DAR ES SALAAM: IT was a late afternoon at the University of Dodoma, in the Chimwaga area east of downtown Dodoma, eight kilometres from the city centre. The sky above was the colour of rust and honey, and a dry wind carried the red dust that coated everything it touched—shoes, desks, even ambition.
Outside the vast university library, a group of students lingered on the wide steps. Some balanced notebooks on their laps, others scrolled on their phones. The air smelled of roasted maize from a nearby vendor, and a boda-boda engine hummed softly by the gate. For most, it was an ordinary day. But for this small circle of students studying for their Bachelor of Education in Policy, Planning and Management, something had changed.
Neema, 23, read aloud from her phone, her voice half-wonder, half-weariness. “Joel Nanauka appointed Minister for Youth,” she said. The words hung in the air like an announcement from a new season. “Can you imagine? We’ve spent three years studying policy design, and suddenly, the country decides to make a whole ministry for youths.”
Her classmates leaned in, faces animated by both excitement and disbelief. Hamida, 22, tapped her pen against her notebook. “I think this move is bigger than people realise,” she said. “For once, someone up there might finally see us—not as a statistic, but as a constituency.”
Musa, 25, the eldest in the group, gave a quiet nod but said nothing at first. The others knew his silence; it was the kind that came from experience, not disinterest. Finally, he spoke. “I want to believe it,” he said slowly, “but I’ve seen what happens when belief turns to desperation.” He paused, his eyes distant. “On October 30th, I was in Arusha visiting my grandmother. She had just been through an operation; her leg had been amputated, and we were discussing how to support her. I am an orphan—those siblings are all I have. I was worried about how we would manage. After the hospital visit, I went into town to find my brothers, and I found myself pulled into a crowd.”
He swallowed, and the group leaned forward as if to catch every word. “People were marching while shouting insults, shouting they want to burn everything— ‘Let everything burn to the ground… it’s their money…’ They were angry, and their voices turned violent. They even forced me to march. I didn’t want any part of it, but they pushed me forward. My friend, the one who said no, was beaten into a pulp right there in front of me.
I was hostage for about one kilometre, carried along by the crowd. I didn’t know why they had picked me; I just wanted to sit with my grandmother. After maybe a kilometre of being part of something I had no idea about, I finally found a moment to sneak away and get out. I ran. I never want to experience that kind of fear again.”
The group fell quiet. The hum of the campus around them continued, but for a moment the steps felt sacred—a space where honesty could breathe. “That’s exactly why this ministry matters,” Hamida whispered. “Maybe now, things won’t have to reach that point again.”
Asha, 21, from Mtwara, hugged her backpack closer. “If it fails,” she said softly, “then what? Next time, it won’t be tyres they burn— it’ll be bridges.”
Neema lifted her head. “It’s not anger we want,” she said. “We just want to matter.”
Their words wove together like verses from a national lament—young, tired, educated, uncertain. Around them, the campus pulsed with motion: students streaming out of lectures, vendors calling out prices, the loudspeakers announcing evening prayers. The world was moving forward, but many of them felt stuck at its edge.
Soon, two more students joined. Jackson, 26, from Arusha, a part-time delivery rider studying policy at night, dropped his helmet beside him. “I’ve delivered food to offices full of graduates who can’t pay rent,” he said, shaking his head. “If this ministry can make sure youths don’t have to survive by side hustles alone, it’ll be a miracle.”
Faraja, 24, from Kigoma, spoke next, her voice steady but tired. “I’ll graduate owing five million shillings in loans. I don’t want pity. I want a plan—a real one.”
Then Fatma, 22, from Zanzibar, spoke for the first time. “When they say youths,” she said, “they must remember it means all of us—men, women, mainland, islands. We all dream in the same direction.”
Their conversation flowed naturally into the question of leadership—who these new faces were, and whether they could really deliver change.
“Hon. Joel Nanauka,” Neema began, “isn’t new to us. He’s been on TV and social media for years, teaching people about purpose and discipline.” She smiled faintly. “He used to tell people, ‘Leadership starts where excuses end.’ Maybe that’s why the President picked him. He understands personal responsibility.”
