By Adonis Byemelwa
In the heart of Dar es Salaam on May 3, 2025, a voice of calm and legal wisdom broke through the intensifying noise surrounding the treason case of opposition leader Tundu Lissu. Retired judge and former Prime Minister Joseph Sinde Warioba didn’t speak loudly, but the weight of his words reverberated.
In what felt more like a statesman's intervention than a legal argument, he cautioned the government to respect the sanctity of the judiciary. His message was plain but powerful: let the court do its job—without interference, without pressure, and certainly without the echo of political justification trailing from Parliament.
Judge Warioba’s concerns were sparked by a growing public debate over the handling of Lissu’s case, especially after the Attorney General, Hamza Johari, rose on April 30 in Parliament to vigorously defend the decision to conduct proceedings against Lissu via video link.
Johari insisted the remote hearings were not just legal but necessary, pointing to security concerns and the potential for disruption if the high-profile opposition leader were to be brought to court physically.
He referenced provisions in the Law on the Administration of Justice that allow for electronic hearings under special circumstances, citing threats of misinformation on social media and fears of public unrest.
But to many, Johari's explanation sounded less like a legal clarification and more like an attempt to shape public perception around a case still before the courts.
And to Judge Warioba, this crossed a dangerous line. In his view, the Attorney General had stepped into a space he ought to have avoided—publicly defending judicial decisions while the court itself was still actively deliberating.
Warioba reminded the nation that justice not only must be done but must be seen to be done, and anything that creates doubt in the neutrality of the judiciary weakens the very foundation of trust between citizens and the legal system.
The heart of the matter, of course, is the case against Tundu Lissu, the firebrand opposition figure and Chairman of Chadema.
On April 10, 2025, he was charged at the Kisutu Resident Magistrate’s Court with publishing false information and treason, accusations rooted in statements he allegedly made through his YouTube channel.
His arrest and detention were dramatic, but the controversy escalated when the court decided to proceed with his preliminary hearing remotely on April 24—a decision Lissu himself protested vehemently. He demanded to be heard in an open court, not from behind a screen in a prison cell.
What followed was not just a legal argument, but a human one. Lissu’s lawyer, Peter Kibatala, passionately decried the way his client was being treated.
He described how Lissu had been effectively cut off from his legal team, held in remand at Ukonga Prison with only limited, surveilled access to his advocates.
"We’re not asking for special treatment," Kibatala said. "We’re asking for justice. And justice starts with being able to speak freely to your lawyer."
There’s a poignancy to Kibatala’s words that resonates far beyond the courtroom. It echoes the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the UN’s Basic Principles for the Treatment of Prisoners, which explicitly state that all detainees must be allowed private and timely access to legal counsel.
Gritting through monitored conversations and restricted meetings isn’t just inconvenient—it’s a violation of a right that should never be negotiable, no matter the charges.
Meanwhile, back in Parliament, the conversation took another turn. Home Affairs Minister Innocent Bashungwa stepped in, justifying the decision not to transport Lissu to open court by comparing the act to "organizing a protest march."
The implication was clear: Lissu’s presence could ignite a public spectacle, perhaps even unrest. Therefore, the logic went, keeping the trial behind screens was not just prudent—it was protective.
But that’s exactly where the tension lies. The state’s insistence on controlling the narrative and setting the boundaries of the courtroom—both literally and symbolically—has drawn a line that many legal minds fear should not be crossed.
The argument that order must prevail is valid, but when used to justify procedures that may compromise fairness, it begins to feel like political expediency dressed in legal robes.
Despite the swirling debate, Parliament proceeded to approve a substantial TSh 687.69 billion budget for the Ministry of Constitution and Legal Affairs for the fiscal year 2025/26, with over TSh 162 billion earmarked for development projects. But the budget vote did little to silence the murmurs of unease.
For many observers, the real issue isn’t about the money. It’s about whether the nation’s institutions—especially the courts—can stand tall and independent when politics is breathing down their necks.
It’s hard to ignore the symbolism wrapped in Lissu’s story. Here is a man once shot and nearly killed for his political convictions, returning to face charges that could put him behind bars for life, in a courtroom he insists must be open to the people.
Whether one agrees with him or not, there is something deeply human in his demand to be seen, to be heard, and to stand not as an image on a prison screen, but as a person in a courtroom.
Judge Warioba’s voice may have seemed quiet in a week of loud politics, but it was the voice of principle.
His concern wasn’t about legal technicalities—it was about the soul of the justice system. And in the weeks ahead, as the Kisutu court prepares to decide whether Lissu’s trial will continue in person or remotely, that principle will be put to the test.
Because in the end, justice isn’t just about outcomes. It’s about the process. And the country is watching, not just to see what the law says, but to feel whether the law is being lived. In this case, as in many, it’s not simply a matter of legality—it’s a matter of legitimacy.