lexpathUganda - The expert feature

At LexPath, we understand that the law does not operate in isolation—it is deeply interwoven with the political, social, and geopolitical currents that shape our world. The Expert Feature is a dedicated space for critical thought, legal scholarship, and informed commentary on the dynamic intersection of law, politics, justice, and geopolitics, both within Uganda and across the global landscape.

Clean Hands, Crooked Scales: How Power Has Emptied International Law of Meaning

Date: 5 January, 2026

By: Mujwiga Najiib

There comes a moment in history when silence itself becomes a lie. When the powerful speak loudly and repeatedly, and the weak are expected to listen quietly, truth begins to suffocate. We are living in such a moment today. A time when international law, once imagined as humanity’s moral compass, has been reduced to a selective instrument of convenience, wielded by the powerful and ignored when it points inward.

An old African proverb says, “When the drumbeat changes, the dance must also change.” The drumbeat of global politics has changed, yet the United States insists on dancing alone, forcing the rest of the world to follow steps it no longer respects itself.

Recent global events—ranging from U.S. actions toward Venezuela, its posture toward Russia, and its response to international legal institutions—have stripped away the last layers of moral camouflage. What remains is not leadership, but intolerance toward rising power, insecurity masked as principle, and law twisted into a weapon.

The Forgotten Rule of Equity: Clean Hands Matter

In every serious legal system, there exists a foundational doctrine of equity: “He who comes to equity must come with clean hands.” This principle is not decorative. It is not optional. It exists to prevent hypocrisy from masquerading as justice. It reminds courts—and societies—that moral authority cannot be borrowed or stolen; it must be earned.

Yet today, the United States approaches the global stage demanding accountability from others while exempting itself entirely. It lectures Russia on aggression, China on human rights, Iran on nuclear restraint, and Venezuela on democracy—while its own record spills across continents like an unsealed wound.

As elders say, “You cannot wash blood from your hands by pointing at another man’s dirt.”

Venezuela: Distance, Sovereignty, and the Absurdity of Threat

Venezuela lies more than 10,000 miles away from the United States. It shares no border, no military front line, no territorial dispute. It has not positioned missiles near American cities. It has not encircled Washington with hostile alliances. It has not invaded any U.S. neighbor. And yet, for years, Venezuela has lived under:

Crushing economic sanctions; Open calls for regime change; Diplomatic isolation; Asset seizures; Covert destabilization efforts; Threats of arrest, abduction, or removal of its leadership. All justified in the name of “democracy,” “freedom,” and “security.” But security from what? Democracy for whom?

A proverb asks, “If a man across the river insults you, do you burn your own house in anger?” The disproportion between threat and response exposes the truth: this is not about security. It is about control.

The crime of Venezuela is not aggression. Its crime is defiance—the refusal to align fully with U.S. geopolitical and economic interests. History teaches us that this alone is often enough to invite punishment.

Kidnapping, Invention, and the Exposure of Power

When powerful states fabricate narratives, invent crimes, or engage in covert abductions under the guise of law enforcement, they do more than violate sovereignty—they undermine the credibility of international law itself.

Such actions unintentionally exonerate those they seek to condemn. By bending rules so openly, the United States has weakened its own accusations against Russia. The world watches, not with admiration, but with clarity. As the proverb goes, “The man who lies to catch a thief eventually forgets where the truth lives.”

Russia and Ukraine: Borders, History, and Security Reality

Russia shares a direct border with Ukraine. Geography is not an opinion. History is not a conspiracy theory. Security concerns rooted in proximity are not inventions.

For decades, NATO—led by the United States—has expanded eastward, step by step, closer to Russian borders. This expansion occurred despite earlier assurances that such movement would not happen. Ukraine, increasingly armed and politically aligned with Western military structures, became a strategic flashpoint.

To acknowledge Russia’s security concerns is not to celebrate war. It is to recognize reality. One can condemn suffering while still understanding causation. Only dishonest analysis pretends otherwise.

As an African proverb wisely notes, “You do not poke a sleeping lion and then act surprised when it wakes.”

Would the United States tolerate a hostile military alliance arming Mexico or Canada with advanced weapons systems? Would it remain calm if rival powers stationed missiles minutes away from its cities? History answers clearly: no.

The Cuban Missile Crisis remains the clearest example. The U.S. nearly went to nuclear war over missiles placed near its border. Yet today, it denies Russia even the right to fear.

Double Standards as Official Policy

This contradiction lies at the heart of America’s collapsing moral authority. Russia must accept NATO expansion, but Venezuela must not accept political independence. Russia’s security fears are dismissed, but U.S. anxieties thousands of miles away are treated as sacred. Russia is condemned for military action, but U.S. invasions are rebranded as “interventions.” Russia is sanctioned, but U.S. allies are shielded. As elders say, “The stick used to beat the goat should also be ready for the cow.” But the stick is reserved only for the weak.

International Law: From Shield to Sword

International law was created after global catastrophes to restrain power, protect sovereignty, and prevent endless cycles of violence. It was meant to be a shield for the weak, not a sword for the strong.

Today, it has been inverted. When Russia violates norms, the law is invoked loudly. When Israel violates norms, the law is debated. When the United States violates norms, the law is ignored. This selective application has hollowed international law into a performance rather than a principle. A proverb reminds us, “A court that favors one side is no longer a court, but a market.”

Netanyahu, the ICC, and the Criminalization of Justice

Perhaps no moment better exposes this hypocrisy than the treatment of the International Criminal Court. When the ICC indicted Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu—supported by a majority of countries worldwide—it acted within its mandate. Evidence was reviewed. Legal processes followed. This was law doing what law exists to do. The response of the United States was not legal engagement. It was retaliation.

Instead of respecting judicial independence, the U.S. sanctioned ICC judges. The message was chilling and unmistakable: justice is permitted only when it targets approved enemies.

Meanwhile, Netanyahu continues to travel freely to the United States, despite allegations tied to mass civilian suffering. Courts are punished. Victims are ignored.

As the proverb warns, “When the hunter becomes the judge, the animals will never win.”

Palestine: The Longest Test Case of Hypocrisy

For decades, Palestine has been the world’s most glaring example of selective morality. UN resolutions are passed and ignored. Human rights reports are written and shelved. Civilian deaths are mourned briefly, then forgotten.

If international law mattered equally: Occupation would end. Settlements would stop. Blockades would be illegal. Accountability would be enforced. Instead, vetoes speak louder than victims.

Sanctions: The Silent Weapons of the Powerful

Sanctions are often presented as peaceful alternatives to war. In reality, they function as economic siege warfare. They destroy currencies, collapse healthcare systems, and punish ordinary people far more than leaders.

Iraq’s sanctions regime in the 1990s killed hundreds of thousands of children. Venezuela’s sanctions have worsened poverty and medical shortages. Yet these deaths are never counted as crimes. As the saying goes, “Hunger does not ask who voted for whom.”

The Myth of the Rules-Based Order

The phrase “rules-based international order” has become a mantra. But rules that apply only to others are not rules—they are commands enforced by power.

If rules were genuine: The U.S. would answer for Iraq; Britain would account for colonial crimes; Israel would comply with UN resolutions; Sanctions harming civilians would be prohibited; No country would be above the ICC. But as it stands, law bows to power.

“A measuring stick that shrinks for the rich and stretches for the poor measures nothing at all.”

Russia’s Legitimate Security Concerns

Legitimacy does not require moral perfection. It requires context. Russia’s concerns stem from: Encirclement by hostile alliances; Missiles stationed near its borders; Historical invasions from the West; Militarization of neighboring states; Open calls for its strategic weakening. To deny these concerns is not analysis—it is propaganda.

Meanwhile, the United States claims existential threat from nations oceans away. This contradiction exposes the core truth: security is defined not by danger, but by dominance.

The Collapse of Moral Authority

Moral authority cannot be self-declared. It is earned through consistency, humility, and accountability. The United States has lost this authority not because others are perfect, but because it refuses to be judged by the standards it imposes.

Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya, Syria, Yemen, Palestine. These are not accidents. They are patterns. “The river that forgets its source will dry when the rains stop.”

Subjective Law and a Dangerous Future

When international law becomes subjective: Small nations lose protection; Courts lose legitimacy; Violence becomes normalized; Power replaces principle, Chaos is legalized.

Today it is Russia. Yesterday it was Iraq. Tomorrow it could be any nation that dares to choose its own path. As the proverb warns, “The fire that burns your neighbor’s house can jump the fence.”

Either Law for All or Law for None

This moment demands honesty. The question is not whether Russia is right in every action. No state is. The question is whether any nation has the right to dominate the world while refusing accountability.

By tolerating distant political independence as a threat while dismissing neighboring security fears, the United States has exposed the hypocrisy at the core of its global posture. By sanctioning judges instead of criminals, it has declared power superior to justice.

International law cannot survive this contradiction. Either it applies to all, or it will soon apply to none.

And as African wisdom reminds us:

“A house built on injustice may look strong, but it collapses when the wind remembers the truth.” The wind is rising.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

Legacy Or Loyalty? Leadership, Power, And The Crisis Of Conscience In Uganda And Africa

Date: 4 January, 2026

By: Mujwiga Najiib

There is an African proverb that says, “A man who does not know where the rain began to beat him cannot know where he dried his body.” Uganda, like much of Africa, is drenched in rain whose origins we pretend not to understand. We complain of floods—of injustice, poor governance, weakened institutions, and selective application of the law—yet we refuse to ask where the first drops fell. We shout about outcomes while protecting causes.

At the heart of our crisis lies a painful but necessary truth: in much of Africa, people work to enrich themselves and please their masters; in the developed world, people work to build legacy and protect institutions. This distinction, though uncomfortable, explains much of our political reality. It explains why public servants cling to office even when they have failed. It explains why institutions bend without breaking, and why injustice can repeat itself so often that it begins to look normal. This article is not written in anger. It is written in sorrow. Sorrow for a country of intelligent people governed by timid institutions. Sorrow for leaders who confuse loyalty with leadership. Sorrow for a generation watching history repeat itself, not because it must, but because those in power benefit from repetition.

The Philosophy of Legacy

In the United States and Europe, leadership is deeply tied to the idea of legacy. This does not mean leaders there are saints. They are not. They make mistakes, abuse power, lie, and sometimes act with impunity. But there exists something powerful that restrains them: the fear of history.

In those societies, public office is understood as temporary custody of public trust. When something goes wrong in a ministry, the question is not always, “Did you personally steal?” but “Did it happen under your watch?” And often, that is enough to resign. A minister resigns not because a court has convicted them, but because conscience has judged them. They step aside to protect the integrity of the institution. They leave not because they are weak, but because they understand that institutions must outlive individuals.

As one Western saying goes, “Public office is not ownership; it is stewardship.”

Contrast this with Uganda and much of Africa, where public office is treated as personal property, defended fiercely and relinquished only by force, age, or death. Here, resignation is not honorable; it is suspicious. It is interpreted as betrayal, cowardice, or ingratitude. Our leaders ask not, “What will history say?” but “What will my boss say?” And therein lies the tragedy.

From Servants of the People to Servants of Power

African independence movements promised dignity, justice, and self-rule. But over time, many African states mutated from people-centered governance to patron-centered politics. Power became centralized. Loyalty replaced competence. Silence replaced integrity.

An old proverb says, “The dog that follows the hunter too closely will eventually be mistaken for game.”

In Uganda, many public officials have followed power so closely that they have forgotten the people entirely. They speak not with the voice of law, but with the accent of instruction. They interpret the Constitution not as a sacred text, but as a flexible document, stretched or folded depending on political convenience.

Institutions that should check power now serve it. Commissions that should be neutral now have reputations. And once an institution develops a reputation for predictability, its credibility is already wounded.

The Electoral Commission: Where Patterns Speak Louder Than Explanations

The Uganda Electoral Commission was designed to be an impartial referee in the democratic process. Its duty is not to favor any party, ideology, or political interest, but to ensure that competition is fair, transparent, and lawful. No reasonable citizen supports criminality. No serious democrat advocates chaos. Laws must be followed. Procedures must be respected. But justice cannot be selective. And when selectivity becomes consistent, it ceases to be accidental.

What are we to make of an electoral season in which over ten candidates from a single opposition party—National Unity Platform (NUP)—are demoted or disqualified by the same Commission that had earlier nominated them? This is not a question of emotion. It is a question of pattern. As African elders say, “One finger cannot point at the moon, but many fingers pointing in the same direction cannot be ignored.”

The disqualifications are not scattered randomly across parties. They are concentrated. They are strategic. And most troublingly, they appear in constituencies where the ruling party has significant political interest. No institution should allow itself to be trapped in such perception. Because perception, once lost, is rarely recovered.

Justice Simon Byabakama and the Burden of History

Justice Simon Byabakama occupies one of the most consequential positions in Uganda’s democratic architecture. The chairperson of an electoral commission is not merely an administrator; he is a custodian of national trust. Neutrality is not what you declare. It is what your actions consistently demonstrate.

When injustice repeats itself and the referee remains unmoved, silence becomes statement. Inaction becomes endorsement. And history begins to write without mercy. An African proverb warns, “When the drumming changes, the wise dancer adjusts—but the wise drummer knows when to stop.” Justice Byabakama is not drumming alone; he is setting rhythm. The question he must confront—whether now or later—is simple but heavy: How do you want to be remembered?

In my religion, we honor the dead. We pray for them. We speak kindly of them. But history does not pray. History records. And long after prayers have faded, records remain. If leaders believed that their names would be read aloud with honesty after death, perhaps injustice would terrify them. Unfortunately, many do not care about legacy because they have never imagined accountability beyond office. Yet the grave is silent, but it is not forgetful.

Leadership Without Shame: The Prime Minister’s Confession

There are moments when leaders expose the moral state of governance with a single sentence. When a Prime Minister openly tells citizens that they lack services because they did not vote for the ruling party, that is not a slip of the tongue. It is a confession. It is the admission that public service has been weaponized.

The moment one is elected into national office, party colors must fade. Governance is not a reward scheme. It is not a favor. It is a constitutional duty. As the proverb says, “The sun does not choose where to shine.”

A good leader does not work only for supporters. In fact, leadership often requires serving those who did not vote for you. That is the burden of authority. That is the price of power. To deny services based on political affiliation is not firmness; it is incompetence disguised as discipline. It is failure camouflaged as loyalty. What is being hidden is not ideology, but incapacity. And what is being protected is not policy, but position.

The Culture of Pleasing the Boss

Why do leaders speak like this without fear? Because many are not accountable to the people. They are accountable upward, not downward. They work to please the appointing authority, not the electorate. They fear displeasing power more than disappointing citizens. An African saying captures it well: “The servant who fears the master will never hear the cry of the child.”

This is why institutions malfunction. This is why ministers campaign instead of govern. This is why public resources are distributed politically instead of equitably. Legacy becomes irrelevant when survival is everything.

The Speaker and the Collapse of Parliamentary Dignity

The office of the Speaker of Parliament is sacred in any democracy. It symbolizes fairness, restraint, and respect for dissent. A Speaker must rise above party interests and defend the institution itself. History is ruthless in its comparisons.

When a Speaker is remembered not for strengthening debate but for suppressing it, not for protecting Parliament but for protecting power, legacy is already damaged.

Money can silence critics temporarily, but it cannot purchase respect permanently. As elders say, “You can hire mourners, but you cannot hire tears.” Comparison with predecessors becomes unavoidable. And in comparison, one either shines or shrinks. No amount of intimidation can erase incompetence. No amount of patronage can manufacture dignity.

Why the West Still Fears Shame

One critical difference between developed democracies and many African states is the survival of shame as a moral regulator. In those societies, leaders fear becoming examples of disgrace. They fear their grandchildren reading about them in textbooks as cautionary tales. They fear headlines more than instructions.

In Uganda, shame has been replaced with defiance. Criticism is labeled hatred. Accountability is branded sabotage. And loyalty is mistaken for patriotism. Yet true patriotism questions power. True loyalty challenges injustice. Silence, in the face of wrongdoing, is not peace; it is complicity.

The Cost of Ignoring Legacy

When leaders do not fear history, societies decay. When institutions serve individuals instead of principles, elections become rituals, not choices. Democracy becomes theatre—predictable, choreographed, and hollow. And when commissions protect interests instead of justice, citizens retreat into cynicism. As another proverb warns, “When the wise are silent, the foolish rule.” Uganda is not poor in intelligence. It is poor in courage at the top.

