True African History

2021: A new president in Dar es Salaam steps forward as the West's latest darling. President Samia Suluhu Hassan is lauded as a liberator after the Magufuli years. She frees banned newspapers, meets exiled opposition figures, and promises a gentler, more open era. Western diplomats and media rush to anoint her the region's "reformer", a good student of liberal democracy. 2025: Smoke and tear gas choke the streets of Dar es Salaam as troops clamp down on protestors. Headlines in London and Washington now decry Samia as a budding despot overseeing stolen elections and mass arrests. The same president once toasted as a democratic hopeful is painted as the newest villain on the African stage. Did Samia change so drastically – or did the price of her obedience become too high? This question hangs over Tanzania's abrupt fall from grace in Western eyes. It invites a forensic look at how narratives are manufactured, how half-truths are weaponised, and how geopolitical interests pivoted between 2021 and 2025.

The Reformist Darling of 2021–22

In her first year, President Samia Suluhu Hassan could do no wrong in Western eyes. Taking office after the sudden death of John Magufuli, she moved swiftly to reverse some of her predecessor's most controversial policies. Newspapers Magufuli had shuttered were allowed to reopen; opposition rallies that had long been banned were permitted again; unjustly jailed critics like opposition leader Freeman Mbowe walked free. Samia spoke the language of reconciliation and reform, emphasizing "dialogue" and national healing. Such gestures won immediate applause abroad. Western governments, previously at odds with Magufuli's brash nationalism, heaved a sigh of relief. Here was a leader who seemed to align with their governance ideals – rule of law, free media, pro-market policies – or at least said the right things. The international press eagerly highlighted her "soft-spoken" style and historic profile as Tanzania's first female president. After years of democratic backsliding in East Africa, Samia's ascent appeared to offer a narrative of hope.

Indeed, early on, President Hassan was framed as a model pupil of the liberal order. Western emissaries made high-profile visits, and Tanzania's isolation began to thaw. The U.S. and EU, which had sparred with Magufuli over human rights and “COVID-19 denial”, now praised Samia's more cooperative tone on public health and investment. "Finally, a partner we can work with," was the implicit refrain. Under the surface, of course, Samia was no political outsider – she hailed from the same ruling party (CCM) that has held power since independence – but the West chose to see in her a reformist exception. In those honeymoon months, few foreign observers questioned how deep or durable her "new dawn" reforms might be. Samia was saying and doing all the right things, and for that she was handsomely rewarded in international goodwill. She had, it seemed, aced the first test set by Washington and Brussels.

The Sovereignty Turn: When the Deal Went Sour

The romance, however, was short-lived. By late 2022 and into 2023, President Hassan began charting an economic course that rubbed Western interests the wrong way. The first major rift came over a sweeping trade pact: the proposed EU–East African Community Economic Partnership Agreement (EPA). For years, Tanzania had balked at this deal – fearing it would flood local markets with European goods and imperil nascent industries. Initially, Samia's change of guard raised EU hopes that Tanzania might finally play ball. In early 2022, rumours swirled that she was ready to sign on, prompting "relief" in Brussels and Nairobi. But that optimism collapsed almost as fast as it arose. Samia's government publicly denied any imminent EPA signature and affirmed that Tanzania's position "remains unchanged" – no deal until contentious provisions were addressed. In effect, she stuck to her guns (and Magufuli's) in resisting an agreement viewed at home as economically unequal. The "good student" suddenly wasn't so obedient. For the EU, which sees EPAs as key instruments of influence, this was a sharp disappointment.

Next came the energy sector. Tanzania sits on massive offshore gas reserves, coveted by Western oil majors. Under Samia, Dodoma moved to renegotiate terms with companies like Equinor and Shell for a long-delayed $30 billion liquefied natural gas (LNG) project. The negotiations, which had stalled under Magufuli's hardline demands, were revived – but not as a capitulation. Hassan's administration pushed for a framework that would secure Tanzania a fairer share of revenues and local content commitments before green-lighting construction. In June 2022, she presided over the signing of a Host Government Agreement framework with Equinor and Shell, a deal touted as breaking the logjam. Western companies welcomed the progress – Equinor even reconsidered a prior write-down of its Tanzanian investment – yet it was clear that Tanzania had asserted itself. The message was that foreign investors were welcome, but on terms respecting Tanzania's interests. Subtly, Samia was shedding the passive, compliant image the West preferred, replacing it with an active stance on economic sovereignty.

