From the third floor of the hospital, I lie in bed, wrapped in white sheets that feel as heavy as the weight in my chest. The surgical scar across my abdomen aches, but it’s nothing compared to the ache inside me. My window offers a view of life outside, a view that pulls me deeper into thought, connecting every passing moment to Wednesday’s election developments.
The nurse enters quietly, her rubber-soled shoes making a faint squeak against the polished floor. She adjusts the IV drip and glances at me with curiosity. “Feeling better today?” she asks. Her voice is soft but carries a tinge of suspicion as if she knows my pain isn’t just physical.
I nod, unable to form words. My gaze shifts back to the window, where a street vendor sets up his cart, arranging mangoes and oranges in neat piles. His precision reminds me of how the ballot boxes were supposed to be arranged on Wednesday, symbols of order and fairness.
Instead, fake ballots and pre-marked papers were seized in many parts of the country during a local government election exercise marred by massive irregularities. The process, which was supposed to be democratic, was corrupted before the first vote was cast!
“Do you need more painkillers?” the nurse asks. She’s holding a clipboard now, scribbling something down. I shake my head. The kind of pain I’m feeling can’t be eased with pills.
Outside, a police van speeds past, siren wailing.
READ MORE: Reports of Violence, Fake Ballots Dominate Local Govt Elections Exercise in Tanzania
My mind drifts to Erick Yugalila Venance, our District Secretary in Igunga, Tabora. He was attacked and beaten mercilessly by the ruling Chama cha Mapinduzi (CCM) thugs. Erick’s only crime was daring to speak out and represent a party that stands for something different. I picture him in a hospital bed like mine, his wounds a testament to the price of hope.
Laughter turning into silence
The nurse peers at me again. “Were you out there yesterday, voting?” Her question hangs in the air, heavy with implication. I want to answer her, to tell her about the chaos, the intimidation, the way our agents were denied entry to polling stations. But instead, I shake my head.
A child runs across the courtyard below, his laughter cutting through the stillness. I remember how we laughed during our campaign with hopeful laughter, full of energy and determination. That laughter turned into silence on Wednesday when we realised the voter list had been tampered with.
Entire communities showed up to vote, only to find their names missing. Water, they said, had “damaged” the list. But we knew the truth: This wasn’t an accident. It was another deliberate move to erase voices.
The nurse pulls up a chair and sits beside my bed. “What do you think will happen next?” she asks, her tone casual but probing. I shrug, unsure how to answer. What do I think will happen next?
READ MORE: Campaigns for Local Govt Elections Close in Tanzania. Here’s What We Observed for Seven Days
Will there be justice? Will there be accountability for the lives lost, for the election agents arrested, for the ballots manipulated? Or will we continue to live in this cycle of oppression and impunity?
A motorcycle rumbles into view outside, carrying two passengers in bright yellow shirts, CCM colours. My stomach churns. I think of our election agents in Arusha who were assaulted while trying to protect the sanctity of the vote. Their bravery was met with violence, and their efforts to ensure transparency were crushed under the weight of a system designed to suppress them.
A belief in democracy
“Do you believe in democracy?” the nurse asks suddenly, eyes narrowing as she studies my face.
The question catches me off guard. I open my mouth to answer but close it again. Do I believe in democracy? I used to. I used to believe in its promise, in the idea that every voice matters. But my faith wavered on Wednesday as I watched verified ACT Wazalendo candidates’ names vanish from ballots. How can you believe in a system that excludes you?
Outside, the sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the courtyard. The fading light reminds me of the fading hope we felt yesterday. Party leaders and election agents were arrested and dragged away for doing their jobs and for challenging the status quo. Their absence leaves a void—one that fills with fear and uncertainty.
“Do you think it’s worth it?” the nurse asks, breaking the silence. Her question feels heavier than the others.
I stare at her, unsure how to respond. Is it worth it? Is the fight for democracy worth the pain, the loss, the sacrifices? My mind drifts to the youth of Tanzania, who make up two-thirds of our population. We are the majority, the ones who will inherit this nation. What kind of future will we be left with if we give up now?
Outside, a group of people gathers near the street corner, their voices rising in heated debate. I can’t hear their words, but I imagine they’re talking about yesterday…about the violence, the fraud, the blatant disregard for democracy.
“Sometimes,” I finally say, my voice barely above a whisper, “it feels like we’re fighting a losing battle.”
Gotta keep fighting
The nurse nods, her expression unreadable. “But you’re still fighting,” she says softly, almost as if to herself.
READ MORE: Tanzania: Hopes for Free and Fair Elections Dwindle As President Samia’s Promised Reforms Hit a Snag
Her words linger in the air as I return my gaze to the window. The streetlights flicker on, one by one, illuminating the shadows. I think about the resilience of our people, the ones who stood in line for hours, determined to vote despite the obstacles. I think about the election agents who risked everything to stand for truth, the leaders who continue to fight even as they face arrests and attacks.
Is it worth it? Yes. Because democracy isn’t just about elections but the fight for justice, equality, and a better future. It’s about refusing to be silenced, even when the odds are against you.
The nurse rises from her chair, her clipboard tucked under her arm. “Get some rest,” she says, her tone gentler now.
As she leaves, I turn back to the window. The world outside is still buzzing with life, indifferent to the pain and injustice that unfolded on Wednesday, the Election Day. But I know we cannot afford to be indifferent. We must continue to fight, demand transparency and accountability, and stand up for our principles.
From my hospital bed, I make a vow to myself and my country: I will not give up. Because even in the face of corruption, violence, and despair, hope is worth holding onto.
Nasra Nassor Omar is an aviation medical doctor and ACT Wazalendo’s Shadow Minister for Foreign Affairs and East African Cooperation. She is available at drnasrano08@gmail.com or on X as @drnasranassor. These are the writer’s own opinions and do not necessarily reflect the viewpoints of The Chanzo. Do you want to publish in this space? Contact our editors at editor@thechanzo.com for further inquiries.
