When I interact with the leadership class back home in Tanzania, one question keeps resurfacing:
“Why are people in the diaspora so angry?”
The assumption behind that question is flawed. The diaspora is not mad. The diaspora is disappointed, hurt, and yearning—yearning for a country that works, a country that protects its people, and a country that rewards effort instead of punishing honesty.
What many leaders fail to understand is that the diaspora’s frustration is shaped by lived experience abroad.
Living outside Tanzania exposes you to systems that—while imperfect—are functional. You see governments that can be criticized without fear. Institutions that mostly do their jobs. Courts that matter. Leaders who can be voted out. You see what is possible when accountability exists.
So when people in the diaspora speak loudly, it is not because they hate home. It is because they have seen what home could be.
Whenever I encounter a racist person abroad who looks down on Africans, I often mutter to myself, “I don’t blame you, buddy.” Not because racism is justified—it never is—but because our own leadership has handed them ammunition. The real damage to our dignity has not been done by foreigners; it has been done by those entrusted to lead us.
I do not blame Tanzania’s image on outsiders.
I blame it on corruption.
On exploitative resource contracts.
On embezzlement of public funds.
On abductions and intimidation.
On stolen elections.
On kidnappings and extrajudicial killings.*
These are not abstract political complaints. They translate into lost opportunities, broken families, suppressed talent, and a future constantly postponed.
If my homeland offered even a fraction of the opportunities, fairness, and security that I can access abroad, I would have no reason to live far away from home.
Most people in the diaspora would return in a heartbeat. Home is not something you replace—it is something you are forced away from.
So no, the diaspora is not mad.
The diaspora is demanding better—
not just for themselves, but for those who never had the chance to leave.
And that, more than anything, is an act of love for the country we still call home.
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