The Question History Will Ask

Every leader, whether they admit it or not, is writing an obituary in advance. Not the one read at burial, but the one preserved in memory. The question is not whether power ends—it always does. The question is what remains when it ends.

Will your name evoke respect? Will it provoke silence? Or will it summon shame?

Because “The throne is temporary, but the grave is permanent.” And history never resigns.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

When Repentance Becomes a Habit and Violence a Policy: Why America Should Not Be Forgiven This Time

Date: 28 December, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

There comes a moment in the life of every individual, every nation, and every empire when the mirror can no longer be avoided. A time when excuses wear thin, apologies sound rehearsed, and repentance begins to resemble a ritual rather than a transformation. It is at such a moment that the world now finds itself, standing uneasily before the United States of America, watching, listening, remembering.

If a war breaks out between the United States and Venezuela, I say this not in anger but in exhaustion: America should not be forgiven this time.

Not because forgiveness is evil, but because forgiveness without repentance is an insult to justice. And repentance without change is nothing but theatre.

In my religion—one that teaches love, mercy, and redemption—no sin is beyond forgiveness. The thief on the cross was forgiven. The persecutor Saul became Paul. The prodigal son was welcomed home. But there is a condition so often ignored in modern theology and geopolitics alike: true repentance requires turning away from the sin, not merely regretting its consequences.

As the Scriptures remind us, “By their fruits you shall know them.” Not by their speeches. Not by their apologies. Not by their press conferences.

America calls itself a Christian nation. Its leaders swear on Bibles. Its money bears the inscription “In God We Trust.” Its rhetoric is filled with the language of freedom, justice, and moral responsibility. And yet, when one traces its footsteps across the soil of the world, the trail is soaked not just in influence, but in blood, tears, and broken nations.

This is not an anti-American argument. Far from it.

I admire America. I genuinely do.

I admire its inventions that reshaped the world—electricity systems, the internet, medical breakthroughs, technological revolutions that have saved lives and connected continents. I admire its civil rights struggles, the courage of its activists, its written commitment to democracy and social justice, at least on paper. I admire the idea of America, the dream it sold to humanity.

But as the African proverb says, “No matter how sweet the song, the drumbeat eventually reveals the dancer.”

And America’s drumbeat has been the drumbeat of war.

The Unforgiven First Sin: Hiroshima and Nagasaki

History is stubborn. It does not forget, even when those who write it try to soften the language.

The United States remains the only country in human history to have dropped nuclear bombs on another nation. Hiroshima. Nagasaki. Two names that still echo like unanswered prayers. Entire cities erased in seconds. Children vaporized. Generations poisoned by radiation long after the smoke cleared.

The justification was victory. The explanation was necessity. The apology, when it came, was cautious and calculated.

But repentance? True repentance would have meant a lifelong commitment to disarmament, to restraint, to humility in the use of power. Instead, the bomb became a badge of dominance, a warning to the world: “We can end you.”

As the elders say, “The man who burns his neighbor’s house to cook his meal should not be trusted with fire again.”

A Nation at War with the World

Since the end of the Second World War, America has rarely known peace—at least not peace that did not involve someone else’s suffering.

Korea. Vietnam. Cambodia. Laos. Afghanistan. Iraq. Libya. Syria. Yemen—by proxy. Somalia. Grenada. Panama.

The list is long, and the graves are longer.

Sometimes the wars were direct. Other times indirect—arming rebels, sponsoring coups, funding militias, imposing sanctions that starved civilians while claiming to target leaders. Governments were overthrown not because they were tyrannical, but because they were inconvenient. Leaders were labeled dictators only after they refused to kneel.

And always, the language was the same: freedom, democracy, human rights.

Yet as the proverb warns, “When the drum changes rhythm, the dancer must ask why.”

The Lie That Broke Iraq

If there is one sin that should have permanently humbled American foreign policy, it is the Iraq war.

Weapons of mass destruction, they said. Chemical weapons. An imminent threat to global security.

The world was pressured. Intelligence was manipulated. Doubters were mocked. And then the bombs fell.

A country was shattered. Millions displaced. Hundreds of thousands killed. A region destabilized for generations. Terror groups flourished in the vacuum left behind. And the weapons? They were never found. Not hidden. Not delayed. Nonexistent. A lie—plain and devastating.

Apologies followed. Regrets were expressed. Reports were written. But no real accountability came. No leader was jailed. No empire was humbled. Life went on.

As another saying goes, “A thief who returns the goat after slaughtering it has not repented; he has only run out of hiding places.”

Apology as Policy

What troubles the conscience is not that America sins—every nation does. It is that America sins, apologizes, and sins again. Attack first. Justify later. Apologize eventually. It begins to feel like doctrine: invade now, regret later.

One wonders whether repentance has become a diplomatic tool rather than a moral awakening. A way to reset public opinion without changing behavior.

The Bible warns against this clearly: “Shall we continue in sin that grace may abound? God forbid.” Yet grace has been stretched thin.

Venezuela: From Drugs to Oil

Now Venezuela stands trembling under the shadow of threats, sanctions, accusations, and military posturing.

First, it was drugs. Boats allegedly carrying narcotics—boats whose occupants were executed without trial, without due process. America acted as accuser, judge, and executioner. More than a hundred lives lost.

Then it became oil. Sanctions tightened. Airspace closed. Economic suffocation disguised as diplomacy. All this against a backdrop of moral superiority. But as the elders whisper, “When the leopard says it is visiting for friendship, count your goats.”

Bullying the World

What many nations are tired of is not American power, but American hypocrisy.

You cannot preach sovereignty while violating it. You cannot teach democracy while overthrowing elected governments. You cannot claim Christian values while exporting death. The world is tired. Africa is tired.

Latin America is tired. The Middle East is tired. And forgiveness is tired too. Christianity Without Christ. If America truly considers itself a Christian nation, then it must revisit the teachings of the man it claims to follow. Christ did not invade Rome. Christ did not sanction nations. Christ did not bomb cities to save souls.

He healed. He rebuked power. He overturned unjust systems. He warned empires that gained the world and lost their souls. True repentance, biblically, is not spoken—it is lived. It means stopping. It means repairing. It means restraint. As the African proverb says, “The wound that is constantly reopened will never heal, no matter how many herbs are applied.”

Why This Time Is Different

If America invades Venezuela, it should not be forgiven this time—not out of vengeance, but out of necessity. Because forgiveness without accountability has emboldened impunity. Because silence has enabled bullying. Because apologies have become empty currency. To withhold forgiveness is sometimes the only way to force reflection.

Even God, according to Scripture, hardened His forgiveness when repentance was fake. Nations fell. Empires collapsed. Warnings were ignored until judgment came not as punishment, but as consequence.

A Final Appeal, Not a Curse

Dear America,

This is not hatred. It is heartbreak. You have done great good. You have saved lives. You have inspired generations. But greatness does not excuse guilt. If you truly want forgiveness, then stop.

Reflect. Restrain your power. Let smaller nations breathe. Let justice be more than a slogan.

As the proverb concludes, “The tallest tree must bend when the wind of truth blows, or it will break.” The world is watching. History is recording.

And God—whom you claim to trust—is not mocked. True repentance is not found in words spoken after destruction, but in wars never started. Only then will forgiveness make sense again.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

When Regulation Becomes Punishment: Uganda, the Poor, and the Politics of Selective Justice

Date: 27 December, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

In Africa, and in Uganda in particular, things are done differently from the rest of the world. This is a fact we grow up knowing, accepting, and often defending. We understand that our history is not the same as that of Europe or Asia. We know that colonial disruption, post-independence instability, poverty, and dependency shaped our institutions in ways that cannot simply be undone by copying foreign systems.

And so, for a long time, many Ugandans have learned to be patient. We explain away inefficiencies. We forgive contradictions. We endure inconvenience. We tell ourselves, “This is Africa.” We say, “Things will improve.” We say, “At least there is peace.” But patience has limits.

There comes a point when understanding turns into frustration, when tolerance turns into quiet anger, and when silence begins to feel like betrayal, not just of oneself, but of millions of struggling Ugandans whose voices are never heard. Some government policies do not merely confuse the mind; they disturb the conscience. They force one to stop and ask hard questions—not because one hates the state, but because one loves the people.

Where does a government get the audacity to apprehend, harass, and sanction poor fishermen for using fishing nets it allowed into the country?

Where does it get the moral authority to punish citizens for driving vehicles that emit toxic gases when the same state has deliberately turned Uganda into a dumping ground for old and used cars?

Why—of all places—in a landlocked country like Uganda, one with no serious manufacturing industry, does the burden of state failure always land on the back of the poor?

Why really, why?

At some point, one is compelled to ask the question many fear to ask aloud: does our government truly work in the best interest of the people it purports to serve, or is it serving other interests altogether?

Let us begin with a simple truth that no official can deny: the Ugandan government controls almost everything that enters this country. Nothing crosses our borders by accident. Importers apply for licenses. Customs officers inspect goods. Taxes are levied. Standards are approved. Receipts are issued. From cooking oil to cement, from second-hand clothes to vehicles, from medicines to fishing nets—nothing enters Uganda without passing through the hands of the state.

Uganda does not manufacture fishing nets. Poor fishermen do not sit by Lake Victoria weaving nylon threads into nets. These nets are imported. They are cleared at borders. They are taxed by Uganda Revenue Authority. They are sold openly in shops in Kampala, Jinja, Masaka, Entebbe, and lakeside districts.

They are legal—until the fisherman touches them. And that is where the contradiction begins. Today, fishermen are arrested, chased off lakes, beaten, robbed of their nets, and stripped of their boats—their only means of survival—because they are accused of using “illegal fishing nets.”

If these nets are illegal, why were they allowed into the country? If they are harmful, why were they taxed? If they destroy the ecosystem, why are they sold freely? You cannot approve poison at the border and then jail the person who drinks it. As the elders say, “The hand that feeds you should not be the same hand that strangles you.”

Fishing Communities Turned into Criminals

Fishing in Uganda is not a luxury. It is not a hobby. It is not an optional activity for people with alternatives. For millions of Ugandans, fishing is life itself.

Entire communities around Lake Victoria, Lake Kyoga, Lake Albert, and other water bodies survive on fishing. Children go to school because of fish. Families eat because of fish. Local economies revolve around fish. Transporters, traders, processors, and exporters all depend on fishermen.

Yet today, the fisherman is treated like a criminal. A fisherman wakes up at dawn, pushes his boat into the water, hoping for a good catch. He has debts to pay. School fees are due. Food prices are rising. Fuel is expensive. Life is already hard.

Then enforcement officers arrive. They confiscate his nets. They seize his boat. Sometimes they beat him. Sometimes they arrest him. Often, they leave him stranded—jobless, humiliated, desperate.

No compensation. No alternative livelihood. No prior warning at the point of purchase. This is not environmental protection. This is economic violence. An African proverb warns us: “When the poor man is wrong, he pays with his life; when the rich man is wrong, he pays with excuses.”

Regulation at the Wrong End of the Chain

Any serious government that cares about sustainability knows where regulation should begin: at the point of entry, not at the point of survival.

If certain fishing nets are harmful, the solution is simple: Ban them at importation. Recall them from markets. Compensate those who already bought them. Educate communities before enforcement.

Instead, Uganda chooses the laziest and cruelest route: wait for the poor fisherman to buy the net, then punish him for trusting the system.

That tells us two disturbing things. Either the government does not care, or it deliberately maintains poverty as a tool of control. Possibly both.

And when people quietly say that after chasing local fishermen away, lakes do not remain empty—that powerful interests step in—those whispers should not be dismissed lightly. History shows us that when the poor are removed in the name of “order,” the rich often arrive in the name of “investment.” As another proverb reminds us, “The goat owned by many people dies of hunger.”

Vehicles, Emissions, and the State’s Convenient Amnesia

Let us now turn to vehicles and gas emissions. Once again, the government claims to be acting in the name of environmental protection. Once again, the burden is placed squarely on ordinary Ugandans.

Uganda today is flooded with used vehicles. This is not an accident. It is policy. The government allows the importation of old cars—some over 15 or 20 years old—clears them at borders, and taxes them heavily.

In fact, in many cases, Uganda Revenue Authority collects taxes that exceed the actual purchase price of the vehicle. By the time the car reaches a Ugandan buyer, it is no longer cheap.

People buy these cars using loans, savings, family contributions, and sacrifices. Some sell land. Others mortgage the future. But they do it because there is no alternative. Years ago, Ugandans drove newer cars not because they were richer, but because government policy made it possible. Import duties were manageable. Exchange rates were reasonable. There was intention.

Today, that intention is gone. What remains is a state that allows old vehicles to enter freely, profits from them massively, and then turns around to blame citizens for driving polluting cars. This is not environmentalism. This is hypocrisy dressed in green language.

Mandatory Inspection: A Solution Without Substance

Now comes mandatory vehicle inspection—at a fee. We are told it is for environmental safety and roadworthiness. But inspection alone does not fix pollution. It does not replace engines. It does not make old cars new.

In reality, this is what happens: You take your car for inspection. You pay. You are told the car does not meet standards. You are told to return after some time. You pay again. You are allowed back on the road. Nothing changes except money changing hands.

As you rightly and painfully observed, “a vehicle is not a woman who undergoes a monthly menstrual cycle.” It does not magically renew itself with time. This policy does not clean the air. It does not protect the environment. It only enriches those who already drive brand-new cars and those who collect inspection fees. As the saying goes, “You do not cure malaria by checking the thermometer.”

Punishing Buyers for the State’s Own Decisions

The most disturbing question remains unanswered: what happens to a Ugandan who buys a car today from a bond authorised by the government, only for that car to fail inspection tomorrow?

Will the government compensate him? Will the loan be forgiven? Will alternatives be provided? We already know the answer. The car may be impounded. The owner may be fined. The family may suffer. The state will call it “law.”

In a country where used cars are the only affordable option, this policy is not just half-baked—it is hostile. As the elders say, “You do not punish a man for crossing a river when you removed the bridge.”

The Simple Solution the State Refuses to Take

If the government genuinely cared about the environment and the people, the solution would be clear and humane:

Control the importation of very old vehicles. Reduce taxes on brand-new and cleaner cars. Make new vehicles affordable to ordinary Ugandans. Prescribe reasonable timelines for phasing out old cars. Support transition instead of punishment. That would reduce pollution. That would improve safety. That would protect livelihoods.

But that approach threatens revenue streams. It demands sacrifice from those in power. And so it is avoided. Instead, we get inspections without solutions, enforcement without empathy, and policies that punish poverty.

When the State Governs Against Its Own People

At the heart of all this lies a painful truth: Uganda increasingly regulates poverty instead of preventing harm.

It allows harmful goods into the country, then punishes those who use them. It profits from old vehicles, then blames drivers for pollution. It speaks of environment while ignoring economic reality.

This is governance of convenience, not governance of care. As long as policies are designed to protect revenue rather than people, fishermen will remain criminals, drivers will remain suspects, and poverty will remain policy.

And history has taught us one final lesson—written not in books, but in blood and tears: A government that consistently governs against its people eventually loses the moral right to govern at all.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

Peace Medals Are Earned, Not Announced: Why Trump Must Do Much More Before Any Global Peace Honor

Date: 21 December, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

Peace, like rain, is judged not by the clouds that gather but by the water that finally touches the soil. In recent months, the global conversation has been filled with bold claims, triumphant press releases, and self-congratulatory declarations suggesting that the world stands on the edge of multiple historic peace breakthroughs—brokered or promised under the shadow of Donald Trump’s influence and ambition. Yet when one steps away from podiums and headlines and listens instead to the ground, the bombs that still fall, the guns that still speak, and the hunger that still stalks civilians—the story becomes far less flattering.

If Trump is to be seriously considered for any global peace medal, whether formal or symbolic, then he must do far more than announce ceasefires, pose for cameras, or trade in political bravado. Peace is not a slogan. It is a process. And across the world’s most volatile flashpoints, the fruits of these much-advertised peace efforts remain painfully unripe.

As an African proverb reminds us: “The drum may sound loud, but it is the dancer who proves the rhythm.” By that standard, the dance of peace has barely begun.

