Why Tanzanians are heading to election under heavy cloud of defeat

As Tanzanians go to the polls today, the mood across the country – from the dusty roads of Arusha to the humid coast of Dar es Salaam and the cool hills of Moshi, is one of uneasy calm.

The events leading to this moment have laid bare serious questions about the country’s democracy, political legitimacy, and the fate of ordinary citizens who feel abandoned, silenced, and defeated by the very system meant to represent them.

While officially billed as a General Election for president, parliament, and other bodies, the wider context suggests something closer to a one-sided affirmation than a genuine contest.

The environment surrounding today’s vote is defined by repression, exclusion, and institutional capture. Critics say these forces weigh heavily on those who feel voiceless and pushed out of civic life.

Nyerere’s vision

To many, today marks not just another election but a test of how far the nation has drifted from Mwalimu Julius Nyerere’s democratic vision.

For ordinary Tanzanians, the vote feels less like a contest than confirmation of power already secured by the incumbent. The structures of control are visible everywhere – from the omnipresent faces of ruling-party candidates to the subdued press and the growing apathy of citizens who say their voices no longer matter.

What should have been a celebration of choice is unfolding as a ritual of inevitability - an election cast in the shadow of control and quiet surrender.

When President Samia Suluhu Hassan assumed office in 2021 after the death of John Pombe Magufuli, she was hailed as a reformer who would reopen civic space. Her early gestures – freeing political prisoners, unbanning newspapers, and reaching out to the opposition, inspired hope across the country.

However, that optimism quickly faded. Over time, the government quietly re-tightened control: Opposition leaders started being arrested, rallies restricted, and civil society monitored. The institutions that once promised reforms quickly turned into instruments of enforced silence.

Lowered voices

Across Tanzania, citizens speak in lowered voices about an election they believe is already decided. “We know the outcome,” says a taxi driver in Moshi. His words echo in markets and bus stands in Arusha and Dar es Salaam, where many say voting today feels less like expression and more like endurance. Observers say today’s ballots test not only who will govern but whether voting still carries any democratic meaning.

In the run-up to today’s vote, billboards have taken over the streets, stretched across city skylines and rural highways, projecting the image of a nation at ease with itself. On one of them, President Suluhu appears poised and confident, seated beside her chief political rival in a carefully staged display of national unity.

The captions beneath it proclaimed her the “President of all Tanzanians.” Yet beneath this glossy choreography, critics say, there is a jarring falsehood. The man in the photo, opposition leader Tundu Lissu, is neither a partner in dialogue nor a participant in today’s vote; he faces a treason trial while his party is barred from fielding a presidential candidate.

The contrast between this staged harmony and the grim political reality across the country could not be starker. Behind the election campaign, images and slogans of reconciliation are human rights reports of abductions, bodies found doused in acid and systematic disqualification of opponents.

What is being presented as an election is, according to observers, a carefully orchestrated ritual that is less a contest of ideas than a coronation. They argue it is meant to sanctify the uninterrupted dominance of the Chama Cha Mapinduzi (CCM), even as fear, coercion, and silence steadily erode the pluralism that once defined the nation’s political promise.

In Arusha, where Chadema once drew vast crowds, campaigns had dwindled to quiet door-to-door appeals. In Dar es Salaam, minor-party posters cling to walls already plastered with ruling-party imagery. “Mama Suluhu’s posters have been forcefully put everywhere – on top of others, on shopfronts, even on people’s houses,” a Tuk Tuk driver says.

Tundu Lissu, one of the fiercest critics of state power, remains detained without bail pending his treason trial. His survival of a 2017 assassination attempt made him a national symbol of resilience. When he returned from exile in 2023, crowds welcomed him with renewed hope that democracy would reopen. Within months, he was back in court, facing charges many view as politically motivated.

In the final days leading to today’s vote, government-controlled outlets have been awash with claims that Lissu had been cleared of all treason charges but had chosen to remain in prison until after the election – a narrative his supporters dismiss as crude propaganda aimed at softening the image of a government desperate for legitimacy. To many Tanzanians, the story itself speaks volumes about the state’s unease and its willingness to twist facts in pursuit of political calm.

No challenger

That uneasy calm has since become the government’s most effective weapon. It no longer needs open violence to ensure dominance; administrative exclusion, legal manoeuvres, and public fatigue have done the job. The ruling CCM faces no credible challenger. The opposition’s absence is not just political but psychological, the triumph of control over contestation.

Critics say President Samia’s strategy blends soft power with subtle coercion. Her image is that of a calm reformer, yet behind it there is a calculated control of dissent through dialogue, punishment through process, and exclusion through legality. She manages opponents and human rights defenders not through open brutality, as her predecessor did, but through intimidation and legal pressure.

Under her leadership, repression has become systematic and organised – enforced not by sudden decrees but through bureaucratic precision, licensing laws, and selective enforcement of cybercrime regulations. The system projects legality even as it erodes freedom.

Civil society leaders in Arusha describe a climate of “invisible pressure.” NGOs have continued to face endless audits and restrictions that make advocacy nearly impossible. Journalists we spoke to report surveillance and intimidation, while the digital space is tightly policed under sweeping cybercrime laws. Online content deemed “offensive” or “seditious” attracts swift punishment.

By mid-2025, the veneer of inclusivity had vanished. The administration that once promised reform now silences critics with a precision that rivals the past. Arrests and harassment of journalists and human rights defenders have made engagement dangerous. Local media, wary of licence suspensions, now report cautiously, while citizens avoid rallies and debates. The Cybercrime Act and Media Service Act continue to suppress dissent.

Several journalists say they must register with state authorities and seek permission to cover the ongoing elections. Ordinary citizens risk arrest for posting political videos online. “The cost of participation, to your reputation or safety, is too high,” one reporter says.

This transformation has been slow but deliberate. Each step toward openness is followed by a quiet retraction. The result is a political environment that appears democratic on paper but functions like a one-party state. The CCM’s slogans of “stability” and “unity” echo across billboards, enforced through compliance and silence.

“President Samia Suluhu Hassan’s government has dashed hopes for reform,” says Tigere Chagutah, Amnesty International’s regional director. “Instead, it has intensified repressive practices – targeting opposition leaders, journalists, and dissenting voices through assaults, arrests, and disappearances with impunity.” The Tanganyika Law Society documented 83 disappearances by August 2024.

For many Tanzanians, this election feels like an obligation, not a right. “Kura twapiga lakini hamna lakubadilika,” a fruit seller in Moshi says - “We’ll vote, but nothing changes.” Her words capture the loss of faith in electoral participation.

The poor, the rural, and the disenchanted remain spectators in a process that claims to speak for them. The ballot box still stands, but many say its power to change reality has vanished. Even in rural Moshi, where new roads and schools rise, many quietly admit development without participation feels empty.

Young people, who make up more than half of the 37 million registered voters, remain detached from politics. Many see no point in voting when the result seems predetermined. Critics warn this disengagement risks creating a generational fracture, breeding long-term cynicism toward democratic institutions.

For many, today’s vote carries the scent of a foregone conclusion. Seventeen presidential candidates will appear on the ballot, but most lead small, obscure parties. The illusion of competition masks an outcome few expect to change.

Yet even amid cynicism, some Tanzanians still vote out of principle. “Ni haki yangu kama Mtanzania kupiga kura, hata kama najua haitabadili lolote,” says Abdul in Dar es Salaam. Others say they boycott the election to show solidarity with the opposition leader, Lissu, arguing that voting will only legitimises control and further repression.

Mr Kituyi  is an independent investigative journalist