DAR ES SALAAM: THERE is something strangely poetic and downright cruel, about the journey of Tanzanian music.
It has travelled far and wide, danced across continents and found fans in places its creators never even dreamt of visiting.
Tragically, some of these musical pioneers barely made it past their own funeral expenses.
The beat goes on.
The trumpets flare up.
The guitars chit-chat warmly with the drums.
And somewhere, miles away and years later, a wedding band in Dar, a nostalgic radio DJ in Berlin, or a lazy Sunday Spotify playlist in a Manchester dorm hits “play” with zero cost, zero consequence and zero conscience.
Back home? The artists who created these eternal tunes are long gone. Quietly buried.
Sometimes even relying on crowdfunding from fans who didn’t realise they’d been dancing on a debt.
Welcome to the bittersweet afterlife of muziki wa dansi a.k.a Tanzanian band music.
Call it what it was: a golden age without a bill.
For over five decades, Tanzania gifted Africa some of its most refined, emotionally rich and well-drilled bands.
Names like Msondo Ngoma, Mlimani Park Orchestra, Dar International Band, Atomic Jazz Band, Cuban Marimba Band weren’t just musical groups; they were institutions.
They practised with the punctuality of civil servants, dressed in the elegance of diplomats and toured with the zeal of missionaries spreading joy.
Their songs were layered with tales of love, heartbreak, sweat, politics and street humour, told with restraint and intelligence.
This wasn’t loud music. It was persuasive. Graceful. Effective.
And yet, between the elegant trumpet solos and those final choruses, no one stopped to ask a very awkward question: Who owns the song and who gets paid when it travels?
Ignorance, let’s be honest, is the most expensive instrument in a band.
The uncomfortable truth? Most of these legendary musicians had no clue about copyright, royalties, publishing or intellectual ownership.
Not because they were naïve, but because nobody explained it to them.
They were paid per show. Sometimes per night. Occasionally in beer (kiingilio bia). Once the gig ended, so did the income.
The song? It kept going. To vinyl. To cassette. To radio. To YouTube uploads by someone’s tech-savvy nephew in Düsseldorf.
The musicians? Paid once. If they were lucky.
In legal terms, this was the equivalent of building an entire mansion, selling one brick and then watching others collect rent on it for the next 50 years.
Enter Radio Tanzania Dar es Salaam, affectionately known as RTD. The holy shrine of national sound. The grand archivist. The echo chamber of dreams.
RTD recorded the hits. Stored the tapes. Played the songs. Built public affection. But contracts? Ownership? Repeat royalties?
Silence.
Was RTD preserving national heritage as a noble public service, or was it an accidental landlord sitting on decades of unpaid intellectual rent?
No one’s quite sure.
And therein lies the mess. Then came the middlemen, with perfect timing and polished shoes.
Where musicians lacked legal literacy, opportunists moved in with hungry enthusiasm.
A producer here. A “studio guy” there. A self-declared “manager” who somehow became the owner of the master tapes.
Deals were made on a handshake, or a single-page contract, or on faith alone.
Metadata? None. Credits? Missing. Publishers? Nonexistent.
Then digital platforms arrived. The music was uploaded, by whoever had a copy.
Often, not the musician. Often, not even anyone close.
And so began the Tanzanian musical paradox: the music made money. But the musicians? Not a shilling!
Cue the most tragic chorus of all: the pauper’s encore.
Legends fell ill. Crowdfunding campaigns were launched. Funerals were paid for by fans who had unknowingly enjoyed years of unpaid artistry.
Some musicians died believing that music was just a passion.
Others knew something was wrong but didn’t have the vocabulary to fight it.
Yet their songs live on. Played at weddings. Chanted at political rallies. Echoing in hotel lobbies. Reverberating through nostalgia events.
Now, streamed globally, monetised by everyone, except the original creators.
Immortality without income? That’s the cruellest encore of all.
And then came Bongo Flava. And things began to shift.
Fast-forward to today’s generation. Digital-savvy, business-minded and far more assertive.
Artists like Diamond Platnumz, Ali Kiba, Zuchu, Harmonize, Nandy and their peers brought a different energy.
They asked about ownership. They formed their own labels. They negotiated YouTube monetisation, streaming distribution, brand endorsements, publishing rights.
Have they perfected the system? Not quite. But they absolutely refuse to perform just for applause. Their sweat, finally, is beginning to look like revenue.
This isn’t rebellion. It’s survival.
So, who’s to blame? Everyone. And no one….
BASATA? Possibly. Regulation without education is just empty theatre.
RTD? Maybe. Being a cultural guardian without clarity is silent exploitation.
The musicians? Victims of a system that never built a seat for them at the table.
The state? Proud of cultural heritage, but without the structure to turn that into economic equity.
The industry? Oh, it profits from the chaos. Because confusion, if profitable, rarely gets fixed.
Plenty of blame. Very few solutions.
So, what now? What actually needs to happen?
First, educate musicians. From the young hopeful to the veteran legend, everyone needs to know their rights as deeply as they know their riffs.
Second, conduct a proper national audit of the music archives. Who owns what? Why? For how long?
Third, register and digitise old catalogues with royalty pathways that benefit surviving members and the families of those gone.
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Fourth, fix the collecting societies. Not in name only. But with power, transparency and international legal teeth.
And finally, a national reckoning. Cultural pride is nice. But it doesn’t pay hospital bills. Royalties do.
The final chorus?
Tanzanian music never failed its musicians. The system did.
The songs did what songs are supposed to do travel, move, comfort, provoke.
It’s the people, the institutions, administrators and opportunists who forgot to connect the melody to fair compensation.
As the old legends fade into playlists and Spotify algorithms, we hope the next generation listens not just to the music, but to the warning that hums underneath.
Because talent should never have to die poor just so a nation can dance well.