Peace Is Not a Press Conference

The pursuit of peace demands patience, consistency, moral clarity, and a willingness to apply pressure not only on enemies but also on allies. A ceasefire that collapses within weeks or never truly holds cannot be paraded as a diplomatic triumph. Nor can agreements that fail to deliver humanitarian relief, civilian protection, or political reconciliation.

Today, at least four major peace claims associated with Trump’s rhetoric or ambitions are either collapsing, stalled, or yet to materialize in any meaningful way:

Gaza and the wider Israel–Palestine conflict; The Congo–Rwanda peace framework; The Thailand-related regional tensions and Venezuela’s unresolved crisis; The promised Russia–Ukraine peace settlement that has not happened at all. Each of these deserves sober scrutiny.

Gaza: A Ceasefire That Never Reached the Children

The situation in Gaza Strip is perhaps the clearest example of how fragile and arguably hollow—current peace claims are. A ceasefire, in theory, should mean silence of guns, safe humanitarian corridors, and breathing space for civilians. Yet in Gaza, what has unfolded is closer to a pause in words than a pause in violence. Aid deliveries agreed upon in negotiations have failed to materialize at the scale promised. Humanitarian convoys have been blocked, delayed, or drastically reduced. Hospitals remain overwhelmed. Food insecurity is worsening by the day.

Since the blocking and restriction of aid intensified, nearly 300 people have reportedly died—not in active battlefield exchanges, but through hunger, untreated injuries, and the collapse of basic services. This is not what peace looks like. A ceasefire without aid is like locking a burning house and calling it safe. The moral test of any peace initiative is whether it protects the most vulnerable: children, the elderly, the wounded, and the displaced. On that score, Gaza is a damning indictment.

An African elder would put it simply: “You cannot claim to have saved the village while the granary is still on fire.”

If Trump or any leader wants peace credit here, the measure is not the announcement of ceasefire terms but the enforcement of humanitarian access, the protection of civilians, and the creation of a credible political path forward. None of these has been achieved.

Congo–Rwanda: When the Guns Never Truly Rest

The Democratic Republic of the Congo and Rwanda peace deal has been celebrated in diplomatic circles as a step toward stabilizing Africa’s Great Lakes region. Yet on the ground, the story is brutally different.

In eastern Congo, armed groups continue to operate with near impunity. Villages are still being raided. Civilians are still being displaced. The sound of gunfire remains a familiar lullaby for children who have known nothing but conflict.

The fundamental problem is this: peace agreements that ignore local realities rarely survive. Congo’s conflict is not merely a dispute between states; it is a tangled web of militia politics, mineral exploitation, historical grievances, and foreign interference. A handshake between capitals does not disarm militias in forests. So far, the guns have not rested. At best, they have paused to reload.

True peace in Congo requires sustained international pressure, neutral monitoring, accountability for armed actors, and economic justice that addresses the plunder of Congolese resources. Until these elements are present, any claim of a Congo–Rwanda peace breakthrough remains premature.

As another proverb warns: “When elephants agree, the grass still suffers.” The Congolese people are the grass, and they are still being trampled.

Thailand and Venezuela: Promises Waiting for Proof

Trump’s broader peace narrative has also gestured toward stability in places as far apart as Southeast Asia and Latin America. Yet in both regions, results remain elusive.

In Venezuela, the political and economic crisis persists. Sanctions, power struggles, and humanitarian suffering continue to define daily life. Any talk of peace or normalization has yet to translate into improved living conditions for ordinary Venezuelans. Hunger, migration, and political repression remain unresolved.

Meanwhile, in Thailand, political tensions and regional security concerns have not been meaningfully defused. Announcements of diplomatic engagement have not produced structural reforms, lasting calm, or credible reconciliation mechanisms.

In both cases, the fruits of peace are “yet to be seen.” And in diplomacy, unseen fruit is no fruit at all.

“A tree is not praised for its blossoms, but for the harvest,” says the village wisdom. By that measure, these peace claims are still seeds scattered on hard ground.

Russia–Ukraine: The Promise That Never Happened

Perhaps the boldest and most repeated promise was the claim that Trump could end the war between Russia and Ukraine swiftly, even “within days.”

Yet the war continues. Cities are still being shelled. Civilians are still fleeing. Soldiers are still dying. The frontlines have shifted, but peace has not arrived.

Ending a war of this magnitude requires more than confidence and rhetoric. It demands complex negotiations, security guarantees, international coordination, and painful compromises. So far, none of this has materialized into an actual peace settlement. A promise unfulfilled is not a near-success; it is simply unfinished business. What a Peace Medal Truly Requires;

Peace medals are not awarded for intention, ambition, or performance. They are awarded when they are legitimate—for outcomes that save lives, restore dignity, and prevent future violence.

If Trump genuinely seeks such recognition, several things must change:

From Ceasefires to Enforcement. Announcements must be followed by robust enforcement mechanisms, not vague assurances.

From Deals to Humanitarian Delivery. Peace must be measured by food delivered, hospitals reopened, and refugees returning safely home.

From Personal Glory to Collective Responsibility. Peace is never the work of one man. It requires humility and multilateral cooperation.

From Short-Term Optics to Long-Term Stability

Durable peace means addressing root causes—inequality, injustice, and political exclusion.

As African wisdom cautions: “He who wants to be praised for building a bridge must wait until people cross it safely.”

The Distance Between Talk and Peace

At this moment, the distance between the talk of peace and the reality of peace remains wide. Gaza bleeds. Congo burns. Venezuela struggles. Thailand waits. Ukraine fights on. This does not mean peace is impossible. It means peace is unfinished.

If Trump wishes to be remembered not as a loud negotiator but as a genuine peacemaker, the path forward is clear but demanding. Less spectacle. More substance. Less self-praise. More accountability.

Until then, any peace medal would ring hollow—like a bell hung in a village still under siege.

Or, to borrow one final proverb: “Do not crown the hunter while the lion still roams free.”

Peace, after all, is not declared. It is lived.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

The Flag, the People, and the Quiet Revival of Ugandanism

Date: 20 December, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

There is a Luganda proverb that says, one stick alone cannot build a house. Nations, like houses, are not built by laws alone, nor by force, nor by fear. They are built by shared belief, shared symbols, and shared hope. In Uganda today, one of those shared symbols has quietly returned to the centre of public life: the national flag.

Whether one supports him politically or not, if there is one thing that many honest Ugandans should acknowledge and even appreciate about Robert Kyagulanyi during this electoral season, it is the revival of the Ugandan national flag as a people’s symbol. Not a government symbol. Not a military symbol. Not a ceremonial symbol. But a people’s symbol.

For the first time in a long while, the flag is no longer locked away in protocol, guarded by uniforms, or reduced to Independence Day rituals. It has come down from the mast and entered the hands of ordinary citizens. It flies on boda bodas, hangs from car mirrors, is wrapped around shoulders, tied to wrists, waved by market vendors, students, elders, and children alike. This is unprecedented in Uganda’s recent political history.

And symbols matter. As another African saying goes, “When the drumbeat changes, the dance must also change.” Something in Uganda’s political rhythm has shifted.

A Flag That Once Felt Distant

For decades, the Ugandan flag existed, but it did not live. It was present in government offices, international meetings, and official ceremonies. Schoolchildren memorised its colours—black for the people, yellow for sunshine, red for brotherhood—but rarely felt emotionally connected to it beyond recitation.

The flag belonged more to the state than to the citizen. It was respected, yes, but also feared. One handled it carefully, cautiously, lest one be accused of disrespect or political defiance. In many ways, it became a symbol of authority rather than belonging. Yet a flag is supposed to unite. It is meant to stand above political parties, above leaders, above regimes. It is meant to say, “Before we disagree, we belong.” When a flag fails to do that, it becomes just cloth. What we are witnessing now is the reclaiming of that cloth by the people.

Ugandanism Without Permission

This electoral season has done something remarkable: it has normalised public affection for the national flag without state instruction. No directive was issued. No circular was signed. No law was passed. People simply chose to display it. And that choice is everything.

There is a proverb that says, “A child who is carried on the back knows the warmth of the mother.” When citizens feel ownership of a nation, they naturally express it. When they do not, no amount of force can manufacture that feeling.

The spirit of Ugandanism that has emerged; however fragile, however contested—is organic. It is not forced patriotism. It is emotional patriotism. It is not about slogans, but sentiment. People are not waving the flag because they were told to love Uganda. They are waving it because they want to reclaim Uganda.

How Other Nations Treat Their Flags

Globally, only a handful of countries inspire deep everyday reverence for their national flags. In most parts of the world, three stand out prominently: the flag of the United States of America, that of Saudi Arabia, and that of Israel.

The Saudi and Israeli flags are heavily embedded with religious symbolism. Their reverence is deeply tied to faith and belief. As such, they resonate most strongly with those who subscribe to those religious identities.

The American flag, however, is different. It is everywhere—homes, cars, clothing, schools, sports arenas. It is not revered because Americans were forced to love it, but because it represents a national story that many believe in: power, prosperity, opportunity, and global relevance.

People love symbols that represent something that works.

This is the lesson Uganda must learn. You Cannot Command Love

There was a time when the idea of forcing patriotism was openly discussed. Many Ugandans remember when Frank Tumwebaze suggested legislation aimed at compelling citizens to love their country. That idea failed not because Ugandans are unpatriotic, but because love does not respond to threats. There is a Swahili saying: — love cannot be forced. Patriotism imposed by law is not patriotism; it is compliance. Compliance collapses the moment fear fades. Love, on the other hand, endures.

Ironically, the very sight of thousands of Ugandans voluntarily waving the flag today proves how unnecessary such laws were. People do not need to be forced to love a country that respects them.

The Flag as Silent Protest

For many, the flag has become more than celebration—it has become protest. A quiet but powerful statement that says, “This country belongs to us.”

Wearing the flag is no longer seen as endorsing the government of the day. It is increasingly understood as loving Uganda while questioning those who govern it. This distinction is critical. A country is not a regime. A nation is not a government. A people are not a party. As the proverb goes, “The land remains, but the chiefs change.”

True patriotism allows criticism. In fact, criticism is often born out of love. Only those who care deeply complain loudly.

Why Coercion Has Never Worked

Throughout history, governments that tried to manufacture nationalism through force failed miserably. Fear creates silence, not loyalty. Silence is mistaken for unity until it explodes. Uganda has seen this pattern before. Laws multiply. Speeches increase. Slogans become louder. Yet beneath the noise, resentment grows quietly. There is an old saying: “The chicken that is chased too much will eventually fly.”

When citizens feel oppressed, symbols lose meaning. When they feel respected, symbols gain power. This election season demonstrates that respect, not repression awakens national pride.

Perhaps the most powerful aspect of this moment is the youth. Young Ugandans; many of whom have known only one political order, have embraced the flag with enthusiasm. This is significant. Youth do not perform empty rituals. They are brutally honest with symbols. If they embrace something, it is because it resonates emotionally. For them, the flag represents possibility. It represents a Uganda that could work for them, not just for a connected few.

As the elders say, “When the young carry the spear, the hunt will be long.”

Loving Uganda Beyond Elections

The danger, however, is that this moment could fade if not nurtured. Symbols cannot survive on emotion alone. They require substance. If after elections the same injustices persist, the same exclusions remain, and the same arrogance continues, the flag may once again retreat into silence.

There is a proverb that warns, “You cannot beat a drum today and bury it tomorrow.” The responsibility now lies with those in power, not to suppress this expression, but to honour it.

What Makes a Country Lovable

People love what treats them well. They love systems that work. They love justice that is fair. They love leadership that listens. They love opportunity that is accessible. If Uganda wants lasting patriotism, it must invest not in laws that command love, but in policies that earn it.

As the elders remind us, “The hand that gives food is the one that is kissed.”

The revival of the Ugandan flag in this season is not accidental. It is not childish excitement. It is not political theatre alone. It is a signal. A signal that Ugandans still want to believe. A signal that they still desire unity. A signal that the idea of Uganda is bigger than its leaders.

Whether one supports Robert Kyagulanyi or not, history may record this moment as the time when the flag returned to the people. And that, in itself, is no small thing. Because in the end, as the proverb wisely says:

“A nation is not held together by laws, but by the hearts of its people.” If Uganda is to move forward, it must remember this simple truth.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

The Walukagga Question: A Small Case With A Long Shadow Over Uganda’s Politics, Education, And National Credibility

Date: 10 December, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

In the old wisdom of our forefathers, “When a man is cutting a small tree, he must watch the direction of the forest’s wind.” They meant that in every small incident, a country must examine the larger winds shaping its fate. The case of Walukagga of Busiiro East—whatever one thinks of him personally—deserves that kind of sober reflection. What looks like a mere political dispute, wrapped in mature-age exam controversies and accusations of forged qualifications, may in fact be the spark that lights a bigger fire under our education system, political institutions, and national credibility.

I speak not as a supporter of illiteracy, nor as a defender of anyone who might have cut corners. I have walked the long road of education myself—the late nights, the textbooks that swallow your last coin, the exams that drain your soul. If anything, you would expect me to cheer when a man accused of cutting shortcuts is knocked out of the political race. But patriotism demands something higher than personal satisfaction. It demands honesty. It demands that one puts country before emotions. It demands that one cares not only for the tree but also for the whole forest.

And so, as a Ugandan first, I cannot simply clap and move on. Something about the Walukagga case, something hidden in the fine print of that electoral commission boardroom drama—should force us to pause, breathe, and look deeper. Because if this situation is mishandled, its repercussions may go beyond Busiiro East, beyond Walukagga, beyond politics, and stretch into Uganda’s education framework, the credibility of our universities, the trust in national examinations, and the very finances of the state.

Let us take this journey slowly.

A Case That Is Not Just About One Man

To many onlookers, this Walukagga saga is just another typical Ugandan political dispute: a contestant is dragged to court, accusations fly, supporters shout, lawyers argue, and the rest of the country moves on. But “a small leak can sink a big ship.” At the heart of this matter lies a bigger national system—the Mature Age Entry Examination.

This is not a side-door exam Uganda invented. It is a global practice. Across the world, countries allow adults without formal A-level qualifications to enter university after demonstrating knowledge, capacity, and critical reasoning. Uganda embraced this system decades ago, understanding that not every intelligent adult had a smooth educational journey. Many Ugandans missed school because of war, poverty, early responsibilities, displacement, or simply the circumstances of rural life. The Mature Age Entry system was the nation’s way of saying, “Education does not end at 18.”

Major public universities—Makerere and Gulu, were chartered by the National Council for Higher Education to run this system. Private universities also follow the same standard. People sit for exams, they pass, they join university, they graduate, they become teachers, administrators, researchers, civil servants and yes, sometimes political leaders. There are over 10,000 Ugandans holding degrees earned through this pathway. Entire careers, families, and dreams stand on it.

So when one politician’s certificate is challenged, the matter naturally feels personal to the thousands who used that same path. “When you see your neighbor’s hut burn, you sprinkle water on yours.” Everyone starts wondering: Will my degree be questioned tomorrow? Will my job be taken away? Will employers begin to doubt my competence? Are we about to watch the credibility of an entire educational gate collapse?

When Court Cases Outrun Reality

Uganda’s judiciary, whether one agrees with it or not—has a long history of cases being overtaken by events. Someone sues. Years pass. The political season moves on. Elections happen again. People forget. The courts wake up one day and give a ruling whose effect is more symbolic than practical. Damages may be awarded, sometimes not. But the original situation has already evaporated.

In Walukagga’s case, we face exactly this dilemma. Suppose the court eventually rules in his favor. Suppose it turns out the university process was valid. What then? He will not recover the lost months. He may never recover the political opportunity. The constituency may have moved on. To borrow another proverb, “The drumbeat may return, but the dancers never return to the same rhythm.”

He may win damages—something which itself is rare but what does that mean for the country?

Will the government pay millions of taxpayers’ money because of a political dispute?

Will Makerere or other universities face legal claims?

Will the mature-age system remain credible after such public humiliation?

But more frightening is the other possibility: What if he loses? What if the court upholds the nullification of his certificate? Where does that leave Uganda?

This is the question that keeps scratching at the edge of our national conscience.

The University Crisis: A Sector About To Be Shaken

Let us be honest. The Mature Age Entry Examination is not a small thing in Uganda’s academic economy. Makerere University alone earns over four billion shillings from one sitting. And remember—Makerere does not even control its finances directly. All that money goes to the Consolidated Fund. The government relies on it. Parliament uses it. Ministries depend on it. That means the state itself benefits financially from the very exam now being questioned.

