By Adonis Byemelwa
Usangi, Kilimanjaro—On May 13, 2025, the highland air hung heavy with reverence as Tanzania laid to rest one of its most enduring statesmen, Cleopa David Msuya. Beneath the solemn grey sky, mourners gathered not only to honor a legacy but also to witness the unexpected spark of a political storm, one ignited by none other than former President Jakaya Mrisho Kikwete.
“Cleopa Msuya was a man of integrity,” Kikwete said, his voice rising clearly over the still crowd. “He never called a press conference to shame the government. He came straight to my office to rebuke or praise. That’s decorum. That’s patriotism.”
His tribute, seemingly warm and nostalgic, drew a knowing smile from President Samia Suluhu Hassan, who was seated nearby. However, for many listening — both in the crowd and across the nation via livestream — the moment quickly took on a sharper edge.
What began as praise felt, to some, like a reprimand cloaked in tribute. And the target? Many believe it was former Prime Minister Joseph Sinde Warioba.
A longtime advocate for constitutional reform and good governance, Warioba has been an unrelenting voice of critique, recently condemning the government's use of police to stifle opposition voices.
"The police should not be used to silence dissent," Warioba warned during a recent press briefing, calling for dialogue with the opposition party Chadema over intimidation tactics. Kikwete’s contrast between private counsel and public criticism hit a nerve, and Tanzanians wasted no time responding.
Across the country, from Arusha to Zanzibar, social media lit up with reactions that blurred generational lines and political affiliations. Supporters of Warioba and fellow elder statesman Joseph Butiku argued passionately that public critique, especially from those no longer seeking power, is not only valid but vital.
“He speaks for the voiceless,” wrote one Moshi resident on X “Warioba is not just a name; he is a conscience. Are we now punishing honesty?”
Another user from Dodoma added, “Truth doesn’t come with an expiry date. Kikwete had his time to speak — now he wants others to whisper in corridors?”
Butiku, a close aide to the late Julius Nyerere, also came into the spotlight after his sharp criticism of the controversial DP World port deal, which he called “a bogus treaty… tantamount to economic sabotage.” For many, Butiku’s refusal to remain silent is seen as a continuation of Nyerere’s principled leadership, not as political meddling.
“You can’t ask Butiku to be quiet,” said Zuberi Ndunguru, a retired lecturer from Morogoro. “The man carries Nyerere’s political DNA. Asking him to be silent is like asking a lion not to roar.”
In Zanzibar, where political waters often run deep beneath calm surfaces, activist Asha Bakari echoed the sentiment: “These elders remind us what the Union was meant to be. Silencing them is silencing our history.”
Yet not everyone was opposed to Kikwete’s message. Some saw wisdom in urging restraint. “We can’t run a government with retired officials holding pressers every week,” argued one X user from Tanga. “Let them advise in private. Their time passed.”
That perspective isn’t new. During the Magufuli administration, similar calls were made — notably by former Iringa Regional Commissioner Aly Hapi, who stated, “Retirees should stay quiet unless called upon.”
But critics weren’t about to let Kikwete off the hook. They pointed out that he had once publicly rebuked President Magufuli over the mistreatment of elders, earning respect for his courage at the time. That’s what makes his recent comments feel, to some, like a convenient pivot.
“This is classic ‘do as I say, not as I did’ politics,” said Mbeya-based activist Baraka Kimaro. “Msuya may have gone to the office quietly, but that doesn’t mean Warioba or Butiku are wrong for choosing the microphone. Different eras demand different voices.”
And history is on the side of those who speak out. In mature democracies, elder statesmen often play a critical role in shaping public discourse. Barack Obama, Thabo Mbeki, and Gordon Brown all routinely wade into national debates, using their platforms to advocate for justice, inclusion, and accountability.
“Democracy doesn’t end when you retire,” noted the University of Dar es Salaam lecturer on condition of anonymity. “If anything, retirement frees you to speak without fear. That’s the very essence of a functioning democracy — voices unchained by ambition.”
The generational divide in this debate is also impossible to ignore. Young Tanzanians — especially on TikTok and X — have turned moments from Warioba’s speeches into viral clips. His voice, calm but firm, has become an unlikely anthem for a youth hungry for transparency.
In this whirlwind of reactions, another layer has emerged: Kikwete’s proximity to power. His son, Ridhiwani, is now a minister. His wife, Salma, sits in Parliament. The former president enjoys unimpeded travel and broad influence under the current administration, leading some to question whether his plea for "decorum" is rooted more in self-preservation than national unity.
“Let’s be honest,” said one anonymous ruling party councillor from Tabora. “We don’t have to agree with Warioba on everything. But to dismiss him completely? That’s not leadership — that’s fear of criticism.”
And then there are the more poetic takes, like that of activist Rehema Juma: “It’s not dirty linen when truth is aired. It’s sunlight — and sunlight disinfects.”
Through it all, the dignity of Cleopa Msuya’s legacy remains untouched. He was known for his silence, yes, but more for his discretion and deep moral clarity. Perhaps the real debate here is not about whether retired leaders should speak, but how, and to what end.
Kikwete’s tribute, intended as a moment of unity, has instead cracked open a long-simmering conversation. And maybe that, in its way, is a service to the nation — not by quieting dissent, but by forcing us to ask harder questions about who gets to speak, when, and why.
As the sun set over Usangi that day, it didn’t just mark the end of Msuya’s journey. It reignited a national conversation about democracy, memory, and the power and price of speaking out.