FROM STAGE TO PRISON TO STAGE: THE STORY OF NGUZA VIKING

April 22, 2026 - 07:31 PM

A debate on musicians dabbling in crime, whether alleged or actually committed, cannot end without mentioning the story of Nguza Viking, aka Babu Seya, and his son, Papi Kocha.

Nguza and his son were both incarcerated in a Dar es Salaam prison in Tanzania for 15 years. The story drew the interest and attention of the entire region, with the international community seeking to intervene. To understand Nguza, we must introduce a band known as Maquis du Zaire. Nguza, also known as Field Marshal, was a lethal soloist with the band. His unique solo guitar can be sampled in the song "Wakati Nilikuwa Mdogo" from the Karubandika album.

Maquis du Zaire began in Katanga in the mid-1960s under the name Super Gaby. The band then shifted its base to Likasi before finally making forays eastwards. It is narrated that in 1971, they ended up in Tanzania, despite having commenced the journey with the intention of going to Uganda. Ndala Kasheba, a music giant of the day, is said to have influenced their final decision to settle in Tanzania.

In Tanzania, Maquis found favor with fans due to the talent in its ranks. The band became very popular and attracted even more superstars. At some point, the band had up to 40 members—a very large size by any standards. This was also a unique band because they ventured outside of music and invested heavily in land and property from the proceeds of their music. This was a path hitherto uncharted by other outfits.

The band was headed by sax player Tshinyama Tshiyanza and boasted an array of talent, including Field Marshal Nguza Viking, sax player Kanku Kelly, and bassist Banza Mchafu. Others included Tshimanga Asosa, King Kiki, Dekula Kahanga, Kasal Kyanga, Mutombo Lufungula, and many others.

Nguza was born Tshimbuiza Tshisenze in Katanga, DRC, on April 5, 1953. He began his music career in his teenage years and made a name for himself as an astute composer and guitarist with the band. He became a household name once the band settled in Tanzania. However, with the band's changing fortunes—crippled by a string of deaths and defections—Nguza remained active in the music scene and even introduced some of his children to music, capitalizing on his experience.

Nguza's tribulations began on the evening of October 12, 2003, when he was arrested alongside his three sons and a teacher from a local school, Mashujaa Primary School in Sinza. They were detained at Magomeni Police Station for five days without any charges being preferred, a development which would later open a Pandora’s box regarding the fairness of their conviction.

On the sixth day, they were taken to court and charged with defiling ten pupils from Mashujaa Primary School. The trial began in earnest. Among the loopholes later cited in the case was that the victims were never formally introduced to the court or even interrogated in camera. This aroused suspicion about the merits of the case.

The case proceeded to a full trial, and in 2004, the teacher and two of Nguza's sons were acquitted, while Nguza and Papi Kocha were convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment. Several appeal trials were thwarted by the prosecution, despite glaring anomalies—such as the fact that the charge sheet stated the two had infected the victims with AIDS, yet tests confirmed that neither was HIV positive.

Away from the court, the public seemed to have a clear picture of what was happening. In low tones, murmurs abounded that Nguza had been entangled in a love triangle involving a woman who was the wife of a prominent figure in the Kikwete administration. Talk was rife that the said person of influence had, through intermediaries, conveyed information to Nguza that he would be "dealt with" if he did not pull out of the relationship; thus, the whole trial process was viewed as a charade by a junior officer acting under instructions from above.

With no opening for freedom in sight, the lawyers representing the duo sought intervention from the African Court of Justice. Other means were attempted by the duo, who, while incarcerated, composed a song dedicated to Kikwete that pleaded their innocence and begged for leniency. This, too, bore no fruit.

The matter attracted attention again across the entire region as the African Court of Justice opted to explore the loopholes to seek justice for the duo. In 2017, this author wrote an open letter to John Pombe Magufuli, the then-Tanzanian President. The open letter was a cry from music fans, seeking the President's intervention and a possible presidential amnesty, taking a cue from the power of mercy granted to him by the country's constitution in the wake of allegations that a miscarriage of justice may have occurred.

The letter went viral on online platforms, and on the advice of some influential people in Tanzania, this author was asked to write an email to the official State House address. It is not possible to determine whether this caught the attention of the President or if it just amplified the calls for a review of the case that had hit a crescendo.

Later that year, President Magufuli released the duo via a presidential amnesty. He subsequently invited them to the State House, offered a public apology on behalf of the Tanzanian government, and pledged to compensate the duo for their wrongful incarceration. This was interpreted by the public as an admission of guilt by the authorities. The case of Nguza Viking and his son is often debated not just as a story of musicians convicted of a crime, but as a deliberate instance of someone in authority misusing power to disenfranchise the vulnerable.