The same pattern played out in mining. Tanzania is rich in gold, nickel, and rare earth minerals critical to global supply chains. Here, President Hassan doubled down on local beneficiation – insisting that more value be added to minerals before export. In late 2025 she went so far as to announce plans to end the export of raw ore and concentrates altogether, vowing to establish a multi-purpose mineral refinery by 2030. Exporting unprocessed gold, nickel, or graphite – a decades-old pattern enriching foreign buyers – would eventually be off the table. "We will stop exporting concentrates so that we can save the jobs that we have been losing," she declared. Samia's government also struck joint-venture deals giving Tanzania a stake in major mines and required foreign firms to invest in local smelting and refining facilities. These policies followed the spirit of her predecessor's resource nationalism, albeit with a softer touch. For Western mining interests accustomed to easy access to African minerals, such policies are never welcome news. Tanzania was asserting ownership over its resources in a manner that, while rational from a development standpoint, ran against the grain of foreign multinationals' profit strategies.

Then, most geopolitically charged of all, was the oil pipeline saga. Tanzania and Uganda had partnered to build the East African Crude Oil Pipeline (EACOP), a $4 billion project to transport Ugandan oil to the Tanzanian coast. Climate “activists” and some Western politicians fiercely opposed EACOP, arguing it would displace communities and accelerate climate change. In September 2022 the European Parliament passed a resolution urging Tanzania and Uganda to halt the project, citing human rights and environmental concerns. This unprecedented move – an EU legislature condemning a foreign pipeline – was met with outrage in East Africa. Both President Yoweri Museveni of Uganda and President Samia Hassan of Tanzania lambasted the resolution as an affront to sovereignty. Samia pointedly continued discussions with TotalEnergies (the lead investor) even as European banks withdrew financing under activist pressure. Tanzanian and Ugandan officials accused the EU of "economic sabotage" and "neo-colonialism" for trying to dictate their developmental priorities. One Ugandan parliamentary leader called the resolution "economic racism", noting the hypocrisy of Europe – responsible for a quarter of global emissions – lecturing Africa, which accounts for barely 3%. Regardless, President Hassan remained committed to EACOP. By defying Europe's climate moralism, she crossed a symbolic red line. Tanzania signalled it would not forgo its economic opportunity at the behest of distant lawmakers in Brussels. In Western capitals, any lingering image of Samia as the pliant, pro-Western reformer was now decisively at odds with reality.

Each of these decisions – rejecting the EU trade pact, driving a hard bargain on LNG, prioritising local mineral processing, and backing the oil pipeline – marked a turn towards economic self-determination. None of them entailed hostile rhetoric or a total rupture with the West; Samia in fact kept engaging politely. But substance matters more than style. Collectively, these moves asserted Tanzania's agency over strategic resources and partnerships. They also threatened certain Western interests: access to markets on European terms, maximal profits for oil companies, cheap import of raw minerals, and Europe's desired narrative on climate action. Samia had not become an anti-West firebrand by any stretch – yet she was no longer toeing the line that her early cheerleaders expected. The "deal" had changed: Western acceptance of her hinged on alignment with their geopolitical and economic agenda. Once she deviated, even moderately, the stage was set for a narrative about-face.

The Playbook Unfolds: From Praise to Vilification

Not surprisingly, the collapse of the Samia-as-reformer story coincided with a surge of negative coverage and concerted pressure from the West. By 2024, Western media narratives about Tanzania underwent a swift rewrite. The very outlets that glowed about her "new direction" in 2021 were now training their sights on her alleged authoritarian relapse. To be clear, there were genuine causes for concern: President Hassan's government did tighten the screws as the 2025 general election approached. But the choreography of the backlash followed a familiar pattern, almost a formula used whenever a Global South leader falls out of favour in Western eyes. It was as if a well-worn playbook had been pulled off the shelf.

