When radio studios became interrogation rooms

TANZANIA: And why media houses must stop hiring goons with microphones.

THIS week my brain staged a quiet protest. I couldn’t write a single paragraph. Writer’s block had me staring at my keyboard like it owed me money.

Even my house cockroaches started looking concerned. I thought: “Is this it? Have I finally become one of those washed-up columnists who writes about their cat and sunsets?”

But alas, dear reader, the universe intervened via WiFi. Hallelujah!

Two screaming radio interviews popped up on my YouTube feed. What I witnessed was not journalism, not media, not even theatre.

It was a certified, Grade A, prime beef stew of untrained presenters attacking artists like hungry mosquitoes at a blood drive.

Let’s start with Exhibit A: A celebrated crooner, recently returned from Trump land walked into a local radio studio for what he thought would be a civilised chat about his new single.

He even wore his nice cologne. But alas! The presenter yes, the presenter somehow turned into a rogue interrogator.

Like a traffic police officer who suddenly decides he’s now in CID.

Her tone? Less welcoming host, more bitter ex-girlfriend.

“So… are you married?” she asked, as if she were his long-lost fiancée seeking closure.

Mr Crooner blinked. He thought maybe the host was warming up.

He smiled politely, swerved the question like a seasoned politician and brought the conversation back to music.

But oh no! The presenter was not having it. She doubled down. “Don’t dodge the question! People want to know… is there a Mrs Crooner?”

Before you could say “press freedom,” the situation escalated faster than a WhatsApp group fight. The artist refused to answer.

The presenter rolled her eyes so hard I think she saw her own brain.

Security was called.

And this man this gentle soul in suede loafers was frogmarched out of the studio like he’d just tried to steal a microphone.

Thrown out over a marital status. Not drugs. Not blasphemy. Just… marriage.

I paused the video. Rewound. Watched again. And yes, my eyes were not deceiving me: the man was ejected like expired doughnuts.

No, like leftover ugali from yesterday that had turned into building cement.

Now here’s the twist in this drama: the presenter, after social media backlash, got summoned for an “Ithibati” JAB.

ALSO READ: Over 2,900 journalists accredited

She later apologised like a kid caught eating sugar before dinner.

And we all clapped. Until we were told brace yourself she already had “Ithibati”! That She was a fully certified journalist!

What happened that day? Did she forget everything? Was it a full moon? A bad breakfast? I honestly don’t know.

Well, for the uninformed, JAB is not a COVID booster it’s the Journalist Accreditation Board, Tanzania’s official media bouncer.

Formed under the Media Services Act of 2016, JAB is the watchdog that decides who gets to rock the title “journalist” and who needs to sit down and stop embarrassing their family.

To get in, you must study journalism, (the minimum is a Diploma) apply through MAELEZO, survive the vetting (which feels like applying for a visa to heaven) and if you pass, voilà you’re handed the Ithibati press card.

But, as you have seen, even some Ithibati holders go rogue, proving that while JAB can teach you the rules, it can’t teach you manners or basic sense.

But hold your laughter, dear reader, because Exhibit B was still warming up like leftover pizza.

Another station clearly jealous of the trending circus decided to host their own version of “Verbal Boxing bout: Radio Edition.”

They invited a fresh-faced Singeli artist, nervous but proud, ready for his big media debut.

The poor lad walked in like Simba SC marching into the CAF finals with hope and rhythm.

Little did he know he was stepping into what looked like a secret NIDA interrogation room.

The studio was full not of journalists but noisy humans all holding microphones and zero manners.

No one said “Welcome,” no one even offered him a glass of water.

The first question? “Bro, do you brush your teeth before you sing?” The boy froze. And I did too.

What followed was not an interview. It was a public stoning with sound.

“What level of education do you have?” “People say your music is just noise how does that make you feel?”

These presenters were treating the poor musician like he was smuggling heroin under his cap.

The only thing missing was a blinding spotlight and a soft whisper: “We have evidence in a voice note…”

Ladies and gentlemen, this is what our media has become: not a platform, but a punching bag.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to act like the Pope of Press Freedom.

But as someone who has already received the Ithibati JAB, I feel spiritually obligated to speak.

Because journalism, in its pure form, is about respect. It’s about truth-seeking, not trap-setting.

It is not about hiring human speakers who can yell louder than their own heartbeat.

It’s not about letting anyone with a deep voice, tacky sunglasses (indoors), and a baseball cap turned backwards shout “Tanzaniaaaa!” and call that hosting.

Back in our day, before the age of selfies-with-guests and TikTok thirst traps, we were taught golden interviewing rules:

Research your guest. Learn their work. Prepare questions. Respect their space.

And here’s a shocker don’t ambush them with “Are you married?” just for ratings.

But today’s presenters? They don’t even Google – or so it seems!

Some of these interviews feel like a crossover between Bongo Flava and CID Special Ops.

An artist comes to talk about his new album and by minute seven, they’re being asked if their baby mama has chipped in for their wedding.

One Singeli artist was so traumatised, he now only does interviews via email with questions pre-approved by his manager, lawyer, and most likely his church pastor.

Another artist requested that all interviews be conducted in a silent studio, with no presenter present. Questions via text. Yes. Welcome to Radio via PDF.

Why? Because artists are tired of being roasted alive by goons masquerading as presenters.

Yes, I said goons. And here lies the heart of the matter: Radio stations, stop hiring goons with microphones.

Stop hiring people because they talk fast, have high energy, or look good in skinny jeans.

We don’t care if they can freestyle intros like ‘Straight outta Kariakooooo!’ That’s not journalism. That’s branded noise pollution.

We want presenters who understand the art of a good interview. Who listen. Who know that ‘dead air’ is not an aviation disaster.

Give us presenters who can pronounce names correctly. Not those calling Diamond “Damoni” or Burna Boy “Banana Boy.”

Stop hiring clowns for content. Your studios might turn into zoos and the audience can hear the growling.

Some radio owners think virality equals victory.

They want the trending clip. They want tears, outbursts, exits. Boom! Content. Engagement. Sponsorship.

But if you keep ambushing artists, they’ll stop coming.

They’ll go live on Instagram. Or do podcast interviews with cartoon puppets.

Or just drop videos on YouTube where no one asks about their toothbrush habits. And you? You’ll be left with echoing studios, hyena laughter and no guests.

Even your audience will flee. They’ll start streaming gospel music just to cleanse their ears.

But it’s not all doom and gloom.

There are still amazing radio hosts out there. The ones who treat interviews like an art form. They prepare. They probe. They respect. They shine.

To them, I say: Asanteni sana. Thank you very much. You are the torchbearers in this cave of noisy darkness. Keep setting the bar. Keep teaching by example.

And if you have time lend your brains to your rogue colleagues.

Because some of them think “Ithibati JAB” is a new energy drink.

So dear reader, if you’re ever invited to a radio interview and you enter a studio where one guy is eating fried dough, another is chewing gum like it’s revenge and the rest are already giggling do not sit.

Don’t even blink. Turn around slowly… and run.

Until next Sunday stay tuned. But more importantly, stay discerning.

Because not everyone with a mic deserves your ears.

And not every studio is a safe space. Some are just verbal war zones with a playlist.