Multiply Makerere’s four billion by the repeated sittings, then add Gulu, and other universities. Add private universities. Add administrative fees, verification charges and other costs. You begin to see a picture of not just an exam, but an entire revenue ecosystem. Uganda earns over five billion shillings every year from this process.

Now imagine the impact of one high-profile political case shaking the ground beneath it.

If people lose confidence in this exam: Candidate numbers will fall drastically. Universities will lose billions in revenue. The government will lose significant annual funds. Regulatory authorities will face questions about oversight. Employers may begin to discriminate against degrees earned through this route.

And you know Ugandans—we are a politically-driven population. A large number of those who sit for this exam are targeting elections.

If even 30% of aspiring political candidates become afraid that their certificates might later be weaponized against them, the exam will lose its major customer base. That means the government may lose up to 20 billion shillings in a five-year electoral cycle. Who will plug that financial hole?

The Thousands In The Shadow

Uganda has tens of thousands of degree holders who entered university through this very system. They are teachers, nurses, business managers, journalists, NGO workers, civil servants, and political leaders. Their lives were shaped by that single examination. Their promotions, salaries, and reputations rest on it.

If the credibility of the Mature Age Entry pathway is damaged:

Some employers might start demanding re-verification. Those seeking new jobs might face unfair barriers. Those in politically exposed positions might face legal challenges. Society may begin to stigmatize this category of graduate.

Ugandans love gossip. We know how quickly reputations can be destroyed. If someone whispers, “That one entered university through mature age,” suddenly people start doubting, even when the person is qualified, intelligent, and hardworking. “A lie can travel across the hill before truth finds its shoes.” This is how national damage begins—not with guns or bombs, but with doubt planted in essential systems. This is why the Walukagga matter is not just Walukagga’s matter. It is bigger. Much bigger.

When Justice Appears Political

Let me be clear: I do not condone forging academic papers. I do not support anyone who deceives the public. But in Uganda, where the line between law and politics is often as thin as a spider’s web, one must be careful. We have seen too many cases where legal processes suddenly activate when someone threatens a powerful political interest.

It may be coincidence. It may be genuine. But perception is everything. And in this case, the perception is dangerous. Many Ugandans already believe that political cases tend to be “arranged.” They see a pattern:

An opposition figure rises. Someone digs into their documents. A court petition appears. The academic road becomes the battlefield. This trend did not begin with Walukagga. And if left unchecked, it will surely not end with him.

Which brings us to the national question: Is Uganda about to destroy its own institutions in the name of short-term political wins?

If courts begin nullifying political candidates based on academic processes that universities themselves approved, then what message does that send?

Do we trust our universities or not? Do we trust our regulatory bodies or not? Do we trust the NCHE or not?

Do we trust the same system that has educated presidents, prime ministers, judges, ministers, MPs, civil servants, and millions of ordinary Ugandans?

A government must be careful. “When you break your own cooking pot, do not blame hunger at sunset.”

The Wider National Picture

Every nation stands on certain pillars. For Uganda, education is one of those pillars. We may struggle economically. We may fight corruption. We may battle political tension. But education has always been a source of pride. Even in villages, parents sell land, goats, chickens and anything to educate a child. So when a national educational process is shaken from the top, the vibrations go all the way to the grass roots.

If mature-age certificates suddenly look unreliable: The global community begins to doubt Uganda’s academic integrity. Foreign universities may question Ugandan qualifications. International employers may become hesitant. Exchange programs, scholarships, and collaborative research may be affected. It seems exaggerated, but history shows that once a country’s education reputation is damaged, it takes decades to rebuild.

The Hidden Financial Truth: Government Also Stands To Lose

Let us talk money again. Uganda is struggling economically. Every coin matters. If the mature-age exams collapse or lose credibility:

Billions of shillings in government revenue vanish instantly. Universities lose a key income stream. Private universities may collapse. Government may need to increase subventions to universities. Job seekers may become unemployable. Political candidates may flood courts with challenges

And yet all this could be avoided if the government handles this matter wisely, carefully, and strategically.

No one is saying Walukagga should be protected if he actually forged something. But the manner in which the case is handled should not destroy public trust in an entire academic framework.

“When you are chasing a rat, do not burn your house.”

Uganda must not burn its mature-age system while pursuing one politician.

The Path Forward

Government must reassure the public. Silence in such matters is dangerous. The Ministry of Education, NCHE, and government spokespersons must clarify the credibility of all mature-age certificates issued in Uganda.

Universities must defend their processes. Universities must publicly demonstrate transparency in how these exams are administered, audited, and verified.

The case must be handled with fairness. Courts must know that their ruling will affect thousands. Political pressure must not influence judicial reasoning.

Parliament should review the law. The Mature Age Entry framework should be strengthened, not weakened, after this case.

Citizens must be patient. We must resist the temptation to politicize everything. Let the truth be established through due process.

If there is one thing the Walukagga case teaches us, it is this: sometimes the smallest cases expose the biggest cracks in a country’s foundation. Uganda must choose wisdom over short-term excitement. Because even if Walukagga never returns to the ballot, Uganda must continue. Our universities must continue. Our education system must continue. Our credibility must continue.

Let us remember: “When the roots begin to rot, the branches will blame the wind, but the truth lies in the soil.”

Uganda stands at a crossroads. We can use this moment to strengthen our institutions or to weaken them further. It is up to us—leaders, citizens, educators, and patriots, to ensure that the soil beneath our country remains stable, rich, and trustworthy.

For the sake of our children. For the sake of our universities. For the sake of our nation.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

Politics Of Character Or Politics Of Deceit? A Reflection As Uganda Approaches Elections

Date: 9 December, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

When election season arrives in Uganda, it does not sneak in. It does not tiptoe like a shy visitor. It arrives like a convoy—loud, dusty, singing, promising, dancing, disturbing every corner of our motherland. Suddenly, potholes that had become permanent landmarks begin receiving hurried attention. Ministers who had forgotten villages suddenly remember where their home churches are. Politicians discover they have “long-lost relatives” in neighborhoods where they have never set foot. Radios vibrate with slogans. Social media becomes a field of war. Banners bloom like mushrooms after rain.

I have lived long enough to know this season well. It comes every five years with the same energy, the same faces, and the same rehearsed lines. And yet every time it returns, it forces a moment of reflection. It whispers a question at us like an old friend we keep avoiding:

Does Uganda, and Africa as a whole need politics of true character, or have we become too comfortable with politics shaped by deceit?

It is a question we cannot escape, especially now. As the moon slowly rolls toward another election year, as our leaders rehearse new speeches, and as crowds sharpen their expectations, I find myself looking back and looking forward with the same troubled heart.

My grandmother used to say, “The tree that grows crooked does not blame the axe.” And sometimes I wonder whether we, the citizens, have allowed our political tree to grow so crooked that even when someone brings an axe of truth, we chase him away.

So allow me to take you on a journey—not an academic essay, not a lecture, but a narrative. A story of a country I love, a continent I cherish, and a people who deserve more than political theater.

A Land Where Time Stands Still In State House

Imagine—truly imagine, a man who has ruled a nation for nearly forty years. A man who climbed the steps of power when many of today’s voters were not even born. A man now above eighty, yet still telling his country that the journey is unfinished, that he is the only one who can hold the steering wheel steadily, that there is some mystical task only he understands.

Some might say such a leader is wise, experienced, a father of the nation. Others whisper, with caution, that power is sweet and retirement can be terrifying. But regardless of which side one stands on, the truth remains:

Four decades in power is not ordinary. It is something beyond leadership; it becomes culture, tradition, a national habit.

When a leader stays that long, people begin to grow up knowing only one face. Children born during his rule become adults, attend university, graduate, get married, have children of their own—and still, they vote for the same man.

At some point, the leader stops being a leader and becomes a season. You don’t question the weather; you simply live through it.

A proverb from the north says: “The sun that stays too long in one place burns even the stones beneath it.”

But another reply often comes: “Better the sun you know than the storm you do not.” And that, in essence, is the heart of African politics.

When Honesty Walks Into The Political Marketplace

Now, contrast that old lion of the hill with a completely different figure—A young or middle-aged aspirant, perhaps someone like Mr. Luzzi of Kampala Central. A man with no convoy, no soldiers, no millions to splash, no mythical aura around him.

A man who speaks from the heart, who says things plainly without sugarcoating, who does not promise heaven but offers honest work.

He talks to boda riders like fellow riders. He speaks to market women as a son.

He engages youth with the urgency of someone who knows what hunger feels like.

He is direct, unpolished, and authentic; he does not hide behind the thick curtains of political language.

Yet—And here lies the painful irony—A man like him may not win. Not because people do not like him. Not because his message is weak. Not because he lacks intelligence or vision.

No. He may not win simply because the system is not built for men who carry truth lightly in their hands. In our politics, honesty walks on foot while deceit drives a tinted V8. As the elders say: “A rich liar speaks louder than a poor truth-teller.”

And so, even when a man like Luzzi campaigns passionately, even when he connects with ordinary citizens, even when he dreams big dreams for the constituency. He finds himself wrestling not with opponents, but with structures.

Structures soaked in patronage. Structures immune to accountability. Structures where the one who has delivered nothing in forty years still stands a better chance than the one who has offered fresh air. It is a painful contradiction that many Africans witness every election cycle.

A Teacher’s Eye On A Nation That Fails The Same Test Every Year

As a teacher, I was trained to believe that no student is dumb. Every learner has potential. Every struggling pupil can improve with guidance, patience, and support.

But even I, someone who holds onto hope—wonder how a leader can fail the same exam for forty years and still be allowed to remain in class.

Imagine a student who sits for the same test semester after semester, year after year, failing every time, yet being promoted automatically.

Imagine that student telling the class, “I have not finished learning. Please let me sit here again.” Imagine the school celebrating him while ignoring the A-grade students outside the gate. That is how African politics sometimes feels.

But before we throw stones, let us be fair. Let us go deeper. It is easy to say, “Why do people vote like that? Why do they tolerate failure?” But reality shows that people’s choices are shaped by things deeper than logic.

Grandmothers who need medicine they can’t afford. Youth who dream of jobs but only find betting houses. Farmers who see middlemen take everything. Slum dwellers who survive day to day. Single mothers juggling survival. Street children who see leaders in convoys but never see hope.

These people vote with their stomachs, not their minds. When someone gives them a 5,000 note during campaigns, it means supper. When a candidate promises a bag of cement, they remember the leaking roof. When a politician pays school fees for one child in a family of seven, that family bends. This is not stupidity. It is survival. A Luo proverb explains it best: “The child who cries is the one you feed first.”

African politicians understand this. They create need, then brand themselves as the solution. They reduce citizens to beggars of development. And so elections become bargaining seasons rather than judgment days.

The Root Of The Problem: A Land Without Accountability

Look across Uganda, across Africa—and one truth stands naked without shame:

We lack a culture of accountability. Leaders promise whatever they want. When they fail, no one asks. When they misuse public money, it becomes a story for two days before vanishing. When roads crack, people blame rain instead of corruption.

When hospitals run out of medicine, mothers whisper prayers instead of demanding answers. When officials steal, they are transferred, not punished. When elections are mishandled, people shrug and return to their gardens.

It is as if the entire continent entered into a secret agreement: “You pretend to lead us, and we pretend to follow you.” A Ghanaian proverb says:

“If the drummer is mad, the dancers must also be mad.”

Our leaders dance anyhow because citizens have grown used to any rhythm. We do not ask for melody. We no longer demand harmony. We settle for noise. This absence of accountability is why a leader can promise ten thousand things and fulfills three, yet return confidently to ask for a new mandate. It is why a man who has not solved electricity challenges after four decades can still talk about new factories coming “soon.” Why someone who promised hospitals still presides over wards where patients sleep on the floor.

Why someone who promised jobs still watches youth migrate for domestic work in the Gulf. Why someone who promised dialogue still depends on force. And still—still—he expects applause.

A proverb from Burundi sums it up: “When there are no cattle in the kraal, even a goat becomes a bull.” We have lowered our standards so deeply that even mediocrity feels like leadership.

The Price Of Deceitful Politics

What does deceit cost us? It costs us the present and mortgages the future. It gives us: Roads that break within months. Clinics without medicine. Schools where teachers improvise everything except hope. Youth who carry degrees but no opportunities. Farmers who work but never prosper. Mothers who die giving birth because the health system is neglected. A nightlife of corruption in offices meant for service. A generation that dreams of only one thing—leaving the country. Deceit is expensive, yet we pay for it every single day. The elders say:

“The child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.” Neglect creates rebels—economic rebels, political rebels, social rebels. If leaders do not change course, the youth will reinvent their own future with or without them.

Is There Hope For Politics Of Character?

Yes. But only if we commit to rebuilding from the foundations.

Strengthen institutions, not individuals. A country must be governed by systems, not the moods of one man.

Educate citizens about civic rights. A voter who understands his power is more dangerous to a dictator than a rebel with a gun.

End vote buying. This will require both laws and societal courage.

Embrace transparency. Budgets. Procurement. Payrolls. Service delivery.

Support honest leaders. Men like Luzzi must not walk alone. Citizens must protect such integrity from being swallowed by the system.

Reduce poverty. Without economic freedom, political freedom is a joke.

Normalize leadership transition. Retirement is not a crime. Fresh minds are not threats. Countries do not collapse when leaders step down; they collapse when leaders refuse to.

Will We Choose Character Or Deceit?

Every election season, Uganda stands before a mirror. Not a mirror made of glass, but a mirror made of history. And the mirror asks the same question every cycle:

“What do you want—truth or trickery?” We must answer honestly. If we keep choosing deceit, deceit will keep choosing us.

If we settle for leaders who cannot pass the simplest exam of accountability, then we must stop complaining about the state of the nation.

If we continue to treat politicians as saviors instead of servants, they will continue behaving like gods. A Swahili proverb tells us:

“The day you stop walking is the day the journey ends.” Uganda’s journey toward genuine democracy has been long and painful, but it is not over. The youth are rising. Conversations are changing. People are becoming more informed. The old tricks are losing their shine. The world is shifting. And every night eventually surrenders to morning. As one wise elder once said:

“When the sun rises, even the longest night must bow.” Uganda deserves leadership built on character, not deception. Africa deserves politics anchored in service, not survival tricks.

Our people deserve dignity, not dependency. So as the drums of elections beat once again, let us decide, not with fear, not with hunger, but with conscience.

Do we choose character or deceit? The answer, as always, is ours.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

When Politics Becomes a Weapon: Lessons from Kazo, Kazo’s Shadow & the Hotel Raid on Bobi Wine

Date: 9 November, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

It was a hot afternoon in Kazo — its gentle hills framed cattle herds and sugar-cane fields; the chatter of market women and the rhythm of boda-bodas had the usual warmth. Yet that day, something darker unfolded. Videos circulated on social media showing men, some wrapped in yellow scarves, others wielding sticks, beating helpless youths who dared to raise a red flag — not of rebellion, but of political choice. Their only crime: allegiance to the opposition party, National Unity Platform (“NUP”), in a region where the ruling National Resistance Movement (“NRM”) is dominant.

I watched those images with a heavy heart. The first instinct was disbelief — could such cruelty happen in broad daylight, under the watchful eyes of local leaders and law-enforcement agencies? But as I dug deeper, speaking to people on the ground and reading local reports, the story became painfully clear: this was not mere spontaneous clash between rival supporters. It was organised violence, sanctioned by silence — driven by the arrogance of power and the complicity of local institutions.

According to several local sources, area leaders aligned to the NRM had convened a small meeting days before the campaign rally. It was there that the directive was given: “discipline” anyone who dared to mobilise for the opposition. In a society where power often flows top-down, this was interpreted as a green-light for brutality. And when the NUP supporters arrived to campaign, they were ambushed, humiliated, and beaten. The police, rather than intervene, arrested the victims — while the perpetrators walked free, proud of their impunity.

A Troubling Reflection of Our Political Culture

What happened in Kazo is not an isolated incident. It is a mirror reflecting a sickness that has eaten into our political culture: the normalisation of political violence. For decades the narrative has been carefully crafted: the ruling party is always the guardian of peace; any form of opposition is a threat to stability. This twisted logic has spawned a culture where many believe that defending a political colour is more important than defending justice itself.