Step 1: Media Vilification

Western press began prominently featuring Tanzania's democratic deficiencies with an alarmist tone. In late 2024 and throughout 2025, headline after headline painted a picture of "descent into repression". Long-form articles recounted how Samia "offered hope" only to dash it, emphasizing her government's sins in stark language. They highlighted the arrest of opposition leaders, the banning of rival candidates, and implausible election results (indeed, her electoral commission announced she won 97% of the vote in 2025). The tone had shifted dramatically: from sympathetic interest in her leadership to a near-obsessive focus on her failures. It did not matter that many authoritarian tendencies (like CCM's dominance) predated her – now all ills were laid at Samia's feet. Western outlets seemed almost eager to declare that Tanzania's brief "spring" was over, that Hassan was just another dictator in the making. The coverage was not outright "fake news"; many reports were factual. But by choosing which facts to spotlight and which to omit, the media narrative became a weaponised half-truth. Little credit was given to continued positive steps (for example, her repeal of certain draconian media laws is rarely mentioned in these pieces). Instead, every Tanzanian misstep became front-page fodder, reinforcing the new storyline of Samia-the-represser.

Step 2: NGO Mobilisation

International human rights organisations and civil society groups swung into action, amplifying the negative press. Statements of concern and sharply worded reports proliferated. For instance, ARTICLE 19 and Amnesty International released condemnations of the post-election crackdown in 2025, cataloguing abuses in graphic detail. Their briefings noted how opposition figures were arrested or disappeared, how protestors were met with live bullets, and how access to information was curtailed. Notably, these groups also picked up on the transnational angle – criticizing President Hassan for blaming "foreign nationals, particularly Kenyans" for the unrest. To the NGOs, such claims of foreign incitement were merely excuses for repression (and indeed a dangerous incitement of xenophobia). Tanzanian authorities found themselves besieged not only in the press but by an army of advocacy groups publicising every excess of the security forces. Domestic civil society, too, grew bolder with tacit external support. Local human rights monitors fed information to international partners, ensuring that abuses – real or alleged – received global attention. This is a classic element of the playbook: empower NGOs to pressure the target government from all sides. Suddenly Tanzania was on the agenda at human rights conferences and in think-tank papers, its governance failings magnified under the international magnifying glass.

Step 3: Synchronized Diplomatic Pressure

As the media and NGOs revved up, Western governments added official weight. In late 2025, following Tanzania's disputed election, a phalanx of Western embassies issued coordinated statements of concern. The United States and United Kingdom led a group of some 15 Western countries (from Canada and Germany to little Luxembourg) in condemning the violence and urging accountability. The EU delegation in Dar es Salaam voiced its own alarm, and Tanzania even became a subject of debate at the UN Human Rights Council. This chorus was striking in its unity and timing. Tanzanian officials bristled at what they saw as a choreographed diplomatic offensive. The Foreign Ministry in Dodoma noted with thinly veiled irritation that these statements came despite recent "candid" engagements where Tanzania had explained its position to diplomats. In other words, the government felt ambushed by partners who seemed to have already made up their minds. The coordination was indeed notable – it suggested a behind-the-scenes consensus among Western powers to ramp up the heat on Samia's administration. Such unified front is rarely spontaneous. Whether through G7 channels or other forums, Tanzania was being made into an example. Travel advisories were updated, some aid programmes quietly re-evaluated. The subtext was clear: Samia's government was being ostracised and warned, with the spectre of further consequences (sanctions, aid cuts, visa bans) left hanging in the air.

