As far back as I can remember, I first met Chacha Zakayo Wangwe—known in Tarime as Chacha Rasta—in 1998, when I was still a teenager. He ran an English-language after-school centre, where I was enrolled as one of his students. 

I quickly became one of his best students, and a friendship grew between us. After graduating from his English classes, Chacha made me one of the tutors at the centre, and we grew even closer. Chacha’s after-school English classes stirred mixed reactions among parents of the children he tutored. 

In Tarime at the time, people were deeply shaped by their faith—you were either a Seventh-Day Adventist, Muslim, Pentecostal, or Roman Catholic. Chacha Rasta, however, was a Rastaman. For many of our conservative parents, this was inconceivable. Yet, his brilliance as a teacher and his kindness as a human being won most of us over. We, his students, often found ourselves defending him passionately in our homes.

Out of respect for his integrity and unwavering commitment to his students and community, many of them who had once been his defenders in our households became his staunchest supporters in his political journey. When he decided to run for public office, first as a councillor and later as a Member of Parliament, they naturally became his campaign managers and community engagement activists. 

They helped mobilise support within our villages and streets, knocking on doors, organising meetings, and rallying others to join his cause. His vision for a better Tarime and his ability to connect with people on a deeply human level inspired us to stand by him, as we had during our school days. Chacha Rasta wasn’t just a teacher; he was a mentor and a leader who brought out the best in us, teaching us to believe in the power of grassroots activism and collective action.

Chacha Rasta entered politics broke for all the reasons in the world. I remember him struggling with house rent; meals were hard to put on the table in his home, and, of course, you did not pursue politics under such tight economic constraints. Yet, Chacha Rasta started with zero budget, relying on his presence and unwavering connection with people. 

I remember he was often laughed at for his “politics of change.” Many of his critics would mockingly say, “You start by changing your own pockets before contributing to community well-being.” 

Community mobilisation

But Chacha never gave up. He would attend to people at the lowest points of their needs. He was present at funerals, hospital beds, and even visited prisoners and political detainees. He participated in community school meetings and worked alongside locals to fix wooden bridges during the rainy season.

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This dedication and presence later became his political capital. Communities across religious and political divides began to take notice. When it mattered most, they rallied behind him and sponsored his candidacy for his first political office in Tarime as a councillor. 

Chacha Rasta’s unwavering commitment to his people and his ability to connect with their everyday struggles became the foundation of his political success. He proved that leadership starts with showing up and serving the community, no matter how small the gesture.

Chacha Rasta’s popularity was both remarkable and puzzling, especially when considered against the political forces he was up against. His main opponents, the Chambiris, were political giants of their time. They owned one of the largest engineering companies in the region and wielded significant economic and political influence. 

Their reach extended far beyond Tarime—they controlled the ruling party’s politics in the Mara region and much of the Lake Zone. They had the full backing of national ruling party organs, with access to vast resources and institutional support. Yet, despite this formidable opposition, Chacha Rasta defeated them not once but multiple times in Tarime’s fiercely competitive election politics.

The secret to Chacha Rasta’s success lay in his ability to connect deeply with the people he sought to represent. Like Mwalimu Julius Nyerere, Tanzania’s founding leader, who mobilised ordinary Tanzanians—including my father, who lived at the far end of the country—to contribute their modest incomes to support the independence movement, Chacha Rasta built his political campaigns on the foundations of community support. 

He understood that you cannot run a political party or any meaningful campaign without the genuine backing of the very communities whose lives you claim to want to improve. His approach was not about flashy displays of power or wealth but about being present and earning trust. 

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By working alongside communities, listening to their concerns, and addressing their needs directly, Chacha Rasta inspired a loyalty and commitment that even his wealthier and more powerful opponents could not match. His politics teaches us an enduring lesson: that true political movements are sustained not by money or influence but by the collective will and participation of the people.

Life in Dar

Finally, I want to focus on why Chacha Rasta was ‘killed.’ Like all MPs in his era, Chacha Rasta needed a base in Dar es Salaam. At that point, I was already living in Dar, where we reconnected for the first time since his election. 

