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Shinyanga — It was not a vanishing in mystery, but one punctuated with violence, screams, and the echoes of brutality that have come to symbolize a disturbing trend in Tanzania—abductions by individuals who appear to operate above the law, beneath the veil of uniforms, and in the shadows of government silence.
Pastor Gumbo wasn’t taken silently. He shouted. He resisted. He called out, “I am being abducted!” But the men who came for him were prepared.
Driving a white Land Cruiser with no license plates, they beat him, bound him with cloth and handcuffs, and threw him into their vehicle. These weren’t just criminals in plain clothes.
According to the pastor, they claimed to be police officers, needing him for “interrogation.” What followed was hours of torture.
He was beaten, thrown into a room he didn’t recognize, and then, his body bloodied and bruised, left in the forested areas of Kilimanjaro, too wounded to sit down.
His alleged crime? Publicly condemning the culture of impunity through prophecy, warning that officers involved in criminality would die in thunderstorms. Days later, reports surfaced of officers dying under similar eerie circumstances.
It would be easy to dismiss this as an isolated case. But it's not. Tanzania is in the grip of a silent war—one not fought with guns and tanks, but with fear, secrecy, and a growing disregard for basic human rights.
From journalists like Azory Gwanda, whose disappearance remains unresolved, to activists like Mdude Nyagali and Deusdedith Soka, whose whereabouts are shrouded in mystery, the pattern is unmistakable. People vanish. Sometimes they return, battered and broken. Sometimes they don’t return at all.
The Speaker of the Tanzanian Parliament, Dr. Tulia Ackson—an esteemed lawyer and holder of a PhD—once offered a disturbing lens through which to view abduction. In an interview with Wasafi TV, she argued that "real" abduction should involve chaos, public struggle, media outcry, and ultimately, the testimony of the victim upon return.
According to her, many so-called abductions are simply people leaving to “seek life elsewhere.” For someone trained in the law at the highest levels, this explanation rings hollow, especially in the face of people like Gumbo who return bearing the scars of their ordeal.
In Shinyanga, as in other parts of the country, there is growing frustration. People speak in hushed tones, but the anger is real. Many fear that if these incidents are allowed to normalize, the fabric of the country will unravel. “If they can take a pastor in broad daylight, what will stop them from taking my child?” one woman asked in a village meeting, her voice trembling with a blend of fear and fury.
This growing epidemic of abductions is more than a national shame. It’s a geopolitical liability. Tanzania has long branded itself as a beacon of stability in East Africa—a place where investors could plant their money and watch it grow.
But no investor, no matter how risk-tolerant, will choose a country where even the clergy can be dragged into unmarked cars and left in forests to die. A nation that silences dissent through force is not safe; it is a fragile one.
Worse, these actions create a chilling effect on freedom of speech. If a pastor’s prophecy can earn him a near-death experience, what safety does an ordinary citizen have in expressing opinions or calling out injustice?
If critics are silenced through force, we must ask: will truth also be silenced, or will it find other, more explosive ways to reveal itself? Silencing critics never weakens their ideas—it only makes their return more potent, their voices fiercer.
And what of the real police? In a climate where abductors claim to be law enforcers, the reputation of the actual police force is under siege. If criminals wear their badge, what recourse do citizens have? The police leadership must act loudly and transparently.
First, they must publicly disown and condemn abductions carried out in the name of the state. Second, they must investigate any allegations tied to their members swiftly and impartially. And third, they must regain the public trust by protecting, not persecuting, the people.
The use of vehicles without license plates by abductors is particularly alarming. It signals coordination, planning, and the implicit assumption that they are untouchable.
This demands an immediate response—such vehicles should be automatically stopped at checkpoints, investigated, and documented. It’s a basic, actionable step in restoring the rule of law.
But perhaps the time has come for Tanzania to reach out. There are precedents globally where sovereign nations have invited external bodies like Scotland Yard to investigate unresolved, politically sensitive cases. Would doing so be a violation of our sovereignty?
Some may argue so. But is sovereignty worth more than the lives of citizens? Is it more sacred than the truth? When millions of youths live in fear, unsure if a tweet or a sermon could make them disappear, the nation must ask itself: Are we safeguarding sovereignty or covering up shame?
From Tundu Lissu’s attempted assassination in 2017 to the mysterious abduction of billionaire Mohammed Dewji, the dots are waiting to be connected.
And it might take an impartial, external hand to connect them. Yes, it’s a hard pill to swallow—but if we keep pretending these are “normal incidents,” the body count will rise, the trust will fall, and Tanzania’s legacy as a peaceful haven will wither.
And for the rest of us? We must decide: do we want to live in a nation where the bold are broken and the wicked hide behind uniforms? Or do we demand justice—not tomorrow, but now?
This is not just a political crisis. It’s a moral one. And history has shown us that when nations ignore the screams of their citizens, those screams eventually become roars.
So, before it’s too late, we must choose courage over comfort, truth over silence, and action over apathy. Because silence is no longer neutrality. In Tanzania today, silence is complicity.