Step 4: Opposition Amplification

The final element of the playbook saw Tanzania's beleaguered opposition projected onto the world stage. Western media and NGOs gave platforms to opposition leaders like Tundu Lissu, whose voice grew louder internationally even as he sat in a Tanzanian jail on treason charges. Lissu and others found sympathetic ears at forums and in foreign news interviews, where they depicted a regime in ruthless decline. More intriguingly, regional political figures got involved – a sign of external networking. Prominent Kenyan politician Martha Karua, for example, emerged as a vocal advocate for Tanzanian opposition rights. Karua (a former justice minister and 2022 Kenyan vice-presidential candidate) launched a "Pan-African Progressive Leaders" campaign condemning the repression next door. She and a network of regional activists demanded the release of Lissu and other political prisoners, explicitly linking Tanzania's situation to a wider African democratic struggle. It is telling that a Kenyan figurehead spearheaded this charge: Kenya has long been a hub for East African civil society and enjoys close ties with Western democracy promoters. Karua's involvement gave the Tanzanian opposition an extra echo abroad – and one cannot ignore the likelihood of Western funding or encouragement behind such cross-border solidarity. Meanwhile, social media buzzed with content about Tanzania, much of it in English and clearly aimed at Western audiences rather than Swahili-speaking Tanzanians. Opposition activists and diaspora influencers tweeted, blogged and streamed in fluent soundbites about "the end of democracy in Tanzania". In effect, the opposition's narrative was being packaged for export – ensuring that international perception aligned squarely against Samia's government. A domestic power struggle thus became a global cause célèbre, with the opposition elevated (in Western eyes) to the role of brave pro-democracy champions.

Through these four steps, the Western narrative of Tanzania executed a perfect volte-face. Crucially, this pivot was not based on fabricated claims: there were indeed serious human rights issues. But the selectivity and intensity of focus were disproportionate and pointed. Tanzania went from rarely making international news, to featuring regularly for its darkest episodes. The half-truth here lies in omission and emphasis. Little was said in Western coverage about why Samia might have felt the need to tighten her grip (beyond vague attributions to her lust for power). Virtually nothing appeared about her positive economic moves or continued engagement with opposition earlier on. Context evaporated; what remained was a morality play of a reformer "gone bad". In reality, as we have seen, the more complex story involves her attempts to assert sovereignty – and the Western establishment's discomfort with that. But complexity is the first casualty when a narrative is weaponised.

Scripted Outrage: Coordination, Funding, and the Kenya Connection

The striking synchronicity of the backlash against President Hassan was no accident. It reflected coordination at multiple levels – and the fingerprints of Western soft-power machinery were evident throughout. Consider the messaging: by 2025, one could hear the same talking points about "Tanzania's democratic collapse" echoed by The Guardian, by U.S. officials, by human rights advocates on Twitter, even by certain East African politicians. Such unity of voice hinted at an underlying script. It is as if disparate actors were reading from the same briefing memo on how to frame Tanzania's crisis. This is not a conspiracy theory but a recognition of how international agendas are often aligned. Western governments, media, think tanks, and donor-funded NGOs form an ecosystem that can rapidly converge on a narrative when interests align.

One driver of this convergence was the flow of foreign funding and support to those shaping the narrative. The United States' National Endowment for Democracy (NED), for instance, has openly supported civil society and media programs in East Africa, including Tanzania. In its own overview, NED noted that while Tanzania's president "signaled readiness to reform" initially, recent actions showed "a regression in democratic practices" – hence NED's partners in the region were stepping up efforts to hold the line. In plainer terms: NED had bankrolled Tanzanian non-governmental groups when Samia seemed friendly, and it continued to bankroll them (perhaps with renewed urgency) once she fell out of favour. Throughout 2024, grants and trainings flowed to local organisations documenting rights abuses and pushing for electoral reforms. This included support for independent media platforms that published exposes on state brutality. To be clear, these groups often do valuable work. But their sudden prominence and boldness were enabled by resources and protection that traced back to Western institutions. By 2025, Tanzanian activists could count on sympathetic coverage by outlets like CNN – not coincidentally, some had connections to networks funded by Western donors.