Yet this time the irony runs deep. The very people who were beaten and humiliated came from regions that once lifted the current leadership to power. The central region of Buganda, in particular, played a pivotal role in shaping Uganda’s modern political landscape. It was Buganda’s support that first opened the political path for the incumbent president to rise to prominence. History records it: when the bush war began in the early 1980s, fighters found refuge in Buganda, allies, logistical networks, and young men from that region joined the struggle, believing in the dream of a free and democratic Uganda.

So when supporters from that same region are beaten and humiliated by people from a region that now boasts of having “their son” in power, it asks a painful question: What if the region that once supported him had refused? What if Buganda had turned its back? Would this leadership even exist? Gratitude, it seems, has been replaced by arrogance. Memory, by selective amnesia. And justice, by political convenience.

A Constitution Forgotten

The framers of our 1995 Constitution had a clear memory of where we came from. The Preamble itself reads:

“We the People of Uganda … mindful of the history of political and constitutional instability resulting in the violation of fundamental rights and freedoms …”

This phrase is not mere rhetoric. It is a warning — a reminder that our governance must never again descend into tyranny, oppression, or exploitation.

Later in Article 27 the Constitution states:

“(1) Every person has a right to the protection of the law.

(2) No person shall be subjected to torture or to inhumane or degrading treatment.”

When yesterday’s opposition supporters are beaten, and when the police arrest the victims while letting the perpetrators go free, the letter and spirit of those constitutional provisions are betrayed.

Today, Uganda stands thirty years later, repeating many of the same mistakes the Constitution sought to end. The same tools of division. The same tactics of suppression. The same strategy of manipulating state institutions for political ends. The police, which should act impartially, have increasingly become instruments of fear. When a person’s political colour determines whether he or she receives protection or persecution, the very idea of “we the people” is compromised.

Our Constitution begins with the phrase “We the people of Uganda…” — not “We the supporters of the NRM”, or “We the people of Western Uganda”. It is a collective declaration, built on public trust. And yet, incidents like Kazo show how easily unity can be shattered when partisan loyalty replaces national identity.

When Love for Party Supersedes Love for Country

There is a dangerous belief spreading quietly across Uganda: that loving one’s political party more than the nation is acceptable. One sees it in how wrongdoing is justified as long as it benefits “our camp”. One sees it in community leaders who stay silent despite injustice — simply because the perpetrators are from “our side”.

This misplaced love is precisely what fading leaders exploit. They know their popularity may be slipping, so they lean into division — of race, of religion, of tribe, of party colour. They whisper: “Those people are against us. They want to take our power. We must protect our own.” And just like that they convert ordinary citizens into enemies of each other.

But loving one’s party should never supersede loving what is right. Because when the law becomes selective, and justice only serves a few, the entire nation begins to rot from within. As another African proverb warns: “When you burn your neighbour’s hut, your own roof is not safe from the sparks.” The violence that begins in one region today will spread to every region tomorrow.

Uganda’s Fragile Tapestry of Unity

Uganda’s story has always been one of diversity — over 50 tribes, each with its traditions, languages, and histories. Our strength has always come from that diversity, yet it has also been the very thing power-seekers exploit for advantage. From the colonial period to post-independence, divisions along ethnic and regional lines have been weaponised.

In the colonial era, the British practiced “divide and rule” — favouring certain regions and administrative groups over others. That seed of inequality was passed on to post-colonial governments. In the 1960s, the relationship between Buganda and the central government deteriorated into crisis, culminating in the 1966 attack on the Lubiri and the exile of the Kabaka. In the 1970s, Idi Amin’s rule deepened ethnic suspicions and fear. In the early 1980s, the civil war pitted region against region. And now, decades later, we see the same lines of division re-emerging — this time dressed in party colours and campaign scarves.

Today many Baganda feel alienated; the Acholi and Langi still carry scars of war; the Banyarwanda are often accused of being political favourites; the East remains economically neglected. What happened in Kazo is a symptom of a deeper wound — a wound our leaders have refused to heal. Division keeps them in power.

The Kazo Incident: A National Lesson Ignored

What makes the Kazo incident particularly dangerous is not just the violence itself, but the reaction to it. Local leaders reportedly celebrated the event as a “victory” against opposition infiltration. Some even praised the youths who participated in the beating. There was, notably, no condemnation from senior officials; no disciplinary action against the team that organised it; no police investigation of the perpetrators. Silence became approval.

And yet, in that silence, Uganda loses part of its soul. When injustice is tolerated in one place, it becomes acceptable everywhere. If Kazo can do it to NUP supporters today, another district will do it to FDC or DP supporters tomorrow. Eventually, every Ugandan will be at risk for simply having an opinion.

This is how nations crumble — not through foreign invasion, but through internal decay fueled by impunity.

Of Memory and Forgetfulness

There is something troubling about how easily we forget — Ugandans, ourselves. We move on too quickly, even from deep wounds. We forget the days of political disappearances, midnight knock-downs by soldiers, journalists tortured for telling the truth. We forget that same government that once promised “fundamental change” now calls itself the protector of the system.

The president once declared he was fighting against “sectarianism, corruption, and abuse of power.” Yet today those words echo back like an unanswered prayer. The revolutionaries of yesterday have become the aristocrats of today. And the people — weary, divided, fearful — watch as history repeats itself.

The Cost of Complicity

Let us be honest: Uganda’s biggest problem is not just leadership, but citizens’ silence. When we see injustice, we shake our heads, whisper in taxis, maybe post a comment on social media — and then move on. We are quick to condemn online but slow to act in real life. We forget that silence is also a form of participation.

The people of Kazo who watched their neighbours being beaten and said nothing are no different from those who once watched soldiers drag someone off a truck in the 1980s without protest. The uniform changes, the context differs — but the fear remains the same.

When local leaders mobilise hooligans to attack fellow citizens, and the community cheers them on, it is not just the opposition that suffers — it is the moral fabric of Uganda that tears apart.

Enter the Latest Incident: The Hotel Raid on Bobi Wine

Tragedy now takes a sharper turn. On the night of 28–30 October 2025 (depending on the source), the hotel where presidential candidate Robert Kyagulanyi (“Bobi Wine”) was staying in Lira was raided by security forces. Reports from credible outlets are clear: the raid involved heavily armed officers from the Field Force Unit (FFU) led by Moses Mukiibi; several plain-clothes operatives whose vehicle number plates were reportedly covered; they knocked on room doors, broke in, demanded keys, teargassed occupants, and arrested a number of his team.

In one live video, Kyagulanyi himself rues that “police officers were breaking into rooms without disclosing their intentions” while he livestreamed from inside the hotel.

According to the police statement, the operation purported to be searching for two individuals allegedly linked to criminal acts: Geofrey Onzima (alias Tower) and Andrew Natumanya (alias Ninye Tabz). Police claim the raids and arrests were part of preventing “malicious damage and robbery” of a police vehicle.

Yet the optics, for many Ugandans, are very different. A presidential candidate staying at a hotel; state-security forces descending at night in full force; rooms broken into; team members arrested; and the reasoning thin, legal justification weak in public view. This raises red flags about impartiality, equality before the law and political fairness.

Why This Matters :Targeted political harassment

The raid is not just an act against one person; it is a signal to a party and its supporters. When the opposition’s candidate is treated as if he were a criminal suspect, rather than a legitimate actor in the democratic process, it erodes confidence in the system.

Role of the security forces

The police and FFU are supposed to protect all citizens equally. Yet in this case their actions appear selective and politically directed. Their involvement in a hotel raid at the very heart of a presidential campaign suggests overlap between state security and political strategy.

Campaign environment and fairness

The upcoming 2026 election cycle looms large. Observers had already noted the political climate as “from bad to worse” for opposition voices.

This raid underlines that concern: instead of an open contest, one party appears to enjoy disproportionate advantage and state backing. That undermines the legitimacy of the vote and the moral authority of the government.

Implication for rule of law

When a constitutional right—in this case, protection from unlawful search and interference with property or communications (Article 27)—is perceived to be breached, trust in institutions collapses. A person’s hotel room is private; if state agencies storm it at night without transparent cause, the message is that rights are conditional upon political loyalty.

What we observed in Kazo — local leaders organising violence, police turning a blind eye, victims left unprotected — is mirrored at national level by the hotel-raid incident. The difference is scale and symbolism, but the pattern is the same: opposition supporters targeted, state force mobilised in favour of incumbency, victims penalised, perpetrators often unpunished.

Regional vendettas become national precedent: The Kazo incident underscored how a region with “their man in power” can turn against its own citizens. The hotel raid underscores how national power can turn against a competitor. Together, they show a system wide pattern of using force to suppress dissent.

The erosion of “what if” memory: The region that made the president — Buganda — has been relatively gentle so far; but victims emerged in Kazo. What happens next if that region decides its support is no longer assured? And what happens to national opposition if the candidate is harassed at the highest level? The “what ifs” become more than theoretical; they become pressing.

The Role of Local Leaders, Police, and Impunity

Local leaders: In Kazo the story was not just fringe thugs — it was local office-holders organising the “discipline”. Leadership abandoned neutrality. Leaders who allow or direct grassroots violence betray their mandate to serve all citizens.

Police and security forces: Their role must be neutral. But when they selectively protect one group while harassing another, their legitimacy collapses. The hotel raid raises questions of chain-of-command, oversight, and accountability.

Political parties and supporters: Opposition parties like NUP face twin burdens: organising under threat, and being demonised. But they too must avoid giving the government excuses through provocation. Every act must be within law, and every supporter must be disciplined. The Constitution expects peaceful assembly and free political activity (Article 29).

Impunity: When perpetrators face no consequences, but victims are arrested, the message is that power dictates rights. The Constitution’s promise of equality before the law (Article 21) dissolves into rhetoric.

Healing a Broken Nation

Uganda has had enough. From the 1966 Lubiri crisis to the Luwero Triangle, from northern insurgencies to the present, we have seen too many victims of political violence. The Preamble of the Constitution reminds us we are “mindful of the past” and committed to “secure for posterity the fruits of our struggles.” That commitment is not mere words.

Healing begins when:

We tell the truth about violations. A hotel raid cannot be swept under campaign noise. Victims must be heard, investigations transparent.

We hold individuals accountable, regardless of party. When police officers abuse their power, they must face sanction. When local leaders orchestrate violence, they must resign or be removed.

We restore civic culture: Every citizen must know that their vote matters and that dissent is not criminal. The greatest strength of a democracy is that power changes hands without violence.

We foster regional solidarity, not division. If the people of Kazo stand silent while Baganda are assaulted, or if Buganda watches the hotel raid and says “that’s not our tribe/camp”, the entire idea of Uganda fractures.

Let Love Be Guided by Law

The message is simple: Do whatever you do—but within the precincts of the law. Love your party, but never more than your country. Support your candidate, but never through hate. Disagree with your neighbour, but never raise a hand against them.

Uganda’s story does not have to end in bitterness. We can still choose a different path—one of tolerance, justice, memory. The Preamble of our Constitution reminds us of where we came from. Let us not erase that memory in the name of political expedience.

The people of Kazo may have thought they were defending their “darling”, but in truth they wounded the very idea of Uganda—a country built on unity, not division. And the hotel raid on Bobi Wine is not just a campaign incident—it is a warning. It says: opposition rights can be ignored, loyalty to the ruling party will be protected, and state apparatus may be used as instrument of partisan advantage. Day by day the fear spreads.

So let us reflect deeply. What if Buganda, the region that once lifted the president to power, had turned away? What if every region decided to treat outsiders as enemies? Would Uganda still stand?

As citizens, we must refuse to be tools of manipulation. Let our love never exceed what is right. Because nations are not destroyed by the violence of a few—they are destroyed by the silence of many.

And in that silence, Uganda is bleeding.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

Dictators Are Cut From the Same Cloth

Date: 8 November, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

Dictators are cut from the same cloth, it seems — from Latin America to Asia and Africa too — where the most notable rulers have lived. Neither male nor female, they bear the same traits that define them: hunger for power, fear of losing it, an obsession with legacy, waving promises while chaining freedoms. They come in different accents, uniforms and robes, but at their core they are reflections of one another—mirror images of control stitched together by history’s darkest threads.

The month of October this year has already written itself into the political diary of Africa. In West Africa, a 92-year-old leader in Paul Biya of Cameroon won yet again, claiming an eighth term in the presidential election held on 12 October 2025.

At the same time in East Africa, in Tanzania the country’s first elected female president, Samia Suluhu Hassan, secured a staggering near-98 % of the vote in the 29 October 2025 election.

These two victories stand side by side — one obvious, one ostensibly triumphant — and raise the same old question: have we truly learned how to separate leadership from rulership?

For decades, Africa’s political story has been filled with the echoes of promises unfulfilled. The continent has seen men and women who arrived as liberators only to become jailers of their own people. From the steamy jungles of Central Africa to the parched Sahel, from East Africa’s plains to Atlantic coastlines, the pattern repeats itself — only the faces sometimes change.

The Shared Fabric of Power

Dictators, wherever they emerge, are fashioned from the same political tailoring. They start with charisma, end with coercion. They begin by offering hope and end by demanding loyalty. Whether they arrive in uniform or in a suit, whether quoting scripture or waving constitutions, their language eventually becomes one of dominance.

In Latin America, examples like Augusto Pinochet of Chile or Rafael Trujillo of the Dominican Republic preached patriotism while ruling through fear. In Asia, figures such as Ferdinand Marcos of the Philippines and Suharto of Indonesia perfected the art of “elections with no real choice”. Africa too has had its share: Biya of Cameroon, Mobutu Sese Seko of Zaire (now DRC), Idi Amin of Uganda, and Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe. The continent’s history of “lifelong presidents” is not accidental; it is a pattern. These rulers may speak different tongues and claim different gods, but their appetite for control comes from the same recipe: fear, loyalty, illusion.

Even when a female figure steps into the spotlight, the system remains the same. The colour of the skin changes, the gender of the leader changes, but the structure often remains — the same game under a new guise. The truth is that leadership is not defined by gender; it is defined by character, action, and accountability.

October’s Political Rewind

The month of October 2025 delivered two vivid contrasts in African politics that nonetheless share a single thread. In Cameroon, the 92-year-old Paul Biya sought and claimed another term. His electoral win on 12 October was announced by the country’s Constitutional Council with 53.66 % of the vote (turnout ~57.7 %).

The opposition candidate, Issa Tchiroma Bakary, got about 35.19 % according to official results, though he claims victory and alleges irregularities.

Protest followed: at least four people were killed in unrest around the announcement.

In Tanzania, Samia Suluhu Hassan won a landslide victory on 29 October with about 97.66 % of the vote.

Yet this result came in a context where major opposition parties were barred from contesting; independent verification was hindered; and an internet blackout accompanied protests.

What binds these two events? Both show how the cake of power continues to be sliced by familiar actors; both show how elections can become ceremonies of affirmation rather than instruments of choice. As the old proverb goes, “When the lions lead the banquet, the gazelles don’t choose the music.” The stage may seem new, but the script often remains worn-out.

The Theatre of Elections

Elections are meant to be windows of democracy — moments when power changes hands, when citizens choose, when accountability is renewed. But in too many places, they are theatre: colourful, loud, expensive, dramatic — but hollow.

Take Biya’s Cameroon. He has ruled since 1982, having removed presidential term limits in 2008, enabling him to run again and again.

His 2025 campaign faced a fragmented opposition, a state-machinery advantage and an electorate of which 70 % are under 35 — many born into his rule, knowing no alternative. The opposition claimed irregularities; yet the result was approved. The cycle spins on.

In Tanzania, the 97 % win is shocking. But the context is equally alarming: major opposition parties were barred, key rivals disqualified, media and internet disruptions rife.

The winner happens to be a woman — a milestone. But does that change the underlying power structure? The question demands probing.

Elections without real competition, without credible verification, without true contestation — such elections start life as process and end as rubber-stamps. An African proverb warns: “When the goat insists on serving as both shepherd and guest, the flock will wander.”

Power’s Universal Language

Dictatorship does not discriminate by continent or gender. It whispers softly at first—promising to protect the vulnerable, to defend sovereignty, to usher in prosperity. Then, as time passes, it grows louder and more arrogant. It demands loyalty instead of service. It begins to criminalise dissent while glorifying obedience. The leader's image appears on banknotes, on billboards, in school textbooks. The leader becomes not a servant of the people, but the people’s inheritance.