To be honest, he knew Dar es Salaam better than I did. I vividly remember our first conversation, which turned into a debate on what we should prioritise: renting a house or a car. Ultimately, he convinced me that cars—yes, two cars—were more important than a home.

For the time being, he would stay in a low-cost guest house around Sinza whenever he wasn’t in Dodoma, where he had access to government MP housing. He was clear from the beginning: no brand-new cars. Pre-owned was the way to go. So, we got ourselves a Toyota Land Cruiser 1HZ and a Toyota Corolla. 

The Corolla holds a bittersweet memory for me. It was the car he was driving on the day he died, and it was also the car I learned to drive in. That was my version of home-schooling, courtesy of the great Rastaman.

Chacha Rasta was a car enthusiast, a passion he carried from working as a tour guide in Nairobi, Kenya. He knew exactly what he wanted: practical, reliable vehicles—not the flashy shangingi VX types. During our week of car-hunting in Dar, we relied on daladalas (public minibuses) for transport, and he would jokingly say, “Uzuri hawanijui kama ni mbunge. Kausha.” (“The good thing is, they don’t know I’m an MP—stay quiet.”)

Once the cars were sorted, the next big surprise was his determination to set up an office in Dar es Salaam. He called it the Tarime MP Liaison Office, and I was appointed Liaison Officer. At the time, I didn’t even know what the term ‘liaison’ meant, but he explained it in his light-hearted way, as he always did. 

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Chacha Rasta had a remarkable gift of communication and spoke multiple languages fluently—English, French, German, Lingala (Congolese), and more. He always said he could speak seven languages in addition to Kikurya and Kiswahili. 

He was the go-to person for listening to Lingala musicians like Franco, Madilu, and Papa Wemba. Our drives in the 1HZ were often filled with backstories about the songs and their translations. He was a man of depth, culture, and intellect.

One of the things I respected most about Chacha Rasta was his preparation and work ethic. He planned his political strategies, talks, and presentations through extensive research, much of which I would often be assigned to do. 

He read everything he could get his hands on, and if I was in the car with him, our conversations about Lingala music and politics were often interspersed with me reading documents aloud to him as he drove. His thirst for knowledge and attention to detail were unmatched, and he never approached a subject unprepared.

I also admired the great Rastaman because of his respect for boundaries. I was apolitical, and he fully respected that. As a Seventh-Day Adventist (SDA), I had strict religious time zones, and he never interfered with those. He always honoured my practices, showing his deep understanding of and respect for people’s beliefs and choices.

He was also an exceptional driver. I loved our rough rides along Morogoro Road to Dodoma and back to Dar. But beyond the joy of those drives, Chacha Rasta was a man on a mission. I remember vividly the day he was introduced to Parliament by Samwel Sitta, who then served as the Speaker of the National Assembly.

For his first presentation, he chose to speak in English. He later explained to me that this was intentional. “It’s about registering presence,” he said. “In a house of over 300 MPs, you will not do justice to your constituency if you go in there and speak Kiswahili. Nobody will remember you, especially if you represent a location that is rural and at the end of the country.”

Future in CHADEMA

Chacha Rasta quickly realised that CHADEMA needed a leadership overhaul. He would often say, “To defeat CCM, we need community mobilisation across the country. That cannot happen with the leadership we currently have.” I challenged him on this many times, questioning whether these political parties were even real or capable of change. 

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“How can you be sure there will be a willingness for change?” I would ask. His answer was almost always the same: “I won’t fight them alone. I will start quickly to raise the profile of my voice for the communities across Tanzania. Then, they will learn to choose change. The leadership will have no choice but to let it be.”

And so, the question lingers: Was this why Chacha Rasta died? Was it his relentless pursuit of change? Was it his refusal to conform? Was it his growing influence? These questions remain unanswered. 

What is certain, however, is that Chacha Rasta was a man of courage, vision, and action. He believed in building a better future for Tanzania, and his life and legacy stand as a testament to the power of grassroots leadership and the unrelenting fight for justice.

Kiiya Joel Kiiya is the founder and chief executive of C-Sema. He can be reached at kiiya.jk@sematanzania.org or on X as @KiiyaJK. 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.