Must a gay man deny who he is to remain free? And when the law criminalises consensual same-sex intimacy, whose responsibility is it to explain why one participant ends up in prison while others appear to walk free?
In April 2023, the Kilwa District Court in Tanzania sentenced Muharami Hassan Nayonga to 30 years in prison under Section 154 of the Penal Code, in a case involving alleged same-sex sexual conduct. Reports also identify Section 157 among the provisions under which he was convicted.
Thirty years.
That is three decades of a person’s life, relationships, opportunities, dreams and freedom.
But beyond the sentence lies a much deeper human rights question. What does it mean to live in a society where expressing one’s sexuality can expose an individual to decades of imprisonment? What happens when the law does not simply regulate conduct but creates an environment in which people are expected to conceal fundamental aspects of their identity to survive?
Muharami’s case deserves attention not only because of the sentence imposed but also because of the questions it raises about equality before the law, human dignity, sexual autonomy and the treatment of LGBTQ+ people in Tanzania.
Must someone deny who they are to remain free?
According to reports, Muharami admitted the charges against him.
His reported admission raises an important human question that deserves consideration beyond the courtroom.
Why should someone be expected to deny their feelings, attractions or lived experiences simply because society considers their sexuality unacceptable?
Being gay is not a crime. Experiencing attraction towards another man is not a crime. Having feelings, developing emotional connections and understanding one’s sexuality are fundamental aspects of human existence.
Sexual orientation is not something a person can simply switch off because the law or society disapproves.
We should be careful not to assume that we know what motivated Muharami’s admission. Only he can explain his personal thoughts and circumstances. Nor should an admission be interpreted as proof that he wanted to be imprisoned or that all the legal consequences were properly explained to him.
Nevertheless, his case invites a difficult reflection.
Imagine being expected to deny an experience that forms part of your personal life simply to avoid imprisonment. Imagine being required to conceal your attraction, pretend to be someone you are not and remain silent about your relationships because honesty could expose you to criminal punishment.
Must a gay man deny his identity to demonstrate that he deserves freedom?
Should someone have to pretend to be heterosexual to enjoy the same dignity, protection and opportunities as other citizens?
The right to exist should not depend on the ability to pretend to be someone else.
There is a fundamental distinction between sexual orientation and particular sexual conduct. A person’s identity is not itself a criminal offence, even where national legislation criminalises certain sexual acts.
Yet criminalisation of consensual intimacy can create an environment in which people experience their very existence as something that must be hidden.
One alleged act, different participants, unequal consequences?
Another important question concerns the apparent difference in the treatment of participants in the alleged sexual activities.
Media reporting on Muharami’s case describes allegations involving other individuals, including a young man identified as Zalafi Selemani.
This raises a legitimate question: if the alleged sexual activities involved more than one participant, why does the publicly available reporting focus on Muharami as the person prosecuted and sentenced?
Were the other participants investigated?
Were they questioned or charged?
If they were not prosecuted, what informed that decision?
These questions are not an argument that another individual should also be imprisoned. The issue is not whether more people should suffer punishment. The issue is whether the criminal justice system applies the law consistently and whether decisions about arrest, investigation and prosecution are made fairly.
A justice system must be able to explain its decisions, particularly where the circumstances involve multiple participants but the criminal consequences appear to fall predominantly on one individual.
The public deserves to understand the difference between the legal responsibility of participants, the evidence available to investigators and the discretion exercised by prosecutors.
Without access to the full court proceedings and investigation records, we cannot conclude that the prosecution acted unlawfully or that the other participants were deliberately protected.
However, the apparent disparity deserves scrutiny.
What does Section 154 actually say?
Tanzania’s Penal Code criminalises certain same-sex sexual acts under Section 154.
Section 154(1)(a) addresses having carnal knowledge of another person against the order of nature.
Section 154(1)(c) addresses permitting a male person to have carnal knowledge of oneself against the order of nature.
The prescribed punishment includes a minimum term of 30 years’ imprisonment.
The wording is important because it addresses both the person who performs the prohibited act and the person who permits the act.
This raises an important question about how responsibility is determined when two people are alleged to have participated in the same consensual sexual activity.
Does the law establish different levels of responsibility depending on the role of each participant? What determines who is charged? And how are prosecutorial decisions made when several people are allegedly involved?
The existence of a criminal provision does not remove the state’s obligation to administer justice fairly.
Even where an act is criminalised, investigations, prosecutions and judicial proceedings must comply with applicable legal and constitutional safeguards.
Is the problem the law, its application, or both?
The question of discrimination requires us to examine two interconnected issues.
First, there is the law itself.
Criminalising consensual same-sex intimacy between adults raises fundamental concerns about privacy, dignity, personal autonomy and equality. It places LGBTQ+ people in a position where intimate aspects of their lives may become grounds for criminal prosecution.
Second, there is the application of that law.
Even where legislation provides a particular criminal prohibition, its enforcement can raise additional questions about selective prosecution, unequal treatment and the influence of social prejudice.
Could sexual orientation, gender expression, economic circumstances or access to legal representation influence how individuals are treated during investigations and prosecutions?
These are serious questions, but they require evidence rather than assumptions.
We must distinguish between discriminatory legislation, discriminatory enforcement and individual prosecutorial decisions. Each requires examination in its own right.
