By Adonis Byemelwa
In a charged political climate, Tanzanian opposition activist and journalist-in-exile Ansbert Ngurumo has struck a nerve. Speaking from Finland on his YouTube channel, Ngurumo delivered a bold, no-holds-barred critique of his party, Chadema, and its controversial call to boycott the October 2025 general election under the slogan No Reforms, No Election.
For a party that once galvanized nationwide support as a credible challenger to CCM’s long-standing rule, this moment feels more like a reckoning than a rallying cry.
“I don’t see any practical roadmap here,” Ngurumo said bluntly. “It’s a slogan, not a strategy. You don’t stop a national election just because you wish it so.”
Ngurumo, once a parliamentary aspirant for Muleba South, has been an active voice in Tanzania’s opposition circles for years. But this time, he’s taking direct aim at Chadema’s leadership, particularly Chairman Tundu Lissu, accusing them of indulging in activist-style posturing rather than sound political maneuvering.
At the heart of Ngurumo’s argument is a simple but unsettling truth: the party is in danger of cannibalizing itself over a fantasy. While the “No Reforms, No Election” mantra resonates with frustration over Tanzania’s flawed electoral system, Ngurumo insists that retreating from the field is tantamount to surrender. “If you boycott,” he warns, “you’re not punishing the system—you’re rewarding it.”
Indeed, to many observers, the party’s boycott campaign feels more performative than practical. Tanzanian elections have long been marred by allegations of bias, state machinery manipulation, and lack of transparency.
But opting out entirely raises tough questions: What is the endgame? Who benefits from a political vacuum? Perhaps most crucially, what happens to the thousands of members and supporters who are ready to contest and campaign?
Ngurumo isn't alone in raising these alarms. John Mrema, a prominent Chadema figure and former Director of Protocol and Foreign Affairs, has taken a similar line. Now leading a group of 55 hopeful candidates known as the G55, Mrema says internal sentiment is shifting fast.
“If we held a secret ballot within the party today, most members would vote to participate in the 2025 election,” Mrema told reporters at a press briefing in Dar es Salaam. “People don’t believe in the fantasy of stopping the vote. They want in. They want to fight.”
The G55 group argues that boycotting would be a missed opportunity, especially when CCM appears more vulnerable than it has in years. “There’s no better moment to contest,” Mrema said. “And if we don’t show up, we hand them the entire game uncontested. That’s not resistance. That’s forfeiture.”
Yet, Chadema’s leadership remains steadfast. The party’s internal discipline mechanisms are already in motion—perhaps too aggressively. Just this week, Julius Mwita, Secretary of Chadema’s powerful Secretariat and former leader of its youth wing, was unceremoniously removed from his position. His crime? Reportedly opposing the “No Reforms, No Election” campaign behind closed doors.
Mwita has since confirmed his dismissal but withheld further comment, promising to “speak out soon.” But the message from the top is clear: dissent will not be tolerated.
The consequences of this internal crackdown go beyond individual dismissals. What we are witnessing is a party wrestling not just with the state but with itself—fracturing under the weight of competing ideologies. On one side are those who believe in pragmatic engagement; on the other, purists who see any participation in a flawed process as complicity.
Ngurumo believes this absolutism is dangerous—and deeply misguided. “We’re not a civil society organization,” he points out. “We are a political party. Our work is to engage, to compete, and to win hearts and minds. Not to sulk on the sidelines.”
As if to underscore how Chadema’s withdrawal is playing directly into the ruling party’s hands, Ngurumo highlighted recent remarks from CCM Secretary General Emmanuel Nchimbi.
At a recent Tanzania Editorial Forum (TEF) election event in Songea, where he was the guest of honor, CCM Secretary General Dr. Emmanuel Nchimbi delivered pointed remarks on the opposition's call to boycott the 2025 general election.
Speaking with a mix of confidence and subtle derision, Nchimbi used Chadema’s “No Reforms, No Election” stance to highlight what he framed as political immaturity and strategic missteps within the opposition.
“If Chadema isn't ready for this election,” he said, “they still have 2030, 2035, even 2040. Elections happen every five years—it's in the Constitution.” The line, laced with sarcasm, drew murmurs from the crowd and underscored a wider CCM sentiment: that a Chadema boycott is not a threat but a blessing.
But beneath the humor, Nchimbi's message cut deeper. He argued that no party, regardless of its grievances, has the constitutional power to halt a national election. “You can choose to participate or not,” he said, “but no one can stop the democratic process.”
To him, Chadema’s withdrawal isn't a protest—it’s an abdication. He added that CCM is fully prepared to move forward with or without opposition on the ballot, suggesting that even if every party pulled out, the electoral process would continue, possibly through referendums or unopposed contests.
His words painted a sobering picture of what political disengagement looks like in Tanzania: not a pause for reform, but a vacuum eagerly filled by those who remain.
“If Chadema won’t run in 2025,” Nchimbi said, grinning, “they still have 2030, 2035, or even 2040. Elections happen every five years—our Constitution guarantees that.”
The subtext was unmistakable: CCM is more than happy to campaign unchallenged. “Let them stay home,” Nchimbi added. “We’ll carry on just fine without them.”
For Ngurumo, the irony is bitter. “This is exactly what CCM wants,” he said. “A competition without opponents. A victory without struggle.”
Even longtime Chadema critics within CCM seem giddy about the boycott. Stephen Wassira, a veteran CCM stalwart, has taken to social media to ridicule the opposition’s slogan. “He pretends to argue against it,” Ngurumo notes, “but you can see the joy in his tone. The ruling party couldn’t have asked for a better gift.”
There’s something deeply personal in Ngurumo’s critique. It’s not just a policy disagreement—it’s the heartbreak of watching a movement he’s long fought for potentially unravel. His frustration isn’t aimed at the idealism behind the slogan but at the strategic naiveté driving it. “You can’t disrupt a system from the outside,” he insists. “Change comes from pressure, yes—but also from participation.”
The ground reality is even more sobering. Tanzanians who believe in opposition politics—organizers, youth activists, candidates—are watching from the wings, unsure whether to prepare for campaigns or brace for a boycott. The leadership vacuum is palpable.
In this chaotic moment, rumors swirl. Some, like Ngurumo, suspect that the hardline position isn’t even entirely organic. “It wouldn’t surprise me,” he says, “if some of these ideas were planted—fed into the party by operatives pretending to be allies on social media.” It’s a bold claim, but in the high-stakes theater of Tanzanian politics, not an unthinkable one.
Ultimately, Ngurumo issues a sobering warning: If Chadema tries to block the election and fails—which is almost certain—they may lose more than just the vote. They may lose credibility. Permanently.
He leaves no doubt about his prediction: “Come October 2025, the election will happen. If Chadema isn’t on the ballot, the people will ask: Where were you? And what did you expect to achieve by not showing up?”
It’s a haunting question—one that hangs over the party like a cloud as the clock ticks toward election day. In politics, as in life, absence doesn’t always speak louder than presence. Sometimes, it just means you weren’t there when it mattered most.