The Open Society Foundations (OSF) likewise have a history of funding pro-democracy and human rights causes in Tanzania through their East Africa office. OSF's Nairobi hub (Open Society-Africa, formerly OSIEA) explicitly works to "amplify people's voices…to challenge and disrupt the exercise of unchecked power". Throughout the 2010s, OSF supported Tanzanian civil society on issues from government accountability to minority rights. Come 2023–25, many of those same grantees became vocal critics of Samia's government. It is difficult to trace specific grants in real time, but the pattern is familiar: foreign philanthropy underwriting local actors who then engage in what the state sees as political activism. It is no wonder President Hassan and her officials began to warn darkly of "foreign interference". In one public address, Samia claimed that young protesters had been paid to stir chaos – implying external financiers behind the unrest. Such assertions were met with scorn by NGOs, but they resonated with a kernel of truth: Tanzanian opposition groups and activists were indeed receiving influxes of foreign support, whether directly or via regional intermediaries, in the lead-up to the election showdown.

A curious aspect of this foreign support was the prominent role of Kenyan actors. Kenya, with its freer media and strong civil society, has long served as a rear base for dissidents in the region. During Magufuli's authoritarian phase, many Tanzanian journalists and activists fled to Nairobi; apparently, similar dynamics persisted under Samia once the crackdown began. The Tanzanian president herself identified Kenya as a source of political meddling – an accusation that made headlines. In late 2025, amid post-election violence, senior Tanzanian officials accused "foreign nationals, particularly Kenyans" of fomenting the protests. This could be read partly as scapegoating, but there is evidence to back it up. A number of Kenyan campaigners were indeed arrested in Tanzania for allegedly mobilising youth protests online. Meanwhile in Kenya, media personalities took a keen interest in exposing Tanzanian abuses. A notable example was Kenyan journalist Larry Madowo's investigative report on CNN, which purported to uncover mass graves of Tanzanian protesters – a sensational claim that brought global attention to Dar es Salaam's door. That report, aired in English to an international audience, was clearly not aimed at ordinary Tanzanians (most of whom wouldn't see CNN) but at galvanising outrage abroad. Again, one detects coordination: Kenyan activists and media amplifying Tanzanian opposition narratives, feeding into Western coverage, creating a feedback loop of condemnation.

This English-language campaign was a hallmark of the crisis's scripting. Much of the social media agitation against Samia's government happened in English, by accounts targeting international human-rights circles. Hashtags like #TanzaniaDecides or #FreeTunduLissu trended within East African Twitter but were populated by influencers conversant with Western sensibilities. It often appeared as if two parallel information spheres existed: one in Kiswahili within Tanzania, where state-controlled news downplayed unrest and blamed "external forces", and one in English outside Tanzania, where the narrative of a brutal dictatorship was nurtured and broadcast. The latter sphere had the eyes and ears of Western journalists and policymakers. It shaped what actions foreign governments would consider – be it raising the issue at the UN or contemplating sanctions. In short, the battle was not only on Tanzanian streets but also on the airwaves and fiber-optic cables of the world. The opposition and its allies played to that international gallery with considerable savvy.

To point out this coordination is not to indulge in fantasies of CIA plots or Soros personally directing African protests. It is simply to observe that interests aligned among a set of actors: Tanzanian opposition elites wanted more pressure on CCM; Western democracy promoters wanted a cautionary tale (and perhaps a negotiating lever) after Samia's pivot away on economic deals; regional activists saw an opportunity to advance their broader agenda against authoritarianism. Money, message, and opportunity converged. What resulted was a powerful narrative offensive that Tanzania's government was ill-prepared to counter. It is telling that Samia's administration resorted to clumsy measures like banning social media platforms and deporting foreign correspondents – moves that only confirmed the worst impressions and further isolated her internationally. In the narrative contest, the government of Tanzania was simply outgunned.

