By Adonis Byemelwa
On May 3rd, 2025, the city of Arusha found itself at the center of a raw, unfiltered reckoning when renowned Pan-Africanist and Kenyan legal scholar Prof. PLO Lumumba stepped onto the stage, not just to speak, but to provoke, challenge, and unsettle.
Invited by Arusha Regional Commissioner Paul Makonda, Lumumba began his remarks with an earnest curiosity: What makes Arusha worth bragging about? From that simple question, the conversation widened into a profound critique of not just Arusha, not just Tanzania, but of Africa’s soul-searching struggle with its potential.
Makonda had spoken glowingly of Arusha’s natural beauty, its wildlife, its minerals, and the unique quality of its beef. But Lumumba wasn’t here for a tourism brochure.
He acknowledged the richness of Arusha—its resources, its hospitality, the unique advantage of being the headquarters of the East African Community—but quickly pivoted to a deeper, sharper question: what are we doing with all this?
With the SGR (Standard Gauge Railway) promising to turn Arusha into a dry port hub for the region, he saw opportunity knocking loudly. Yet, he wondered aloud, are we even hearing it?
He didn’t just speak, he demanded reflection. He challenged the entire notion of economic passivity wrapped in diplomacy.
His words cut through the comfort of politeness that often blankets African policy spaces. “When ministers meet, they never tell the truth. They’re too polite in the cabinet. That must stop.” It wasn’t a reprimand—it was a mirror held up to a leadership class that too often chooses consensus over courage.
One moment that sparked both laughter and introspection came when Lumumba held up a Coca-Cola bottle he’d been served at his hotel in Arusha. Imported. Even the coffee? Imported. This, in a country renowned for its rich coffee-growing regions. “Why am I drinking imported Coca-Cola in a land of coffee?” he asked, with the frustration of someone who has asked this question too many times across too many African cities.
He painted a broader picture of the continent’s bizarre import culture—fish from China, maize from Brazil, cashew nuts brought in from elsewhere, when Tanzania produces some of the best. “Even our toothpicks are imported. Are there no bamboos in Africa?” His voice carried more than irritation—it carried heartbreak. A continent rich in everything, behaving as if it owns nothing.
The speech didn’t spare the legacy of collapsed industries either. He referenced the once-thriving General Tyre industry in Arusha, which now exists only in memory. While China is making 500-year economic plans, he noted, Africa barely looks five years ahead.
The sense of urgency in his tone was unmistakable. This wasn’t just an economic analysis—it was a call to reimagine time itself, to stretch African thinking beyond electoral cycles and donor conferences.
Lumumba turned the conversation to energy—a pillar of any industrial revolution. He pointed out the embarrassing reality that Vietnam generates more megawatts of electricity than the entire East African Community combined.
How can a region industrialize, he asked, when its factories flicker on and off with unreliable power? His call to action was clear: harness the wind from these mountains, connect universities to real work opportunities, and stop churning out certificate-holding graduates disconnected from the economy.
He spoke passionately about the Maasai—not as a tourism brand, but as a people whose lives must materially benefit from the tourism they represent. This, he stressed, was the heart of inclusive growth. Not just GDP numbers, but real development that moves village to village. “Go to China, go to India—development starts in the village. Not the city.”
That sense of practical transformation anchored his message. He wasn’t glorifying theory—he wanted traction. He urged the growth of cottage industries, rooted in local knowledge, feeding into a regional market that should be seamless, not suffocated by tariff barriers.
Over 35 of them, he said, stand in the way of African trade, as if borders mean more than our shared destinies. “Why do we make it so hard to move onions from Tanzania to Kenya? Why is it easier to get cashews from Vietnam than from Mtwara?”
In a pointed moment that stripped away formalities, Prof. PLO Lumumba exposed the glaring economic paradox facing the East African Community. Despite a population of over 300 million, the GDPs of Kenya ($113B, 3,000 MW), Tanzania ($85B, 2,000 MW), Uganda ($55B, 1,400 MW), Rwanda ($15B, 300 MW), DRC ($80B, 2,700 MW), and Somalia ($8B, <150 MW) collectively trail behind Vietnam, whose GDP surpasses $430 billion and generates over 76,000 megawatts of electricity.
“We have the people; we have the resources—so what are we doing with that power?” Lumumba asked, visibly frustrated. “How can we talk of transformation when we can’t even keep the lights on? These numbers are not just statistics—they’re a reflection of our failure to act.” His challenge was clear: Africa must stop admiring its potential and start harnessing it.
But it’s in energy that the disparity turns damning: while the entire EAC produces under 10,000 megawatts of electricity. Lumumba didn’t offer these figures to impress, but to provoke—because for him, it wasn’t just about numbers, it was about neglect.
Standing in Arusha, he challenged Africa not to ask whether we have potential, but why we keep squandering it. His frustration echoed with lived experience: conferences are plenty, yet we drink imported coffee in coffee-growing countries, and we dream big while powering small.
Then came the emotional anchor of his message. “We Africans know what is right. But what is the value of knowing what is right if we do not do it?” His delivery wasn’t scripted; it was lived. You could hear the weight of someone who has spoken at countless conferences and watched too few ideas come to life.
He challenged Africa’s obsession with foreign goods and foreign validation. “Kenyans fly to Dubai to see animals in zoos, but how many visit Arusha?” His disdain wasn’t for travel—it was for the warped psychology of inferiority that leads Africans to trust the imported over the indigenous.
Language, he said, is not just a tool—it's a product. And in Kiswahili, he sees not only a means of communication but an instrument of trade and unity. “Let us commodify Kiswahili. Let it carry our markets, our dreams, our power.”
As his voice rose to a crescendo, he turned back to the present moment. This conference, he warned, must not become another intellectual jamboree. There must be a follow-up. There must be accountability. There must be change. “After Arusha, let Arusha be different. Let Tanzania be different.”
And as he closed, it wasn’t with resignation, but with a spark. “God,” he said, “has conspired in your favor. Do not waste that grace.” In that hall, on that day, Prof. Lumumba didn’t just address a forum. He summoned a continent. The question now is: who will answer?
