To the Dead of MO29

The wind is heavy, and when I pick up the pen to write to you, my bones rattle. Many of you were, but children, 17-25, barely out of your parents’ houses, pushed into a country that failed you. Toni Morrison once said, “Speaking to the broken and the dead is too difficult for a mouth full of blood. Too holy an act for impure thoughts. Because the dead are free, absolute; they cannot be seduced by blitz.” I must speak with you soberly, somberly, with humility and reverence.  I must not let anger, hatred or fear cloud my heart.

First, I must apologise on behalf of older generations. We thought we knew evil when we thrashed you into the mean streets of gun-slinging mercenaries in uniform, empty, armed with nothing but your lungs, prayers, and bare knuckles, hoping your courage would save us all. We didn’t know we were playing chicken with madmen and madwomen. They were never going to swerve. They shot first and never asked questions. They blasted you with bullets so big, you never stood a chance. There was no Kinjekitile’s dawa to shield you, or strategy, or even a David with a sling against Goliath. None of us asked what if? What if the military never came? What if all their threats came true? What if we lost you all? Now, we have lost you.

We had held on to the belief that we were a peaceful, democratic country, a cradle for humanity. We thought the ideals we all sang in song were enshrined in every Tanzanian’s heart. Surely, they couldn’t have harmed you. So, we did not act when you proclaimed you were ready to die for your country. Or when those in power hurled threats of force and armoured cars paraded the streets. We did not tell you we loved you, and that your value to us was not just in your death, but your life, your thoughts, everything about you. I wonder, if we told you then that you were precious to all of us, would you have believed it enough to quench your fire and pacify your frustrations? We watched you scream, fists in the air, but did we listen? Did we truly listen?

We would like to think of you as brave, but perhaps a little bit of it was adrenaline-fueled bravado of youth, and the comfort of being in a group. But you were young, and most of you did not want to die.  I know you trembled in fear when your body started to feel cold from the loss of blood. I know you called for your mothers, and we never came for you. Even in the frenzy, I know the loneliness of death came to you, and you called out to your God to come and save you. I think of you, alone, cold and bloodied on the pavement, your loved ones too afraid of bullets to get you. I try to think of your mothers, and fathers, siblings, and those who loved you, and I weep for them. The senselessness with which you were taken from them, from us all, is heart-wrenching. I do not know how to comfort them when I, too, am broken by this, but I promise I will try. I will not let them cry for you alone. I will not let them feel alone.

I do not know how to mourn you without mourning the country we lost on October 29. You are our reckoning.  How could the same country that preached “watoto taifa la kesho” murder you in cold blood as soon as you approached your tomorrow? I do not know what names they will give you to justify your murder – wahalifu, waharibifu, wageni? We will not believe them, not when we know it was our very wombs that birthed you, and our bosoms that nurtured you. Not when we know, the blood, wisdom and spirit of our ancestors flowed through you. You saw injustice, corruption and evil, and refused to accept it. You did not cower in the face of tyranny.

I do not claim to know what it is like to bear a revolutionary thought, or know a revolutionary when I see one, but from here on out, when I think of those who sacrificed for Tanzania, I will think of you, too. I will write your names alongside mashujaa – mothers, fathers, sons and daughters of this nation. I will think of you alongside freedom fighters – lele mama organisers, majimaji and more. When the land is fertile and freedom sprouts, I will think of you and every drop of blood that watered this land, and I will thank you.

I do not dare to speak for you, but when I think of your sacrifice, I am moved to ask what it is your spilt blood calls us to do. You did not die on these streets for us to go back and spill more blood. You did not die on these streets for us to freeze in fear at the sight of tyranny. You did not die for us to lose our humanity or sow discord among each other.

I like to think you died for something far bigger. To remind us of our fragile peace and humanity. To remind us to be kinder, better, more humane. To remind us that none of us is free if all of us aren’t. To remind us that we are stronger together than divided. So, to honour your courage, I vow to work for what you fought for – a more just, democratic, free and equal society, for the rest of my life.

I do not have the answers you sought – like how to end impunity or bring constitutional reforms. I know that what you fought for will not be achieved in a day. But, by God, must we strive for a better world!  

You have now joined the ancestors and martyrs with their infinite wisdom. Guide us. Plant in us the spirit of service, sacrifice and equality. Let us all ask - how can we bridge the gap between us and our neighbours? How can we better serve the youth and work for our collective well-being? How can we build a better country for everyone?

From the bottom of my heart, I thank you, sincerely and eternally.