Power and Pressure: Repression in Context

It must be said plainly: the Tanzanian government's authoritarian reflexes are real, not an invention of Western propaganda. By 2025, President Samia Suluhu Hassan was overseeing a crackdown that could legitimately be described as oppressive. This is the other half of the truth that completes the picture. Since early 2023, and more intensely as the 2025 elections loomed, CCM's old habits of coercion returned with a vengeance. Opposition gatherings, initially unbanned, were once again violently dispersed. Leading opposition figures found themselves jailed on spurious charges – most dramatically Tundu Lissu, arrested in early 2025 and accused of "terrorism" and treason for demanding constitutional reforms. Another prominent challenger, ACT-Wazalendo candidate Luhaga Mpina, was barred from running on technicalities in a blatant abuse of state power. By the time of the October 2025 vote, virtually all serious opposition had been neutered: candidates disqualified, parties banned from campaigning, and critics silenced by fear or incarceration. On polling day the regime shut down internet access and deployed the military to the streets. The outcome – a near 98% victory for Samia – lacked even the pretence of competition. It was a return to the de facto one-party rule that Tanzanians of an older generation would find very familiar. Western observers did not exaggerate in saying this "election" bore the markings of autocracy.

Worse was the aftermath. When disillusioned citizens protested the stolen election, the state's response was ferocious. Eyewitness accounts describe soldiers firing live ammunition into crowds and bodies piling up in mortuaries beyond capacity. While the true death toll remains contested – opposition sources claimed over 2,000 killed, the UN cautiously spoke of "hundreds" – there is no doubt many lives were lost in the violence. Human rights groups documented how young protesters were hunted down, with some reports of secret mass graves outside cities. Concurrently, a campaign of selective terror unfolded: activists were abducted in unmarked vans, torture scars on those who resurfaced alive. At least one opposition organiser was murdered in gruesome fashion, his body disfigured as a warning to others. Even a dissident within CCM, a former ambassador who criticised the government, disappeared without trace – suggesting the paranoia had spread inward as well. These events are not Western fabrications; they have been verified by local sources (journalists of the The Citizen and The Chanzo in Dar es Salaam, for example, took grave personal risks to report some of these incidents). So any analysis of this crisis must acknowledge that President Samia and CCM resorted to brute force to keep power. The tendency to repress is written into CCM's DNA: it has never truly ceded the instruments of coercion since the one-party era. In moments of regime peril, that muscle memory predictably kicks in.

Yet, context is everything. Samia's resort to extreme measures did not happen in a vacuum – it happened in a climate of perceived siege. By 2024, the CCM elite felt itself under threat not just from an invigorated opposition but from an external coalition arrayed against them. The rhetoric emanating from Dodoma, however self-serving, reveals a leadership that believed (or convinced itself) that foreign forces were engineering its downfall. President Hassan defended the post-election crackdown by insisting the protests were not spontaneous expressions of public grievance but rather a "coordinated effort to destabilise" the nation. She claimed unemployed youths had been manipulated and paid to revolt, and pointed at social media campaigns as evidence of a planned insurrection. The police concurred, framing calls for nationwide demonstrations as part of a subversive plot, not legitimate dissent. In other words, the regime told itself a story that its back was against the wall. And in a sense it was – though not quite how they portrayed it. The real threat to CCM's hold on power was less an external plot and more an internal erosion of its once-unchallenged dominance. After 60 years of rule, CCM faced a generation of urban youth no longer content with its paternalism, an opposition (Chadema) that had grown savvy and bold, and economic stresses that made grand corruption harder to gloss over. Western encouragement emboldened these domestic opponents further. Therefore, when push came to shove, CCM leaders resorted to what they knew best: repression and nationalist populism. They rallied the old guard within the party and security forces – many of them Magufuli-era hardliners whom Samia had initially sidelined – to close ranks and crush the "chaos" before it spread. In doing so, Samia jettisoned her reformist pretences and embraced the authoritarian toolkit wholesale. One could say she chose regime survival over reform. In a system where losing power can mean exile or worse for the ruling elite, this choice, while tragic, is also tragically predictable.