Latin America’s generals built monuments of themselves. Africa’s rulers renamed airports after themselves, printed their faces on currency, elected themselves for life. The stories repeat elsewhere: Asia’s strongmen, Middle East’s autocrats, Russia’s oligarch-backed presidents. What unites them is the idea that the nation belongs to them, not the people.

Tragically, many citizens become willing participants in their own oppression. They dance at rallies, sing campaign songs, cheer the leader while their children sleep hungry. They fear instability more than injustice—and dictators understand this fear. They feed it, nurture it, weaponise it. As the proverb says: “When the drum is beaten loud enough, the ears forget the words.”

Gender and the Illusion of Progress

In recent years, the conversation about female leadership has grown louder. Many argue that women in power are more compassionate, more inclusive, less corrupt. In some cases, yes — we have seen women leaders who delivered with integrity. But the assumption that gender alone guarantees good governance is misleading.

Power does not care about chromosomes. It corrupts without prejudice. A man who rules with cruelty can look no different from a woman who does the same. A female president can be just as autocratic, just as self-serving, just as insulated. In other words: Good governance is not about gender, but about leadership.

In Tanzania, we celebrate Samia Suluhu Hassan’s win as a breakthrough — indeed the first woman directly elected as president in East Africa.

But we must also ask: does nearly 98 % of the vote signal freedom of choice or signs of a coronation? Opponents were barred, independent verification limited. The numbers tell one story; the context tells another.

So when a woman wins with 92 % (or near-98 %) of the vote, it should not automatically be hailed as progress. It should instead be examined with the same critical lens we apply to the most entrenched male rulers. Because at the heart of democracy is not the gender of the leader, but the manner of their rule.

The African Cycle

Africa’s cycle of leadership is like a wheel spinning—but rarely moving forward. A new leader defeats the old, promises to change everything, only to become the old in a new dress. Institutions become hollow, the constitution becomes adjustable, the old guard becomes recycled. And citizens sigh: “At least this one is better than the last,” forgetting that “better” is not the same as “good.”

Take Uganda, for example — but not on this occasion. Instead, consider Cameroon: Biya in power since 1982; rule extended; term limits repealed. The young population, born into his era, now bearing his legacy. Economic inequality, separatist insurgencies, corruption scandals. And the October election: a predictable result, protests, suppression. The same story, new date, same ending.

In Tanzania, the machinery of the ruling party had a woman at its helm this time. But the context—weak opposition, restricted media, high numbers—suggests that the structure remains very much the same. The wheel rotates but the view from the seat doesn’t shift.

Meanwhile, international actors issue measured statements of “concern” and “encouragement” while avoiding real accountability. The world often prefers stability over democracy—especially in places where trade, minerals, or regional security matter. As another proverb states: “When the fox guards the hen-house, the eggs will disappear.”

The Psychology of Control

What makes dictators so similar despite their differences? Why are the narratives almost interchangeable across continents and decades? Psychologists and historians note patterns:

They often begin their journey with genuine ideals. Speak passionately. Promise reforms.

Then power tastes sweet. They surround themselves with praise, insulating from criticism.

They begin to see themselves as indispensable—confusing the nation’s survival with their own.

Anyone who opposes them becomes framed as traitor, enemy of progress.

They fear losing power, so they construct better defences than their public programmes. Invest in loyalty not institutions.

Eventually they become prisoners of their own power.

In the case of Biya, for example: He announced he would run on 11 July 2025 for the October election at age 92.

Term-limits had been abolished. His circle remains tight; the opposition remains fragmented. In Tanzania, Samia Suluhu’s opponent space was severely restricted: Both main opposition parties barred and opposition leaders excluded.

The psychology of control thrives not just on repression, but on eliminating alternatives.

And so, the dictatorship mindset—regardless of gender or geography—repeats: Power acquired, power secured, power defended, power prolonged.

The Path Forward: Breaking the Cycle

If we are to break this cycle, more than elections are needed. Strong institutions, vibrant civic education, active citizens — these are the building blocks of real democracy. A nation where people understand their rights will never tolerate oppression for long.

Schools must teach critical thinking, not blind loyalty.

Religion must preach justice, not submission to the “great one”.

Media must operate freely; checks and balances must be real, not ceremonial.

Citizens must demand that winning margins are credible, that opposition is genuine, that the rule of law matters.

As a Ugandan proverb puts it: “The hoe that does not loosen the soil will not grow the crop.” In other words: Having an election without loosening the grip of old power won’t grow democracy.

And yet, citizens must play their part. Democracy is not a gift from leaders; it is a duty of citizens. Voting is necessary but not sufficient. Resistance to manipulation, refusal to worship power, insistence on accountability—these are the tasks.

Citizens who cheer for dictators share in their guilt. Silence becomes complicity. When fear silences truth, tyranny finds its home. As another proverb warns: “If you close your eyes to injustice, you make yourself an accomplice.”

Gender Doesn’t Define Leadership, Character Does

Dictators, whether male or female, black or white, old or young, share the same cloth of control. They may wear different robes — some military, some civilian — but the thread is the same: unrestrained power, weak institutions, a people treated as subjects not citizens.

October’s 2025 elections in Africa — Biya’s win in Cameroon, Samia Suluhu’s in Tanzania — remind us of the essential truth: Democracy is not about who wins. It is about how they win and what they do afterward. The gender of a leader does not determine whether they will govern justly; their actions do.

From Latin America’s generals to Asia’s strongmen, and Africa’s long-serving presidents, the story remains constant: dictators rise, rule, fall — but the lesson is rarely learned. The names change; the faces change; the slogans change. But the structure remains.

As citizens, the question before us is not “Who should lead?” But rather: “How will they lead?” Because, at the end of the day, leadership is less about the occupant of the seat and more about the condition of the seat itself.

In closing, let me borrow one more African proverb: “When the sheep becomes friends with the lion, one day it will disappear.” If we confuse subservience with citizenship, if we treat power as spectacle rather than service, then no amount of democratic ritual will save us from the same old suit-and-tie tyranny.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

“When the dance of the masquerade is beautiful, remember the drummer wants his payment.” — Igbo proverb

Date: September 24, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

The late-afternoon sun slanted over downtown Kampala, gilding the scaffolds and concrete of the rising Nakivubo redevelopment. From a distance, the artist’s impression pinned to a temporary wall shimmered with promise: leafy pedestrian walks, a serene public plaza, a smiling couple sipping what looked like juice or coffee as the city hummed around them. I lingered at the poster, momentarily caught by the vision of a modern oasis in the middle of our ever-chaotic capital.

Then I looked closer. In the corner—almost an afterthought—was a faint grey outline of a massive shopping complex built directly atop the old drainage channel. The drawing of the mall was so small it seemed to hide from the eye, like a guilty child. That was when the Igbo proverb surfaced in my mind: when the dance is beautiful, remember the drummer wants his payment.

What, I wondered, is being hidden in plain sight?

The Mask of Progress

Ugandans are not strangers to big dreams. We love the idea of a Kampala that rivals Dubai or Kigali: neat skylines, glittering towers, orderly pavements. Yet progress, when driven primarily by private investors, often wears a mask. It smiles with promises of “public benefit” while quietly calculating profit margins.

The developer of Nakivubo, Hamis Kiggundu—known to most simply as Ham—has positioned himself as a visionary. His speeches sparkle with talk of modern markets, sports arenas, and a transformed cityscape. But development is not charity. It is business, and business, as currently practiced, is seldom honest.

Consider the facts on the ground. The old Nakivubo channel, an essential drainage corridor for Kampala’s flood-prone core, has long been a lifeline for informal workers and a fragile ecological artery. Its redevelopment displaced market vendors and small traders who had built livelihoods there for decades. Environmental impact assessments were contested. And yet the billboard outside the site focuses almost entirely on the shiny “good resting accommodation” for ordinary citizens, not on the giant retail complex that will inevitably command sky-high rents and privatize what was once public space.

Why is the shopping mall almost invisible on the official poster? The answer is not complicated. If the mall were prominent, questions would follow: How many people were evicted? How will drainage be managed? Who can afford the rent? The more invisible the profit motive, the easier it is to sell the fantasy of a public park.

Profit Before People

This is not merely a story about one man or one project. It reveals a deeper truth about the business culture taking root in Uganda and far beyond: profit is king, and transparency is optional. Our entrepreneurs often claim to be nation-builders, but their true loyalty is to the balance sheet.

A Baganda proverb warns—do not till land that does not feed you. Many investors seem to have twisted its meaning: till only the land that feeds you richly, and never mind who goes hungry.

Examples abound. Look at Ham shopping ground mall on Namirembe Road, built with grand promises of affordable space for small traders. Within a year of opening, rents doubled, then tripled, forcing out the very vendors the projects were supposed to uplift. Or recall the 2014 Wandegeya Market redevelopment: hundreds of stall owners were relocated during construction with assurances of return at “reasonable rates.” When the doors opened, the new rental fees were so steep that many original vendors never returned same applies to Kisekka market and many more.

Across Africa, similar tales echo. In Lagos, waterfront slums have been cleared for luxury towers. In Nairobi, informal settlements like Kibera face constant pressure from speculative real-estate deals. Everywhere, the pattern is strikingly similar: the language of modernization masks the hunger for profit.

The Historical Roots of Greed

This relentless pursuit of gain is not merely a personal failing; it has historical roots. During colonial times, commerce was designed for extraction. The British built railways not to connect Ugandans but to transport cotton, coffee, and minerals to the coast for export. Trade was never about mutual benefit; it was about taking as much as possible and leaving little behind.

That ethos seeped into the post-colonial era. In the 1970s, state enterprises floundered under mismanagement, paving the way for liberalization in the 1990s. Privatization brought a flood of foreign and local investors, but with weak regulation and fragile institutions, profit often trumped public interest.

Today, a businessperson who cuts ethical corners is rarely punished. Instead, they are celebrated as “smart.” A developer who wins a sweetheart lease on public land is not shamed; they are hailed as a “self-made billionaire.” When the system rewards cunning over conscience, honesty becomes an endangered virtue.

Human Stories Behind the Glitter

Numbers and history alone do not convey the quiet devastation. To understand the true cost, you must walk the lanes around Owino Market after a redevelopment announcement. You will meet women like Aisha, a mother of three who has sold secondhand clothes for fifteen years. When rumours spread that her block might be razed for a new mall, she looked around at her neatly folded piles and said simply, “Where will I go? My customers know me here. The new place will not know my price.”

Or listen to Nalongo, a food vendor near Nakivubo who now treks an extra three kilometres daily because his stall was displaced. His profits have halved, but his rent at home keeps rising. “They said we would return,” she shrugs, “but return where? Maybe in the sky.”

These are not isolated cases. Studies by Kampala Capital City Authority (KCCA) show that informal trading supports over 60 percent of urban livelihoods. Displacing these traders for high-end projects is not just an inconvenience; it is an economic shock.

Environmental Stakes

Beyond livelihoods lies another risk: the environment. The Nakivubo channel is more than a strip of muddy water. It is part of a fragile urban drainage system that carries storm water to Lake Victoria. Building heavy structures directly over it invites flooding, especially as climate change brings more erratic rains.

Environmentalists warn that concreting over natural drainage increases surface runoff and contamination of the lake, which supplies drinking water to millions. Yet such warnings are easily drowned out by the sound of construction cranes and cash registers.

Why Honesty Feels Risky

If honesty is clearly beneficial for society, why is it so rare in business? Economists point to Uganda’s high cost of credit, unstable tax regime, and unpredictable regulatory environment. Many entrepreneurs feel they must recover investments quickly before policies shift or competition undercuts them. In that climate, long-term community trust feels like a luxury.

But there is also a cultural dimension. For decades, success stories in our media have glorified the “hustler”—the one who beats the system, who outsmarts the slow and naïve. We admire cunning more than integrity. A Luganda saying cautions, monkeys that change names don’t smell. In other words, reinvention hides many sins.

Toward an Ethic of Care

It does not have to remain this way. Across Africa, some business leaders are charting a different path. In Rwanda, the Kigali Green Fund channels private investment into eco-friendly developments with strict transparency rules. In Kenya, the “Community Land Trust” model allows residents to co-own redeveloped property, ensuring affordability and inclusion.

Uganda too has bright spots. Some cooperative markets, like the Gulu Main Market, were rebuilt with vendor input and manageable rents. Social enterprises such as Good Nature Agro in Zambia (working with Ugandan partners) show that profit and community benefit can coexist.

But these examples thrive only when governments enforce clear standards: open procurement, genuine environmental assessments, and penalties for fraudulent claims. Civil society must also remain vigilant, asking hard questions before the bulldozers arrive.

A Call for Honest Commerce

Imagine if our entrepreneurs embraced a different proverb: “—a man of purpose does not chase money alone.” What if every grand development in Kampala included transparent disclosures of costs, rents, and environmental safeguards? What if billboards celebrated not just the glittering facades but also the people whose lives would be improved?

Honest business is not anti-profit. It simply recognizes that wealth without trust is brittle. Investors who treat communities as partners, not obstacles, often find that loyalty and long-term success follow.

Back to the Poster

As I stepped away from the Nakivubo site that afternoon, boda-bodas zigzagged through the traffic, and a sudden drizzle slicked the pavement. Rainwater streamed toward the half-buried channel, finding its ancient path beneath the construction. The billboard flapped slightly in the wind, its colours bright against the grey sky.

I thought again of the hidden mall, the displaced vendors, the future tenants who might pay rents higher than their dreams. I thought of the proverb about the masquerade’s dance and the unseen drummer demanding his payment.

Progress is not a crime. Ambition is not greed. But when beauty is used to mask exploitation, when profit is dressed as philanthropy, we must learn to look beyond the poster.

Because when the calabash cracks, we will see what was inside all along.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

When the Ballot Becomes a Battlefield: Lessons from Uganda’s Party Primaries

Date: September 14, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

Picture a dusty trading centre in Wakiso just after dawn. The sun is barely up, but boda-bodas are already buzzing, carrying men and women draped in yellow T-shirts. Last week was the big week—the party primaries. Two candidates had electrified this community for months: one a seasoned politician with deep pockets, the other a fiery newcomer who spoke the language of the people.

Later in the night, the votes were counted. The returning officer’s crackling voice announced the winner. Cheers erupted from one side of the crowd, while the other fell silent, their banners drooping like wilted banana leaves.

At a corner shop, the losing candidate sits quietly, phone in hand. Supporters drift in and out, some urging a court petition, others whispering about “stolen votes.” A child kicks a plastic bottle across the road. Life goes on, but the weight of defeat hangs heavy in the air.

This is the familiar rhythm of Ugandan politics—and, indeed, politics everywhere. Elections feel like a matter of life and death. Yet the hard truth remains: no single post can have two winners.

Why Elections Everywhere Feel “Do or Die”

Whether it’s Uganda, Kenya, Nigeria, or the United States, elections compress hopes, money, and ambition into a single decisive moment. They are high-stakes contests for influence, resources, and prestige. In Kampala’s party offices, as in Washington or Lagos, candidates enter the race knowing that the ballot will eventually speak for one person only.

Uganda’s just-concluded party primaries underscored this reality. From the long-ruling NRM to newer forces like NUP and veteran outfits like FDC, some hopefuls celebrated victories, while others stared at the cold final tallies. The excitement of the campaign trail has now given way to an equally intense aftermath: petitions, accusations, defections, and—sometimes—quiet acceptance.

A System Built for One Winner

Party primaries are designed to pick a single flag bearer for each seat. They are supposed to be the fairest way to decide who represents the party in the general election. But with dozens of aspirants chasing one ticket, disappointment is guaranteed for many.

Still, aspirants often promise certain victory to their supporters. They print posters, hire musicians, fuel endless rallies, and convince their communities that the seat is already theirs. When defeat comes, it feels like betrayal—of self, of supporters, of the countless hours and shillings spent.

Political scientist Dr. Sabiti Makara of Makerere University captures it well: “Primaries are competitive tests of popularity within a party. Everyone who enters knows the math—many will lose. The tragedy is when they pretend otherwise.”

The Sting of Losing

Why is it so hard to accept defeat? Four main reasons stand out:

Deep Investment – Candidates pour in money, time, and heart. Loss feels like both a financial and emotional earthquake.

Public Ego – In Uganda, politics equals status. Losing can feel like a public shaming.

Patronage Hopes – Supporters dream of jobs or contracts once “their” candidate wins. A loss shatters those dreams.