However, the broader concern remains: when criminal laws disproportionately expose a particular community to surveillance, stigma and punishment, the implications for equality and human dignity cannot be ignored.
What about the right to a fair trial?
Muharami’s reported admission also makes it important to examine the procedural safeguards surrounding his conviction.
Was he represented by an independent lawyer?
Did he fully understand the charges and the consequences of admitting them?
Was his admission voluntary and unequivocal?
Was the evidence independently examined?
Did the court adequately consider the legal and factual circumstances of the case?
A guilty plea should not be treated as a substitute for a fair judicial process. The circumstances in which an accused person admits a charge matter, particularly when the consequences include decades of imprisonment.
Article 13 of the Constitution of the United Republic of Tanzania provides for equality before the law and protections relating to fair hearings.
The African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights also recognises equality, dignity and protection against degrading treatment.
Furthermore, Resolution 275 of the African Commission on Human and Peoples’ Rights, adopted in 2014, calls on African states to prevent violence and human rights violations based on actual or perceived sexual orientation and gender identity.
These standards raise important questions about how Tanzania’s criminal justice system protects the rights and dignity of LGBTQ+ people.
The right to a fair trial should not become less important because the accused person belongs to an unpopular or marginalised community.
The wider human cost of criminalising LGBTQ+ people
Muharami’s case must also be understood within the wider social and legal environment facing LGBTQ+ people in Tanzania.
Criminalisation does not operate only inside courtrooms. It can influence how people access healthcare, education, employment, housing and public services.
It can discourage victims of violence from reporting abuse. It can make people afraid to seek medical assistance or approach law enforcement. It can expose individuals to blackmail, exploitation, extortion and social rejection.
Human Rights Watch documented Tanzania’s anti-LGBT crackdown in 2020, including arrests, intimidation and restrictions affecting access to health services.
Amnesty International’s 2024 report, We Are Facing Extinction, also documented the weaponisation of laws and escalating anti-LGBTQ+ sentiment in selected African countries, including Tanzania.
These are not merely abstract policy concerns. They have consequences for people’s safety, livelihoods, families and ability to participate in society.
When a person must choose between accessing essential services and concealing their identity, the principle of equal citizenship becomes difficult to realise.
A society cannot build meaningful inclusion while some of its members are forced to live in fear because of who they love or are attracted to.
Is imprisonment the answer to human sexuality?
This is a question that deserves serious consideration by policymakers, legal professionals, human rights institutions, religious leaders and Tanzanian society.
Consensual relationships between adults are fundamentally different from sexual violence, coercion and exploitation.
The protection of children and the prevention of sexual abuse are legitimate responsibilities of the state. But these responsibilities should not be used to justify the criminalisation of consensual intimacy between adults.
The distinction matters.
Human sexuality is complex. People’s attractions, relationships and experiences cannot be reduced to assumptions about morality or social conformity.
Criminal punishment does not change someone’s sexual orientation. It does not eliminate same-sex attraction. It does not make LGBTQ+ people disappear.
It can, however, force people into secrecy, increase vulnerability and undermine their ability to seek protection when their rights are violated.
The question, therefore, is whether criminalising consensual intimacy actually advances public welfare, or whether it creates additional human rights and public health challenges that society must confront.
Tanzania must answer these questions
Muharami’s case should prompt a broader national conversation about the relationship between criminal law, equality and human dignity.
Why was Muharami prosecuted while other alleged participants are not publicly identified as having faced similar proceedings?
How does the prosecution determine which participants to charge?
Were his constitutional and fair trial protections fully respected?
What safeguards exist against discriminatory investigations and selective prosecution?
Why should an individual’s sexual orientation and consensual intimate relationships expose them to decades of imprisonment?
And what does equality before the law mean when LGBTQ+ people experience criminalisation and social exclusion because of their sexuality?
These questions should not be dismissed as an attempt to place LGBTQ+ people above the law.
They are questions about whether the law itself, and the institutions responsible for enforcing it, uphold the principles of fairness, consistency, accountability and human dignity.
A final reflection: He is more than his conviction
It is easy to reduce Muharami to a criminal case number, a court judgment or a 30-year sentence.
But behind that sentence is a human being.
A person with feelings, experiences, relationships, hopes and a life that matters.
His humanity does not disappear because of his sexual orientation. His dignity does not become less important because his sexuality is criminalised. And his right to fair treatment should not depend on whether society agrees with his personal life.
We must be able to question laws that criminalise consensual same-sex intimacy. We must be able to scrutinise prosecutorial decisions. We must demand fair trials and equal treatment. And we must recognise that LGBTQ+ people are not outsiders to society; they are part of its families, communities, workplaces, schools and institutions.
Muharami’s imprisonment raises a question that goes beyond one individual: Must a person deny who they are to remain free?
A society that values human dignity should not require anyone to choose between personal identity and the right to live.
Being gay is not a crime. Being attracted to someone of the same sex is not a crime. And no one should have to pretend to be someone else to deserve dignity, protection and humanity.
Justice must be more than the enforcement of laws. It must also be about how those laws affect human beings, whether they are applied fairly and whether they respect the dignity of every person.
James Wandera Ouma
LGBTQ+ Human Rights Advocate | Tanzania
