Once upon a time in Tanzania, trust was slipping quietly through the cracks. Citizens sat in their homes, radios on, televisions glowing, ears tuned to announcements from leaders they no longer believed. Reform after reform, whether from authorities or institutions, sounded more like distant echoes than promises fulfilled.
Even when good news arrived, like Tanzania’s removal from the Financial Action Task Force (FATF) grey list, it was met with silence, doubt, or confusion. It wasn’t that Tanzanians didn’t care; they did, deeply.
But somewhere along the journey, the bond between people and government had worn thin. Policies were rolled out. Data was published. Progress was claimed. Yet the people couldn’t feel it. Couldn’t see it. Couldn’t touch it. Why?
Because no one had told them the story.
In the hills of Mbeya, a resilient farmer named Atuganile faced the rising unpredictability of the seasons. Her crops, her livelihood, her future, everything seemed to hang in the balance. She’d heard whispers of climate-smart agriculture and the grand promises of Vision 2050, but they felt far away, abstract, impersonal.
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Then one day, as she listened to her favourite community radio station, a drama unfolded. It was the story of a woman just like her, who had learned to use mobile weather alerts to protect her harvest. That single story opened her eyes. If someone like her could do it, perhaps she could too.
Power of stories
And she wasn’t alone. That’s the power of stories, they travel across hills and valleys, into homes and hearts. They don’t require credentials to understand, just ears to hear, hearts to feel, and imaginations to picture a different future.
In Tanzania, trust doesn’t grow in boardrooms or echo through policy briefings. It takes root in pulpits, vicobas, msalagambos, bodaboda kijiwes, classrooms, and village gatherings. Teachers, pastors, imams, nuns, and boda riders are the true voices of the community.
When they speak, especially in their own words, in their own stories, people listen. And more importantly, people believe. At the TAGCO forum, which brings together communication officers across ministries and other government departments, a call was made to government communicators: move beyond brochures. Tell stories. Use theatre. Use cartoons. Use songs. Let Vision 2050 walk, talk, and sing its way into every street and village.
When Tanzania was removed from the FATF grey list, it was a monumental achievement. But without context, without a human face, it meant little to most citizens. It wasn’t until stories began to emerge about new whistleblower protections, about roads finally reaching long-forgotten wards, about public service changes people could see that the dots began to connect.
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“Ahaa,” they said, “so this is what reform looks like.” People don’t remember the statistics; they remember how a neighbour’s journey to the hospital got shorter or how a child’s school received desks for the first time.
And then there’s Vision 2050, not just a strategy, but a national dream woven from over 7,600 voices through the Sauti za Wananchi initiative. Those voices called for dignity in healthcare, fairness in employment, transformation in agriculture, and quality in education. They didn’t ask for spreadsheets; they asked for change. And they deserve to see themselves in the story of that change.
Storyteller public servant
This is the age of the storyteller public servant. The role of a communications officer has evolved. No longer just a mouthpiece, they must become bridge builders, connecting data to daily life. They are the ones who can turn irrigation systems into symbols of hope.
They can turn budget allocations into the story of a youth’s first business. They can use dashboards not just to show numbers, but to tell the tale of promises made and progress kept. When citizens see themselves reflected in policies, trust isn’t just restored, it’s reborn.
But storytellers need nurturing. They need training in crafting narratives, visualising data, and delivering inclusive messages. They need tools: SMS feedback platforms, USSD codes for citizen surveys, and accessible report cards.
READ MORE: Let’s Learn How to Talk TO Each Other Rather Than Talking AT Each Other
They need partners, journalists, civil society, community theatre, and local artists. During the TAGCO forum, the hunger was there, the spark of possibility in every participant’s eyes. But sparks fade without fuel. They need consistent support. They need permission. They need a purpose.
Why it matters
For development partners and donors, this matters deeply. Your investments in storytelling don’t just communicate success; they multiply it. They build a foundation for sustainability and ownership.
For Tanzanians, seeing and hearing themselves in national conversations restores faith. It reminds them that they are seen, heard, and valued. And for government, storytelling becomes the invisible thread that pulls Vision 2050 from aspiration to realisation, uniting intention with action, and policy with people.
Because Tanzania doesn’t just need reforms; it needs relationships. It doesn’t just need data, it needs dignity. It doesn’t just need announcements; it needs stories. And when stories speak, trust listens. When trust listens, citizens respond. And when that happens, a nation doesn’t just reform, it rises.
📸 Thanks to Twaweza for this amazing shot!
Annastazia Rugaba is the Director of Advocacy and Engagement at Twaweza. She can be reached at annarugaba@gmail.com or on X as @annarugaba. The opinions expressed here are the writer’s own and do not necessarily reflect those of The Chanzo. If you are interested in publishing in this space, please contact our editors at editor@thechanzo.com.