Suspicion of Rigging – Even in well-run polls, losers often believe something was stolen, making acceptance harder.

The Luganda proverb “ No friendship is as powerful as money” speaks here: when people invest heavily, emotions easily override reason.

Sour Grappling Hurts Everyone

It’s natural to feel wounded. But sour-grappling—public insults, violence, or hasty defections—creates deeper wounds:

Party Unity Suffers: Energy meant for the general election gets wasted on internal fights.

Voter Trust Erodes: Citizens lose faith in parties that cannot manage their own competitions.

Reputation Fades: Politicians known for tantrums rarely earn long-term respect.

Another local saying warns, “the forest does not bite because of one mango”. A party is bigger than any single candidate.

Choosing the High Road

For those who lost, the next steps matter more than the defeat itself:

Use Party Mechanisms: Every major party has dispute channels. File a petition calmly if you have evidence.

Congratulate the Winner: A simple public message shows maturity and earns goodwill.

Support the Flag Bearer: Campaigning for the winner keeps you visible and respected.

Plan for Tomorrow: Politics is a marathon. Many leaders—Yoweri Museveni in his early days, or Abraham Lincoln abroad—lost before they eventually won bigger races.

Examples of Graceful Losers

Barack Obama lost a congressional primary in 2000, accepted defeat, and came back to become U.S. president.

Charity Ngilu in Kenya pivoted from losing the presidency to becoming a successful county governor.

Ugandan ministers like Chris Baryomunsi once lost primaries but remained loyal, later earning key government posts.

Their common thread: they treated loss as a lesson, not a dead end.

Democracy Needs Good Losers

A democracy survives only when losers accept results and prepare to compete again. Political theorist Adam Przeworski notes that the system holds when “losers expect to try again under the same rules.” Without that understanding, elections become dangerous flashpoints instead of peaceful transitions.

The Acholi proverb “Pe tye ka dano acel keken omito” reminds us: no single person owns all wisdom. Parties—and nations—need both winners and losers to work together for the common good.

After the Dust Settles

Back in that Wakiso trading centre, the losing candidate finally stands and addresses her small circle of supporters. She thanks them, admits the pain of defeat, but urges them to rally behind the party nominee. The tension eases. A boda-boda zooms past, blaring a popular campaign song—ironically for the winner.

Politics goes on. Life goes on. And so must the spirit of those who entered the race.

The music has changed; the dance must change too. Primaries are over. The general election awaits. For those who lost, the wisest move is clear: work out your differences with your party, keep your networks alive, and remember that tomorrow’s victory often begins with today’s graceful concession.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

I thank the Cranes — but not the government: Forty years of denying Ugandans what truly unites us

Date: September 13, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

We must start where every proud Ugandan starts after a national achievement: with thanks. Thank you, Uganda Cranes — for the goals, the grit, the nights at Namboole when strangers became friends and every street vendor, civil servant and politician shared the same breathless hope. Thank you to Allan Okello and other players who made the pitch into a theatre of belonging, reminding us what it feels like to say, without apology, “that’s our boy.” Thank you to the coaches, volunteers and leagues that keep the game alive even when the state appears to sleep.

But — and this is a heavy but — gratitude for moments is not the same as gratitude for systems. For forty years Ugandans have been asked to celebrate sporting sparks while the foundations of sport go unbuilt. The collective happiness football, athletics and other sports deliver has too often been treated like a one-night fireworks display: spectacular, brief, then gone. The question we must ask — bluntly and persistently — is this: what has the government done, over decades, to make sport a durable source of national unity, youth development and pride, rather than a papered-over feel-good fix after a single win?

When a boy at Namboole becomes “our boy”

Think of a typical evening at the Mandela National Stadium — Namboole. The crowd roars, colors ripple across terraces, amateur vendors shout the same rhythms as radio commentators. When Allan Okello danced through defences, or when a late goal sent a nation into a chorus, people from districts that otherwise barely speak to each other found reason to embrace. That feeling — that fleeting erasure of tribe, class and politics — is a civic public good. It is a form of social glue that presidents, ministers and technocrats would do well to appreciate and invest in.

Allan Okello’s rise from club standout to national darling is instructive. His career — with formative years at KCCA, a spell abroad, and a return to an emotionally charged domestic transfer to Vipers — has been followed passionately by Ugandans at home and abroad. A player like Okello becomes a hinge: he links neighbourhoods to nation, youth to possibility, and a whole country to a single afternoon at Namboole. His trajectory shows how powerful an asset sport is when athletes are allowed to shine and when fans can see themselves in those athletes.

The gap between applause and policy

Applause is cheap. Policy, budgeting, planning and maintenance cost real money and require sustained attention. For decades Uganda’s official attention to sport has been episodic: a pledge after a big win, a high-profile stadium launch, or a ministerial promise when a tournament comes to town. Where there have been commitments — such as the long-running rehabilitation project for Mandela National Stadium (with repeated deadline extensions) — execution has been slow and patchy. Renovation timelines stretching over years and deadline extensions tell a story of reactive fixes rather than steady investment.

There are, however, signs of change in budgetary rhetoric. Government documents and policy discussions in recent years show increasing headline allocations and talk of infrastructure plans. The Ministry of Education and Sports formally carries the mandate to provide sports services; parliamentary reports have noted growth in the sports budget from minuscule sums to much larger figures over a handful of years. Yet the pattern remains: money is released in large tranches around events, with little attention to the long tail — grassroots leagues, school sports curricula, community coaches, women’s sport, and maintenance. Budget lines may rise on paper even as systemic underfunding persists in practice.

The illusion of investment: infrastructure versus people

When governments trumpet stadium projects, the visual impact is immediate: steel, seats, floodlights. The political payoff is undeniable: a ribbon-cutting moment, a photo-op, a speech about nation-building. But a stadium without well-funded youth academies, qualified local coaches, functioning county-level competitions and school sports programs is a monument to an idea rather than to the people who make sport live.

Take the case of Namboole and related investments. Rehabilitation and large-scale stadium projects matter, especially for hosting continental competitions. But if stadiums become the only visible measure of “sport development,” then the vast majority of Ugandans who need community pitches, changing rooms, first-aid training, and basic equipment will remain excluded. Maintenance budgets are too often an afterthought; what looks good at commissioning becomes dilapidated once contractors leave and the novelty fades.

Sport as a casualty of broader policy choices

There’s a political economy to the neglect. For forty years, Uganda’s public resource allocation has had sectors that reliably secure long-term funding and those that periodically get “salvaged” during campaign seasons. Health, infrastructure, and security find persistent political salience; sport often does not — unless, again, there is an event. That reality reflects a deeper governance problem: short electoral cycles and political patronage encourage visible, one-off projects that buy headlines rather than build capability.

This dynamic also funnels private investment into a small number of elite clubs and commercial partnerships, rather than spreading support across community sports. Clubs like Vipers and KCCA have become de facto engines of talent development, often relying on their own resources, sponsors and savvy administrators to keep youth pipelines open. Their successes — and the players who emerge from them — should be cause for national pride. Yet it must not absolve the state of responsibility to create equitable systems that enable every child to kick a ball safely or to learn the basics of athletics in a school PE lesson.

The cost of neglect: youth, health and lost opportunity

When sports systems are weak, the consequences are not only cultural but pragmatic. Physical inactivity contributes to health burdens; the absence of structured youth activities leaves young people more vulnerable to idleness, exploitation and negative peer pressures. Potential careers in sport — as players, coaches, physiotherapists, sports administrators, or sport-related entrepreneurs — evaporate when there is no clear pathway from schoolyard talent to a professional environment.

This is not hypothetical. Countries that integrate sport into education, community development and public health see multiplicative returns: better school attendance, reductions in anti-social behaviour, and growth of a sports industry that produces jobs and taxable revenue. By contrast, ad-hoc investments that focus only on marquee venues or medals create limited and uneven benefits.

Women’s sport: an area of persistent neglect

The wave of national euphoria — the Cranes, the heroics of Okello, the packed terraces — often overlooks one persistent injustice: women’s sport is systemically underfunded and marginalised. Female athletes in Uganda routinely face inadequate facilities, lower prize money, fewer media hours, and less sponsorship attention. If sport is to “unite” Uganda, it must be an equal-opportunity unifier. Equal budgets for female leagues, girls’ school sports, and women coaches are not a luxury; they are a fairness and development imperative.

How sports become a politics-free zone (or they should be)

One of sport’s rare powers is its ability to create a shared national identity that is not simply a translation of the ruling party’s messages. When a whole country chants for the same player, it is possible — momentarily and beautifully — to transcend partisan divides. Governments should want that. But for sport to remain that apolitical common ground, the state must protect it from capture by partisan theatrics: no last-minute “bonuses” only for the political cameras; no awarding of infrastructure contracts solely for political loyalty; no treating coaches or sports administrators like political appointees whose competence matters less than allegiance.

That will require a cultural shift: officials who understand that sustained sports policy is less about medal count and more about steady institutions, and that the return on investment is measured across years, not campaign seasons.

Where the state has not entirely failed — and where it must do more

To be fair and to be evidence-based: the state has not done absolutely nothing. The Ministry of Education and Sports has policy documents and a mandate. Parliamentary committee reports and the National Council of Sports have produced plans and annual reports that recognise the gaps and propose reforms. Over the past few years there has been talk — and, as recent budget allocations indicate, some concrete money — toward sports infrastructure and hosting regional competitions. These steps matter.

But here’s the rub: policy documents and budget headlines are half the work. Implementation, maintenance, local capacity development, and transparent, long-term financing are the rest. The leap from promise to a country-wide sports revival requires systems: leagues that feed into national teams, school curricula that prioritise physical education, coach-education colleges, community pitch rehabilitation programs, and a maintenance culture that keeps facilities usable year-round.

A blueprint for making sport a sustained national good

If the government were serious about giving Ugandans not just occasional happiness but a durable sporting ecosystem, here is a practical — and politically achievable — blueprint:

Legislate a National Sports Development Fund — ring-fenced, transparent, and with multi-year commitments. This fund should support grassroots leagues, school sports, women’s sport, coach training, and maintenance of community pitches. The idea: predictable funding, not one-off cash drops.

Integrate sport into the education system — make physical education compulsory with trained PE teachers and certified curricula. Partnerships with teacher-training colleges can supply a steady stream of coaches.

Decentralize sports development — move beyond Kampala and Kitende. County-level sports officers, small grants to district associations, and local competitions create talent pipelines and local engagement.

Professionalize sports administration — merit-based appointments to sports boards and councils, capacity-building for administrators, and transparency in procurement. This reduces politicization and improves efficiency.

Support women’s sport through quotas and dedicated funding — require that a percentage of the National Sports Development Fund goes to women’s leagues, girls’ school programs and women coach scholarships.

Public-private partnerships, but with oversight — clubs like Vipers and sponsors provide models of what private investment can achieve. The state should incentivize such partnerships but with safeguards to ensure public benefit.

Maintenance-first approach to infrastructure — when stadiums are built or rehabilitated, a dedicated maintenance budget must be part of the project contract. A stadium that cannot be used regularly is an expensive monument to waste.

Health and social programmes tied to sport — use local sports clubs as hubs for health screening, youth counselling and life-skills education — amplifying the social return on investment.

These are not exotic prescriptions. They are basic public-management steps that many countries have successfully implemented; they are also politically defensible because they produce visible returns in youth employment, healthier citizens, and, yes, more moments like a packed Namboole singing together.

The private sector’s role — not a substitute for state duty

We should celebrate the private clubs, sponsors and NGOs that have kept Ugandan sport alive. Their energy, creative marketing and investment in players have filled gaps the state left. But private enthusiasm cannot be an excuse for abdication. A nation cannot outsource its social glue to commercial entities that select beneficiaries by brand value. The state must partner with the private sector while still ensuring equitable access and long-term planning.

What fans demand — more than trophies

Fans are not asking for miracles. We are asking for fairness and foresight. We are asking that our children have safe pitches, that girls have equal access to sports, that a promising youngster from a remote district can find pathways to professional clubs and national teams, and that stadiums remain places of regular life rather than occasional spectacle.

When the Cranes win, the country elates. When that joy is followed by meaningful commitments — money for grassroots, coach training, school programs — the applause will not be just for one night. It will be a long, sustainable chorus.

A final word to the people in power

If sport can teach rulers one lesson it is this: unity is more valuable than a photo-op. A country that values sport wisely invests in people, not just places. The next time you stand in the presidential box and feel the crowd’s collective breath, remember that a nation’s happiest, most apolitical moments must be nurtured, not neo-patrimonialized.

Give us a strategy that lasts longer than the match highlights. Fund the everyday coaches and the district pitches. Teach physical education in every school. Support women’s teams as you would men’s. Create a sports fund with oversight. Those are investments that will repay you not only in occasional silverware but in a healthier, more cohesive, and more hopeful Uganda.

For forty years Ugandans have been denied consistent happiness that comes from a well-run sports system. The Cranes deserved better directors, better feeders, better planning. Allan Okello and the boys deserved a country that built on their moments rather than just reacting to them.

So yes — thank you, Cranes. But to those in charge: do not ask us to thank you for what you have not yet done. Give us a nation that makes sport a right, not a rare treat. Do that, and every goal at Namboole will mean more than glory for ninety minutes — it will be proof that the country finally respects the things that bind us.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

Prayers for the Powerful Who Fall: Lessons from Mama Rebecca Kadaga’s Political Journey

Date: September 7, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

In my religion, God commands us not only to pray more but also to sympathize with those who once had power but later vanished, and with the rich who became poor. This is not merely an instruction about ritual piety; it is a deeper moral compass reminding us of the fragility of human life and status. Today you may stand at the summit of power, basking in the glory of authority, but tomorrow you could be a mere shadow of yourself—stripped of wealth, titles, and prestige.

As an African, I was raised to embrace humility and to never mock a man at his graveyard—even if he was my worst enemy. For the grave is the great equalizer, and it testifies that human power is temporary. The crowns and thrones of this earth crumble, but the memory of dignity remains. Those who rejoice at another’s downfall forget that the wheel of life is always turning.

It is with this sense of respect and sober reflection that I turn to Mama Rebecca Alitwala Kadaga, the former Speaker of the Parliament of Uganda, a woman who stood tall in moments of turbulence, challenged the dictator at times, and gave meaning to representation. For decades, she was a towering figure in Uganda’s political space—respected by some, feared by others, and sometimes criticized by many. But when history weighs her, it will not only count her victories; it will examine her failures, her compromises, and the lessons she leaves behind for generations to come.

The Rise of Mama Kadaga: From Kamuli to National Leadership

Rebecca Kadaga’s journey is one written in determination and resilience. Born in 1956 in Kamuli District, she rose from a humble background in Eastern Uganda to become the first female Speaker of the Parliament of Uganda—a position she held with dignity for ten years (2011–2021). For the women of Uganda, she became a symbol of possibility, breaking the glass ceiling in a political environment often dominated by men and defined by patriarchal traditions.

Kadaga’s education journey—from Mt. St. Mary’s Namagunga, to Makerere University where she studied law, and later advanced studies abroad—prepared her not just to practice law but to shape legislation. She entered Parliament in 1989 as a delegate to the National Resistance Council (NRC), an institution crafted by the ruling National Resistance Movement (NRM). Over the years, she climbed steadily: serving as a minister, Deputy Speaker, and eventually Speaker.

Her ascent was not accidental. It was built on merit, strategic alliances, and her capacity to navigate Uganda’s turbulent politics. For three decades, she anchored her influence both at the constituency level in Kamuli and nationally in Parliament. For the people of Kamuli, she was not only a legislator but also a benefactor—delivering projects, supporting education, and ensuring that the name Kadaga became synonymous with service.

Standing Up to the Dictator

Ugandan politics is a stage where loyalty often outweighs truth. But Kadaga’s legacy cannot be told without recalling moments when she stood up to the excesses of the regime.

She occasionally confronted President Yoweri Museveni and the inner circle of the NRM when their actions betrayed constitutionalism. For instance, she boldly criticized government inefficiency, called out corruption, and stood firm on the independence of Parliament. During her tenure as Speaker, she fought against executive interference, demanding that Parliament should not be reduced to a rubber stamp.

But perhaps her most memorable stand was her resistance to being politically bullied into irrelevance. In 2021, when she contested for the NRM’s nomination for Speakership against Jacob Oulanyah, she openly challenged the entrenched interests of the ruling party. Though she eventually lost that battle, her defiance revealed one truth: dictators never forgive those who dare to confront them.