None of this absolves the Tanzanian authorities of their abuses. But it casts those abuses in a more complex light. Samia's crackdown was as much an act of preservation – of a party's hegemony, of a certain vision of order – as it was a power trip. Her government perceived (not entirely incorrectly) that some opposition elements were leveraging foreign backing to attempt an Arab Spring-style upheaval. And indeed, by late 2025 the situation had elements of a colour revolution script: protests triggered by a disputed vote, youth mobilised via social media, international spotlight and condemnation, etc. Faced with this scenario, CCM's response was to slam the lid down hard. An analogy could be drawn to how other regimes under external pressure react – often by doubling their coercion to snuff out any hint of "regime change". Zimbabwe, Venezuela, Iran – the script repeats. Tanzania's twist was that it happened under a president whom the West initially thought wouldn't follow that path. But when forced to choose between pleasing Washington and keeping her party-state intact, Samia made the unsurprising choice. The West's former "good student" had effectively been expelled from their good graces, and in turn she stopped trying to impress the teachers. What remained was naked power calculus.

In sum, Tanzania's decent into authoritarian violence in 2025 was a real and painful fact – one for which the government must bear responsibility. However, understanding that descent requires examining how internal and external pressures interacted. CCM's authoritarian instincts were awakened and amplified by what they saw (rightly or wrongly) as a foreign-assisted push to unseat them. The opposition's cause was just – free and fair elections – but the geopolitics surrounding it muddied the waters. Citizens demanding their rights found themselves caught in a vice between an intransigent ruling elite and international actors with their own agendas. The outcome was a perfect storm of repression. A cold, elite-driven analysis would say: the Tanzanian regime behaved exactly as an threatened ancien régime would, and the Western players applied their well-honed tactics as they often do when a former ally goes off-script. Morality aside, each actor played its part true to form.

Sovereignty and Survival in a New Era

The Tanzanian saga of 2021–2025 is more than a local tale; it is a case study in what African sovereignty can come to mean in the 21st century. President Samia Suluhu Hassan's rise and fall in Western favour show the tightrope that African leaders walk in an age of strategic minerals, climate politics, and information warfare. On one side of the tightrope lies the promise of Western partnership and praise – but only for those who do not fundamentally challenge the global economic order. On the other side lies opprobrium and isolation for those who assert too much independence or recalibrate relationships on their own terms. Samia tried to balance both, and in the end fell off. Her initial accommodation with liberal democratic norms earned her plaudits, but the moment she asserted Tanzania's right to chart an independent economic course, the ground shifted beneath her. The Western narrative, so flattering at first, mutated into something hostile and unforgiving.

This raises uncomfortable questions: What does true sovereignty look like for African states today? Tanzania's experience suggests that formal sovereignty – the flag and anthem variety – is not enough. Real sovereignty is tested when a nation stakes claim to control its economic destiny in ways that may inconvenience great powers. In President Hassan's case, insisting on fair trade terms, managing natural resources for local benefit, and choosing infrastructure projects aligned with national interest (even if carbon-belching) were her assertions of sovereignty. And each was met with pushback. The EPA saga revealed that powerful economies still expect weaker ones to accept unequal arrangements and will apply pressure until they do. The LNG and mining renegotiations showed how global corporations (and their home governments by extension) bristle at any reduction of their expected spoils. The EACOP affair demonstrated how even well-intentioned global concerns – climate change mitigation – can be wielded as cudgels to keep African development in check. Uganda's deputy speaker captured this sentiment by calling the anti-EACOP campaign a new form of imperialism: a demand that Africa "choose the environment over development" after the West has already reaped the benefits of its own industrialization. African leaders increasingly talk of this as a catch-22: damned as irresponsible if they pursue resource projects, damned as stagnant if they don't.