Joel Nanauka, the new Minister for Youth, had spent over a decade travelling the country, speaking to schools, churches, and corporate gatherings about integrity, focus, and work ethic. A preacher turned professional speaker, he carried a reputation for bridging moral philosophy with practical leadership. “He speaks like someone who sees value in people, not just in numbers,” Musa said. “If he keeps that heart, he might make a ministry that actually listens.”
Hamida added, “And that’s what makes him unique—he’s not from the traditional political mold. He’s from the moral mold. His experience in mentoring youths could finally give policy a human face.”
But a ministry built on heart also needs a spine. That’s where Madam Jenifa Christian Omolo comes in.
Before her appointment as Permanent Secretary, she had served in the Ministry of Finance and Planning and known in government circles as a strategist of precision and pragmatism. “She’s the one who keeps systems from collapsing,” Neema said. “She’s worked in budgets, planning, audits—she knows how to make things move.”
Hamida nodded. “If Nanauka is the voice, Omolo is the backbone. She’s the one who’ll make sure every shilling is spent where it should be, and every promise gets documented and monitored.”
Her appointment also carried quiet symbolism. “She’s a woman in one of the most crucial ministries,” Asha said. “It shows that nurturing the next generation is not just policy—it’s also mothering the nation.”
Then came the mention of Dr Kedmon Mapana, the newly appointed Deputy Permanent Secretary, a name that carried artistic energy and intellectual warmth. A former lecturer in creative arts at the University of Dar es Salaam and one-time Executive Secretary of BASATA, Mapana had spent years building bridges between academia, creativity and policy.
“My cousin’s in the arts,” Jackson said. “He told me Mapana once visited their studio in Bagamoyo and said, ‘Your hands are an economy waiting for recognition.’ I think he believes creativity can employ just as many as offices can.”
“Exactly,” Fatma said, her voice lifting. “He’s not just about music or art—he’s about culture, about giving dignity to work that comes from the heart. With him there, this ministry could finally speak to all of us, even those who never wear suits— like himself.”
Their discussion turned animated. Together, these three appointees seemed to embody a new triangle of balance: faith, structure, and imagination. “If they work together,” Hamida said, “Nanauka will inspire, Omolo will organise and Mapana will innovate. That’s how you build something that lasts.”
ALSO READ: Tanzania unveils new empowerment plan for its youth
The students fell quiet again as the evening deepened. The conversation turned from curiosity to hope. Neema spoke softly, almost to herself. “Maybe this time, we won’t be an afterthought. Maybe we’ll be the beginning.”
When our editorial team sent the reflections to the Ministry that night, something extraordinary happened. Within four hours, a reply arrived directly from the Minister himself. Not through his secretary, not through a spokesperson—but personally.
The letter, written in the Minister’s familiar calm tone, carried both humility and conviction.
When the email was read aloud to the students at UDOM the following day by our reporter, the crowd that had gathered outside the library grew completely still. The response had come faster than anyone expected—warm, direct and deeply human.
Musa stared at Neema for a long time before speaking. “He replied within hours,” he said quietly. “Maybe he really means it.”
Hamida nodded slowly. “He said he’s here to stop the bomb from exploding. That’s the first time I’ve heard a politician speak like a guardian, not an official.”
Asha smiled faintly. “He wants to listen to us in real time. Then maybe we should start speaking.”
Neema looked out across the fading light, her voice almost trembling. “He said he’ll begin right here in Dodoma. I’ll be there.”
Around them, dusk settled gently over the campus. The vendor’s fire near the gate flickered. The wind rustled through the acacia trees. For the first time, the students of Chimwaga didn’t just talk about change—they felt it beginning to move toward them.
And somewhere beyond the hills, a minister sat at his desk, preparing to visit those very students. His words lingered in the air: “A country that talks is safe.” Tanzania had begun to talk.
From the Editorial Team!
We’ll keep this dialogue alive—publishing your letters, your voices, and your questions. The Open Desk is your space for honest, respectful conversation. No judgment, only ideas and solutions.