By Adonis Byemelwa
Shinyanga — The dust had barely settled by midday on May 7, 2025, when Tanzanians were hit with a political jolt. In a surprise press conference that unfolded with both precision and defiance, several of Chadema’s most recognizable national leaders called it quits. One by one, they stepped forward—not just to resign, but to light a fire under the party they once helped build.
It wasn't a quiet exit. It was a storm. There stood Benson Kigaila, once Chadema’s Deputy Secretary General for Mainland Tanzania, flanked by Salum Mwalimu, Catherine Ruge, Julius Mwita, and John Mrema.
Together, these names read like a roll call of the party’s former inner circle. Now, they’re the faces of a dramatic political break-up, saying the very soul of Chadema has been hijacked.
Their reasons were layered and personal, told not through slogans, but through visible frustration. Kigaila didn’t hold back. He spoke of betrayal, of reconciliation efforts snubbed, and of a party slipping into what he described as “petty dictatorship.”
He said the post-election tone should have been healing, but instead, newly elected chairman Tundu Lissu’s camp continued to fuel internal fire as if the campaign season never ended.
For many, this hit home. Not because it was unexpected—but because it had been simmering for years. There’s a sense of exhaustion in their words. An exhaustion born from battles behind closed doors, whispered threats of expulsion, and a growing intolerance for dissent.
Within the party, grassroots meetings are reportedly being used to purge members sympathetic to Freeman Mbowe, the former chairman. Voices asking questions are labeled “traitors.” Critics are dismissed as hungry for power. But as Kigaila pointed out, those calling for unity are the ones now being cast out.
There’s also the shadow of hypocrisy—one that Godbless Lema had flagged long before. He once questioned why figures like Kigaila and Mwalimu were allowed in the party’s decision-making organs while their wives occupied parliamentary seats obtained through methods Chadema itself had denounced. It’s a contradiction that now returns to center stage, adding weight to the defection.
And yet, not everyone is celebrating their departure. The so-called G55 bloc—a loose network of loyalists within the party—is divided. In places like Shinyanga, Mwanza, and Simiyu, which have long been Chadema heartlands, the mood is uneasy. Some sympathize with the defectors, remembering their years of service and sacrifice.
Others, particularly the younger rank-and-file, see their exit as a betrayal of the struggle. They view the defectors as valuing parliamentary dividends and personal political futures over the harder, more idealistic road: fighting for democratic reforms under the banner of No Reform, No Election.
The fracture speaks to something deeper—something generational, perhaps even ideological. The country is staring down the 2025 General Elections, and opposition unity has never been more fragile. Lissu, the party’s new face and still behind bars on treason charges, is absent from this chaos but not unaffected by it. The symbolism of his detention during this defection is hard to ignore. The captain’s off the ship, and the crew is already bailing.
Inside Chadema, responses have been fierce. Chaso, the student wing of the party, wasted no time denouncing the defectors. National Chairman Leonce Martin called them nothing short of traitors, arguing that their decision had everything to do with ambitions to run for parliamentary seats—and nothing to do with principle.
He accused them of bypassing the party’s long-held stance on boycotting elections under flawed laws simply because it didn’t serve their interests.
Others joined the chorus. Martin Kambore, Chaso’s leader from NIT, pointed out the hard truth: without an independent electoral commission and real reform, Tanzania’s elections are a charade. And if that’s the case, he said, participation only lends legitimacy to a broken system.
Still, questions linger. The defectors were quick to clarify: they’re not running to CCM. Not yet. Not at all, they insist. But they’ve left their options open, promising to reveal their next steps “when the time is right.” Until then, the speculation runs wild.
What’s clear is this: Chadema, once seen as the ironclad voice of opposition in Tanzania, is bleeding from within. This isn’t just a political exit—it’s a warning shot. A signal that, without internal reform, opposition parties can collapse from the inside out, long before the ruling party makes its next move.
And for voters watching from the sidelines, particularly the youth who’ve poured their faith into these leaders, today’s events feel like a punch in the gut. The turncoats may have walked out of the building, but the reckoning they’ve left behind is just beginning.