The weaponisation of information has added a new dimension to this dilemma. In the past, a leader like Samia might have been able to carry out a hard crackdown behind a curtain of state-controlled media, with limited international fallout. Not so in 2025. Every shooting, every arrest in Tanzania was live-streamed or tweeted in real time to the world. Digital activists, some backed by Western NGOs, made sure no abuse went unnoticed. Conversely, the Tanzanian state itself tried to control the narrative by shutting down internet platforms and leaning on companies like Meta to block troublesome accounts. This tug-of-war over information is now part and parcel of governance – "infowar" as much as street battles. Sovereignty today means not only controlling territory but also controlling the story. And that is exceedingly difficult when global media and social networks are dominated by Western narratives and norms. Tanzania discovered that it could win the physical battle (dispersing protests) and still lose the perception war. In fact, by using old-school repression in a hyper-connected era, Samia's regime effectively handed its adversaries all the evidence needed to justify further intervention (at least in the court of public opinion). For African governments, this is a caution: heavy-handed tactics will be swiftly leveraged against them on the international stage. But it is also a quandary: how else to respond to what they view as foreign political interference? The tools of influence available to big powers – funding civil society, guiding media narratives, convening diplomatic pressure – are subtler than tanks but can be just as potent.

Ultimately, "Manufacturing a pariah" is a joint enterprise. The West manufactured Samia's pariah image as a means of pressure, yes – but her government supplied ample raw material through its own deeds. This interplay is the essence of modern information-age geopolitics. It would be a mistake to see Tanzania's crisis as solely externally driven; it was rooted in local political pathologies and choices. However, it would be an equal mistake to accept the Western narrative at face value, as if Samia simply "turned into a dictator" in isolation. The deal changed: she reneged on the unwritten deal that she'd be a compliant reformer, and the West reneged on its presumptive support for her leadership. In that breach, ordinary Tanzanians paid the highest price – of lost lives, of a stolen election, of instability.

For African states rich in resources and ambition, the lesson is sobering. Sovereignty in this era will test them in new ways. Can they navigate partnerships with China, the West, or others to develop their oil, gas, and minerals without becoming pawns in larger games? Can they leverage the current great-power rivalry (wherein both Western and Eastern blocs court Africa for strategic minerals and influence) to their own advantage, or will they be trampled if they mis-step? The Tanzanian experience hints that attempting a middle path – courting all sides while firmly asserting national interests – invites displeasure from one side or another. The next generation of African leaders may need to build coalitions of their own: regional alliances to resist undue external pressure, and continental institutions to set terms on resource extraction. President Hassan did in fact try to invoke East African solidarity (with Uganda over EACOP, for instance), but beyond rhetoric, such solidarity was thin. Without a unified front, individual countries remain vulnerable to being singled out and "made an example of".

As the dust settles on Tanzania's tumultuous 2025, a final irony emerges. In choosing national sovereignty on economic matters, Samia Suluhu Hassan compromised her standing on governance – she ended up diminishing her own people's political freedoms, arguably undermining the very nationhood she sought to protect. Is this the inevitable price of resisting external agendas? Or could there have been an alternative path where Tanzania defended its economic interests and maintained an open society? These questions linger, unanswered. What is clear is that the interplay of strategic minerals, climate leverage, and narrative warfare will recur across Africa in coming years. Tanzania will not be the last theater for such scripting of crisis. From the Sahel to Southern Africa, whenever an African government veers off a course preferred by powerful outsiders, we can expect a version of what happened to Samia: initial embrace, followed by sharp repudiation the moment they assert true independence.

For Tanzanians and Africans at large, the story is a bitter reminder that freedom and sovereignty must go hand in hand. Surrendering political freedoms in the name of protecting sovereignty (as CCM did) is ultimately self-defeating – it leaves a country isolated and morally weakened, prey to even greater foreign leverage. Conversely, embracing every aspect of Western liberalism uncritically may win temporary praise but could mortgage economic self-determination. The task is to forge a path that is genuinely on their own terms. That likely means crafting new narratives – African narratives – about what development, democracy, and sovereignty should look like in this era. Otherwise, they will remain characters in someone else's script, sometimes cast as hero, other times as villain, but rarely master of their own story.

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8. ARTICLE 19. "Tanzania: Day of violent impunity and our call to protect human rights." , 5 Dec 2025.
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17. United Nations News. "UN urges probe into Tanzania post-election violence." UN.org, Nov 2025.
18. Journal of Democracy. "Has TanzaniaReached Its Breaking Point?." Amnesty.org, Oct 2024.