By Adonis
Byemelwa
In early December, the room in
Dar es Salaam felt heavy long before Luhaga Joelson Mpina began to speak. His
statement, delivered on 6 December 2025, carried the tone of someone who
believed he was documenting history in real time.
This was not simply an
opposition reaction to defeat. It was a layered account of exclusion,
institutional hesitation, public anger, and a deepening crisis of trust. To
grasp its significance, though, Mpina’s voice has to be placed alongside the
voices pushing back against him, defending the system he says has failed.
Mpina began by grounding his
message in loss. He acknowledged families affected by post-election violence,
reminding listeners that political decisions do not exist in abstraction. They
spill into homes, streets, and livelihoods.
By starting there, he framed the election
dispute not as a contest of elites, but as a matter with human consequences. It
was a powerful opening, designed to slow the listener down and sharpen the
moral stakes.
From that point, the election
itself became the spine of his argument. Mpina rejected the official results
outright, insisting they “did not reflect the will of the people, but a
decision imposed on them.”
He did not linger on
spreadsheets or percentages. Instead, he questioned legitimacy, suggesting that
numbers lose meaning when public confidence has already collapsed. The issue,
in his telling, was not victory or loss, but credibility.
At the centre of his account sat
his own exclusion from the presidential race. Mpina described filing an appeal,
receiving acknowledgement from judicial authorities, and even seeing the matter
discussed administratively.
Then, as election day
approached, nothing happened. That silence, he argued, became decisive.
Proceeding with the election while an urgent appeal remained unheard denied
voters a full range of choice. What he lost personally, he said, the electorate
lost collectively.
The judiciary featured
prominently, though carefully. Mpina avoided naming judges or accusing
individuals of bad faith. Instead, he focused on institutional failure. When
courts delay at critical moments, he argued, delay itself becomes political.
“The failure to act undermined
confidence in the independence of justice,” he said. In a country where courts
are meant to steady the political system, that accusation resonated far beyond
party lines.
The government and electoral
authorities offered a sharply different picture. The national electoral
commission defended the process, emphasising that the election followed the law
and reflected popular participation.
Officials highlighted high
turnout figures and sweeping victories as evidence of public endorsement. From
their perspective, the process was not broken; it was decisive. Any
irregularities, they suggested, were isolated and insufficient to overturn the
overall result.
That defence rested heavily on
procedure. Electoral authorities maintained that candidates, including Mpina,
were bound by rules and codes of conduct and that disqualifications followed
established legal frameworks.
In this view, courts were
cautious rather than compromised, and order was preserved rather than
undermined. The gap between this legalistic narrative and Mpina’s lived
experience lies at the heart of the dispute.
As Mpina moved from courtrooms
to streets, his tone sharpened. He directly challenged the justification of
force against protesters. There was, he insisted, no declared war and no state
of emergency.
Treating demonstrators as
enemies of the state, therefore, had no legal foundation. “No leader has the
authority to sanction the killing of citizens,” he said, a line that cut
through the speech with deliberate simplicity.
International observers echoed
some of these concerns, even as they stopped short of endorsing Mpina’s
conclusions wholesale. Regional observer missions noted that while the legal
framework for elections existed, the environment surrounding the vote was deeply
problematic.
Restrictions on media, delays in releasing key
electoral information, and the shutdown of internet services during crucial
moments all featured prominently in their assessments. These factors, observers
warned, undermined transparency and acceptance of results.
European diplomats added their
voices, expressing concern over reports of violence, deaths, and restrictions
on civic space. They called for restraint, transparent investigations, and
accountability for abuses.
The language was measured, but
the message was unmistakable: the election had raised serious questions that
could not be brushed aside by declarations of victory alone.
The government, for its part,
rejected claims of international interference or conspiracy. Senior officials
framed external criticism as misunderstanding or even hostility, arguing that
Tanzania’s sovereignty entitled it to manage its own affairs.
Mpina pushed back hard on this point. If
foreign actors wished to destabilise the country, he argued, they would not do
so through statements of concern. Criticism, he insisted, focused on rights and
transparency, not regime change.
One of the most contentious
aspects of Mpina’s statement concerned voter turnout. He described empty
polling stations, especially in urban centres, and contrasted this with
official claims of overwhelming participation.
The discrepancy, he argued, was
too wide to ignore. Against the backdrop of visible apathy and fear, the
narrative of near-universal enthusiasm felt out of place. This was not a
statistical debate so much as a challenge to plausibility.
To reinforce his point, Mpina
invoked everyday experience. He spoke of farmers squeezed by falling prices,
young people shut out of the job market, workers waiting for unpaid benefits,
and families struggling with rising costs.
Opposition parties beyond ACT
Wazalendo echoed parts of this critique, with some going further. Calls for
fresh elections, transitional arrangements, and international oversight
surfaced in the days following the vote.
These demands reflected not just
dissatisfaction with outcomes, but a more profound loss of faith in
institutions meant to arbitrate political competition.
Civil society organisations
added another layer, urging independent investigations into post-election
violence and alleged rights violations. Legal advocates argued that
accountability was essential not only for punishment but also for restoring
dignity and confidence. Government-appointed inquiries, however, were met with
scepticism, as they were criticised for lacking independence and transparency.
For all its force, Mpina’s
statement was not without limits. He offered interpretation more often than
proof, moral clarity more than forensic detail. Critics rightly note that some
claims remain contested and that public opinion in Tanzania is not monolithic.
Surveys conducted before the election
suggested significant trust in electoral institutions, complicating the picture
of total collapse.
However, what Mpina captured,
and what official statements often missed, was the texture of distrust. Trust
erodes quietly before it breaks loudly.
Delayed court decisions,
restricted media space, heavy security presence, and disrupted communication
each chipped away at confidence. By the time results were announced, many
citizens were already primed to doubt them.
What makes this moment
consequential is not a single speech or report, but the convergence of
narratives. An opposition leader documenting exclusion.
Electoral authorities asserting
legality. Observers flagging serious concerns. Citizens caught between order
and doubt. None of these voices alone tells the whole story. Together, they
reveal a political system under strain.
Mpina’s statement is now part of
the public record. It will be quoted, challenged, and revisited as Tanzania
navigates the aftermath of a disputed election.
It does not settle the argument,
nor does it claim to. Instead, it insists that silence, delay, and dismissal
are no longer viable responses.
In that sense, the speech was
less about winning a case than about forcing a reckoning. Elections, it reminds
us, do not end with announcements. They continue in courts that must decide,
institutions that must explain, and societies that must believe.
Where belief fractures, stability becomes fragile. Furthermore, when voices rise from streets and courtrooms alike, they are not easily ignored.