No airtime, no airfare, no air left: The final breath of Tanzanian dance music

TANZANIA: TANZANIAN dance music is not dead. It’s just very, very tired, broke, and forgotten, somewhere in the corner of a dusty bar in Buguruni, sipping warm beer and wondering how it all went so wrong.

Once upon a groove, dansi, rumba, and taarab ruled our nights like gods of rhythm.

They made couples fall in love, politicians sweat at fundraisers, and aunties swing their kangas like certified dancers from Msondo Ngoma University.

Fast forward to now, and the only thing dancing is Singeli, bouncing so fast that it sounds like your neighbour’s blender choking on mango seeds.

Meanwhile, rumba is breathing through musical oxygen, dansi is in ICU, and taarab is reading its will.

The culprit? Well, it’s a long list, but let’s start with the biggest traitors of all—our beloved private TV and radio stations.

Once trusted voices of culture, they now play nothing but Bongo Flava heartbreak anthems 24/7.

If your song doesn’t start with “Nimeumizwa” and end with “but I still love you, baby,” you don’t stand a chance.

Even the so-called cultural channels are too busy chasing sponsors to remember Mzee Ngurumo existed.

Some stations at least try to play taarab sometimes, but that’s like saying, “I feed my child once a week,” and expecting applause.

Dance music has been locked out like a broke relative at a wedding buffet.

Even under Ujamaa, dansi was never pampered—but at least it wasn’t ghosted like this. Now the musicians, oh, the musicians! These poor souls are now permanent residents of bar stages.

They perform daily, sometimes twice a day, not because they love it, but because rent, school fees, and the price of maandazi won’t wait.

They’re stuck in a twisted bar economy where the owner says, “Come and play for free, we’ll give you exposure,” and exposure turns out to be three drunks clapping and one bouncer asking if you can lower the volume.

Bar owners have mastered the art of musical exploitation. They act like promoters from GSM or Azam, but their budget is equal to a boda fare from Mwenge to Makumbusho.

“We’ll give you tips,” they say. But the only tip you get is, “next time, bring your own drumsticks.”

Meanwhile, Bongo Flava kids perform once, get paid the GDP of a small district, post one shirtless pic with the caption “Only God,” and disappear to Zanzibar for detox.

Our rumba legends? They perform daily, lose weight, age faster than their guitars, and go home with less than the price of a used toothbrush. To add salt to the already insulted wound, our beloved veteran musicians have refused to evolve.

They’re still writing songs that sound like a public service announcement from 1986.

Lyrics like “Society is rotten… we must change… young people are lost” are not songs.

That’s a WhatsApp broadcast from your aunt. No beat. No groove. No chance.

Today’s youth want vibes, not sermons. They don’t want to be told to stop drinking—they want a remix of that drinking. They want a beat that slaps, lyrics that flirt, and videos that look like a movie inside a New York penthouse.

But our rumba kings are still stuck in storytelling mode. Tenminute tracks about honesty and integrity. Baba, who is listening?

And let’s not pretend their “moral teachings” changed anyone.

Tanzanians are still lying, cheating, and stealing airtime. So, what exactly was achieved after 70 years of dancing and scolding? Not much.

Maybe one guy stopped drinking, but even he came back after the power went out during “Ze Comedy.”

What’s worse is that the government is sleeping on this whole disaster like a lion after a heavy lunch.

They’re busy sponsoring sports, planting trees, and launching museums while dance music is crying in a corner like a child who dropped their ice cream.

There is a national arts fund somewhere, yes, but you’d have to decode ten PDFs, five application forms, and possibly speak Latin to access it.

Meanwhile, France forces their radio stations to play 40% French music by law. South Africa has a 60% local content rule.

Tanzania? We have 97% heartbreak, 2% gospel remixes of heartbreak, and maybe 1% Taarab if the studio technician leaves his flash drive in the mixer by accident.

Even Radio Tanzania Dar es salaam (RTD), back in the golden era of ujamaa, understood the power of protecting and promoting local music.

They didn’t just play Tanzanian dance music—they prioritized it. How? By boldly banning Congolese and other foreign music for years, forcing Bongolanders to listen to and eventually fall in love with their own sound.

And it worked! Bands like Mlimani Park, Vijana Jazz, Juwata Jazz, Orchestra Maquis and others became household names.

Tanzanians danced to lyrics they understood, stories they lived, and rhythms born right in their own backyards.

Now, I am not saying today’s media must ban anything—times have changed. But how about giving dance music a fair shot?

A slice of the airtime pie? A chance to compete in the same ring as Bongo Flava and Singeli?

If RTD could engineer a cultural shift as one state broadcaster, surely our modern private media giants can afford one hour a day for rumba.

And don’t get me started on schools. We teach kids how to find the area of a trapezium, but not how to play a drum or sing in harmony.

How do we expect to preserve our music if every child thinks Franco is a brand of kitchen tiles?

There’s still hope. But it requires action—real, sweaty, guitar-plucking, budget-allocating, airplay-giving action.

The government can start by funding legendary bands the same way they fund cultural festivals for goat races and peanut exhibitions.

. And not just on Sunday mornings when everyone’s asleep.

TV and radio stations need to return the favour to these legends. Give them their own shows, live performances, collaborations with younger artists, even documentaries. Let’s tell their stories before they become ghost stories.

Artists too must wake up. The moral lectures must go. Start making short songs, catchy hooks, modern beats. Put saxophone on drill music. Do a Taarab remix with Singeli speed. Do a TikTok challenge.