otherwise, with power structures seen as unjust, the reactions can be harsh.
Even outside politics, sympathy does not always prevail. When CCM cadre Yusuph Mwandami, his wife, son and driver died in March 2026 after flash floods swept away their vehicle in Singida, social media reactions were particularly unsympathetic.
By way of opposition to political identity, the tragedy evoked for many a vulnerability we have in common as human beings that resonates through time.
The contrast among these responses suggests a deeper psychological and social transformation. It is what experts refer to as dehumanisation, when you begin to see your political opponents not as fellow citizens but as those in the way, people who do not deserve empathy. In such a context, even death is deprived of its power to unite.
This dynamic has been magnified on social media. The relative anonymity and remoteness of it facilitate what is known in psychology as the “online disinhibition effect,” in which people express radical views that they would probably suppress if interacting face to face. Outrage becomes theatrical, and empathy sometimes gets squeezed out.
However, technology alone cannot account for the phenomenon. At its centre is a crisis of trust, trust in institutions, in leaders and in the fairness of political processes. Moreover, when that trust erodes, so does the willingness to reach across political divides in good faith.
President Samia’s 4Rs framework, Reconciliation, Resilience, Reforms and Rebuilding, was tailored to address just such fractures. It said it recognised the need to restore confidence and heal divisions. However, the anger in these hostile public responses indicates that this reconciliation remains incomplete and awaits a fuller realisation for many citizens.
This is not a challenge unique to Tanzania. Across the world, in well-established democracies as well as newer ones, polarisation has deepened, often stoked by disputed elections, economic pressures and the rapid circulation of information and misinformation online. In many of these contexts, the line between political friction and personal hatred has become dashed.
The danger lies in normalisation. When the celebration of death turns into a ritual act, it is a mark that changes between disagreement and detachment, opposition and dehumanisation. It is a sign not of the strength of conviction, but of a weakening in the social bonds that bind us together as communities.
Reversing this trend will take more than denunciation. It requires credible, transparent processes to listen to those allegations of injustice and then act on them so that accountability is not just sought but seen to be pursued. It demands responsible speech from every political player, eschewing words that harden division.
Just as important is the role of citizens. Public discourse is not formed only by leaders but also by everyday interactions, especially in digital spaces. Even when we disagree, choosing restraint is a kind of civic duty.
The history of Tanzania, at least, reminds you what is possible. During Julius Nyerere’s presidency, the country enjoyed a strong feeling of unity that crossed ethnic and political divides. That legacy did not happen by accident; it was forged through intentional work and collective commitment.
Today, that commitment is being put to the test in quieter but equally consequential ways. How a society treats death is how it pays attention to life.” For when empathy is selective, the outcome at stake is not just moral decline but social disintegration.
If death is ever politicised, then the loss is not only of individuals but also a collective thread of humanity. Additionally, once that is undermined, it is much harder to rebuild than it would have been to sustain, and now it is even more difficult.