Lessons from Betrayal: Dictators Never Change

One lesson I have learned from watching Kadaga’s political life unfold is this: never trust dictators or warlords. They never change; they only grow. They may appear flexible in moments of convenience, but at their core, they remain committed to their own survival and agenda.

Dictators never appreciate. They use people, discard them, and move on to the next pawn on the chessboard of power. Those who stand by them for too long eventually realize that loyalty is rewarded not with gratitude but with humiliation. Kadaga’s fall from grace within the NRM is a painful testimony of this truth.

For decades, she gave her best—she defended the party, mobilized support, and even risked her reputation by defending controversial government positions. Yet when her usefulness waned, she was cast aside without mercy. This is the fate of all who tie their legacies to dictators: they become disposable.

A Legacy in Balance: Achievements vs. Compromises

To be fair, Kadaga’s career is not a story of defeat alone. She has tangible accomplishments she can proudly point to.

Champion of Women’s Rights: Kadaga spearheaded legislation that promoted gender equality, including pushing for the Domestic Violence Act and advocating for women’s representation in leadership.

International Recognition: She elevated Uganda’s Parliament on the global stage, serving in the Inter-Parliamentary Union and representing the country in Commonwealth forums.

Development for Kamuli: At the constituency level, her legacy is visible in schools, hospitals, and community projects she supported.

Institutional Strengthening: As Speaker, she fought to defend the independence of Parliament, often clashing with ministers who sought to undermine legislative processes.

But her compromises cannot be ignored:

She presided over Parliament when controversial constitutional amendments were passed, such as the removal of presidential age limits in 2017. Though she later distanced herself from the outcome, history will remember that she chaired the institution at the time when Uganda’s democratic safeguards were dismantled.

At times, she allowed herself to be used as a shield for the regime, defending policies that hurt ordinary Ugandans.

She was often caught in the delicate balance of wanting to protect Parliament while still remaining loyal to the NRM—a contradiction that diluted her independence.

The Humiliation of Staying Too Long

There is wisdom in knowing when to step aside. In African politics, leaders often overstay their welcome, hoping to cling to relevance. But the longer one serves under a dictator, the more one’s legacy risks being watered down.

Mama Kadaga’s defeat in 2021 was not just a political loss; it was a warning. The more she tries to remain in the system, the more she risks being remembered not for her decades of service, but for the humiliation of being undermined, discarded, and mocked.

A proverb from my people says: “The elder who does not know when to leave the homestead will be carried out by children.” The best time to retire is when the applause is still loud. Unfortunately, many African leaders miss that moment, and history treats them harshly.

The Kamuli Example: Tangible Accomplishments

For the people of Kamuli, Kadaga’s legacy is still visible. She has built schools, supported hospitals, and helped countless students with scholarships. In rural Eastern Uganda, where poverty remains high and opportunities scarce, her contributions are not trivial. Generations of children from Kamuli will forever recall that they went to school because Mama Kadaga supported them.

And yet, as much as she has done for Kamuli, the risk of being remembered as “the politician who overstayed and got humiliated” remains. That is why I write today to urge her: retire while you still have dignity. Let the young blood rise, for you have already done your part.

Broader Lessons for Africa

Kadaga’s story is not unique to Uganda. Across Africa, we see similar patterns of power, betrayal, and humiliation:

In Zimbabwe, Robert Mugabe stayed too long, and the same military he trusted turned against him.

In Gambia, Yahya Jammeh clung to power until he was forced into exile.

In Sudan, Omar al-Bashir’s decades-long rule ended with him being overthrown and jailed.

Even in South Africa, Jacob Zuma’s legacy was overshadowed by scandals of corruption and state capture.

The lesson is clear: dictatorships devour their own. Those who serve under them become tainted, no matter how noble their intentions.

A Call for Reflection and Retirement

Mama Kadaga, I congratulate you for standing up to the dictator and for participating in elections that you supposedly lost. I honor your courage, your resilience, and your service. But I also caution you: do not let the same system that betrayed you continue to humiliate you. Retire while your name still carries dignity.

History will remember you as the first female Speaker of Uganda, as a champion of women’s rights, and as a legislator who sometimes stood up for the independence of Parliament. Do not let that memory be erased by overstaying in a government that no longer values you.

Power Is Temporary, Legacy Is Eternal

Power is like the morning dew on grass—it glitters for a moment but disappears when the sun rises. Those who understand this truth learn to leave the stage when their performance is still remembered with admiration. Those who ignore it are dragged off the stage in disgrace.

In my religion, we are taught to pray for those who fall from power, not to mock them. To sympathize with the rich who became poor and the mighty who were brought low. For tomorrow, it may be us in that position.

Mama Kadaga, you have served your people well. You have stood tall where others bowed. You have written your chapter in Uganda’s history. Now, the time has come to let young leaders rise, while you preserve your dignity and legacy.

A Ugandan proverb says: “When the log stays too long in the water, it will never become a crocodile.” The longer you remain in a system that disrespects you, the more it will erode your honor. Leave now, and let your name shine in the pages of history.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

Marriage and Divorce: The World’s Separation from the American Empire

Date: September 6, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

Marriage has always been one of humanity’s most celebrated unions. It is a contract not only of love but also of hope, promise, and partnership. We marry because we see in another person traits that captivate us—kindness, beauty, intelligence, or strength. Yet, the same institution that can bring laughter and comfort can also produce pain. When promises are broken and the union becomes unbearable, divorce steps in as the ultimate solution. It may not carry the joy of marriage, but it carries the necessity of survival. In truth, both marriage and divorce are good in their own time—one for beginning a journey together, the other for ending a journey that threatens to destroy both travelers.

In global politics, the story is much the same. Nations enter into partnerships and alliances not out of blind faith but because they see something appealing in the other—security, wealth, prestige, or opportunity. Just like in personal relationships, these unions may begin in joy but can end in bitterness. Nowhere is this truth more evident than in the story of the United States of America and its relationship with the rest of the world.

Once admired as a beacon of liberty and prosperity, America entered into a kind of global marriage with countless nations. Its culture charmed, its economy dazzled, and its military reassured. For decades, many countries willingly bowed to American leadership, not out of fear alone but because they genuinely believed in what America offered. But as in any union where one partner grows arrogant and abusive, the world is now seeking divorce. Nations are finding new suitors, building new alliances, and quietly, or sometimes openly, walking away from Washington’s once magnetic embrace.

The Allure of America: Courtship and Marriage

In the aftermath of the Second World War, America stood tall among the ruins. Europe was broken, Asia was scarred, Africa was still shackled by colonialism, and Latin America was struggling with instability. Into this landscape entered the United States, not as a conqueror but as a savior. With the Marshall Plan, it poured billions into rebuilding Europe. With institutions like the World Bank and International Monetary Fund, it promised development and stability. With Hollywood and jazz, it exported dreams that lit up even the darkest corners of the globe.

This was America’s courtship phase. Nations looked at the United States as the desirable partner who not only had wealth but also the charm to go with it. Democracy was its perfume, prosperity its attire, and freedom its song. The Cold War further reinforced this bond. In the face of Soviet communism, many nations clung even tighter to America, entering into what can only be described as a marriage of convenience.

America provided security through NATO and other military alliances, technology through its booming industries, and access to its vast markets. In return, nations offered loyalty. This was not always an equal partnership, but it was one that many believed was worth the sacrifice.

Addiction to Power: When Love Turns Into Control

The tragedy of many marriages is that what begins as love sometimes turns into control. The very strength that once protected becomes the hand that oppresses. The same voice that once comforted becomes the voice that commands. America, drunk on its unmatched power after the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991, slowly morphed from a partner into a master.

With no rival left to challenge it, Washington began to act not as one among equals but as the self-appointed guardian of the world. It proclaimed itself the world’s policeman, ready to enforce its will wherever it saw fit. It dictated terms of trade, determined the legitimacy of governments, and used its military not as a last resort but as a frequent tool of foreign policy.

The wars that followed stand as grim milestones:

Vietnam (1960s–1970s): America entered with the promise of defending freedom, but it left in humiliation after years of bloodshed. Millions of Vietnamese perished, and the credibility of the U.S. was stained forever.

Afghanistan (2001–2021): What began as a hunt for terrorists turned into a two-decade occupation, ending with a chaotic withdrawal that left the Taliban stronger than ever.

Iraq (2003): Justified by the false claim of weapons of mass destruction, the invasion toppled Saddam Hussein but unleashed a chain of chaos that gave birth to ISIS and destabilized the Middle East.

Libya (2011): The bombing campaign that killed Muammar Gaddafi left behind not democracy but a broken state now overrun by militias and human traffickers.

Syria (2011–present): America’s interference in the Syrian war prolonged suffering and added to the ruins without producing peace.

These interventions were not acts of mutual respect but of unilateral arrogance. They were not the actions of a partner trying to save a marriage but of a spouse who believes they have the right to dominate the other.

The Divorce of Nations: Finding New Partners

Just as in any toxic marriage, the abused partner eventually seeks a way out. Over the past two decades, more and more nations have begun to distance themselves from Washington’s grip.

China stepped in as a new suitor, offering roads, ports, and loans through the Belt and Road Initiative. Unlike America, which often tied its aid to political conditions and lectures on democracy, China’s approach appeared transactional and respectful of sovereignty. For many nations in Africa, Asia, and Latin America, this was a refreshing alternative.

Russia too began to reassert itself. Through energy exports, military cooperation, and diplomatic maneuvers, Moscow offered itself as a counterbalance to American dominance. From the Middle East to Africa, Russian influence has expanded, not always welcomed but certainly seen as an alternative to America’s suffocating embrace.

Even Europe, once the most loyal partner, has shown signs of frustration. Disagreements over trade, climate policy, and military spending have strained the transatlantic marriage. The U.S. withdrawal from agreements such as the Iran nuclear deal and the Paris Climate Accord (later rejoined under new leadership) left European allies questioning Washington’s reliability.

Sanctions, America’s favorite tool in recent years, have only accelerated the divorce. Instead of weakening enemies, sanctions have driven them closer together. Russia, Iran, China, and even smaller nations have formed tighter bonds in defiance of American pressure. The global financial system, once dominated by the dollar, is slowly but surely being diversified. Nations are trading in local currencies, developing new payment systems, and preparing for a world where America’s economic chokehold no longer applies.

The divorce papers are being signed quietly, but the effect is loud and clear: the world is moving on.

Gaza: The Final Betrayal

If there was ever a moment that revealed America’s moral decline, it is the tragedy unfolding in Gaza. For decades, Washington has portrayed itself as the defender of human rights and democracy. Yet, when confronted with one of the gravest humanitarian crises of our time, it has chosen silence—or worse, complicity.

Hospitals bombed, children starved, neighborhoods flattened—yet America continues to provide political cover and military aid to Israel. The world watches in horror, and with every passing day, the image of America as a moral leader evaporates. Nations that once admired its rhetoric now see only hypocrisy.

Here, the marriage metaphor reaches its climax. A partner who once promised love, justice, and protection has become the one who enables abuse. Divorce is not just an option at this point—it is a moral necessity.

When God Lends You Power

There is an old truth that runs through all religions and philosophies: power is a trust, not a possession. When God lends you power, you are to use it wisely, humbly, and justly. Misuse it, and it will be taken away. America was lent power in abundance—economic might, military supremacy, cultural influence, and technological brilliance. Yet it misused that power, treating it as a weapon rather than a gift.

African wisdom says, “The man who carries the elephant on his head should not be distracted by picking up crickets with his toes.” America, carrying the weight of global leadership, became obsessed with small wars, petty sanctions, and short-term gains. It forgot the larger responsibility of guiding humanity toward peace and justice.

Hubris, more than enemies, has led America to the edge of decline. The same pride that made it triumphant now blinds it to its weaknesses. The same arrogance that made it feared now makes it isolated.

The Funeral of Empires

History is filled with the graves of fallen empires. Rome once ruled the known world, but its arrogance, decadence, and overreach led to collapse. The British Empire, on which the sun never set, eventually set forever as colonies broke free. Spain, once rich with gold from the Americas, drowned in corruption and decline.

America now stands at the edge of that same graveyard. Its decline may not be sudden—it rarely is for empires—but the signs are unmistakable. Political polarization at home, economic inequality, declining trust in institutions, endless foreign wars, and the erosion of moral credibility all point to a nation past its prime.

Even its own leaders have admitted it. “America has lost legitimacy,” some have confessed, acknowledging what the rest of the world already knows. The empire that once stood as a symbol of hope is now seen as a shadow of hypocrisy.

Bye-Bye to the American Empire

Divorce is never easy, but it is sometimes necessary. For the world, the time has come to say goodbye to the American empire. Not because America never had good qualities, but because those qualities have been buried under arrogance and abuse. The same charm that once made it irresistible has been replaced by a suffocating control that no partner can endure.

The world is moving on. Nations are seeking new alliances, new futures, and new dreams. America will not disappear, but it will no longer be the unquestioned spouse that dictates the terms of the marriage.

As another African proverb wisely puts it, “The cock may crow loudly, but it does not make the sun rise.” For too long, America believed the world revolved around it. But the sun is rising, with or without America’s crow.

Bye-bye to the American empire. The divorce is final.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

From Liberia to Rwanda, Now Uganda: Why Africa Remains the Dumping Ground of the World

Date: August 31, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

There is an African proverb that says, “When the monkey is about to die, all the trees around it seem slippery.” Africa has lived in this proverb for centuries—slipping from the grip of one master into the hands of another. What started with the colonial era, when European powers partitioned the continent in Berlin in 1884 as if they were slicing a birthday cake, has morphed into new forms of exploitation and humiliation. Today, the so-called “developed world” continues to treat Africa as a convenient dumping ground—for refugees they don’t want, for second-hand goods they’ve outgrown, for toxic waste they cannot keep at home, and for ideas and policies they would never impose on themselves.

The latest controversies about Britain’s plan to dump sea migrants in Rwanda, and now the United States seeking to deport a convicted suspect to Uganda, echo a painful history. These moves are not isolated; they are part of a long chain stretching back to Liberia’s creation in the 19th century as a colony for freed African-American slaves, to the imposition of Western products, culture, and waste across the continent today.

But the more painful question is this: why are African leaders—the so-called patriots and Pan-Africanists—allowing this cycle to continue? Why does Africa accept to be a landfill of second-hand clothes, old cars, foreign policies, and discarded human beings, while her children die crossing seas in search of dignity?

This article digs deep into the historical roots, modern manifestations, and contradictions of Africa’s continued role as a dumping site for the so-called developed world.

Liberia – The First Experiment

The story begins in Liberia, West Africa. Established in the early 19th century by the American Colonization Society, Liberia was designed as a solution to what America called its “Negro problem.” Instead of addressing systemic racism, exploitation, and slavery within its borders, the United States exported freed slaves to Africa—dumping them on a land unfamiliar to many of them.

In 1822, the first settlers arrived, carrying with them a borrowed culture and imposed identity. They spoke English, practiced American customs, and considered themselves superior to indigenous Africans. The paradox was cruel: Africans, who had been uprooted and brutalized in America, returned as agents of an American experiment, lording over the very continent from which their ancestors were stolen.

Fast forward two centuries later, Liberia still struggles with the scars of this “dumping project.” Its political system mirrors America’s, yet its socio-economic reality has remained one of dependency. When Donald J. Trump praised Liberia’s president for “speaking very good English,” he revealed the enduring arrogance of the West—forgetting that what America really left Liberia with was not empowerment but cultural displacement.

Rwanda and the British Offloading of Migrants

In 2022, Britain unveiled its controversial plan to deport asylum seekers who arrived on its shores to Rwanda. The message was clear: those deemed undesirable in the UK should be packed off to Africa. Rwanda, praised by some for its development strides under Paul Kagame, was suddenly reduced to a holding ground for Britain’s “human excess.”

This policy was not about solving migration but about outsourcing shame. The British government knew that migrants risked their lives crossing dangerous seas because they were fleeing wars, poverty, and persecution—many of which were direct results of Western interventions in Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya, and Syria. Instead of owning responsibility, Britain sought to sanitize its borders by shipping vulnerable people thousands of miles away, as if Africans had fewer rights to dignity and belonging.

The irony is heavy. While Africans risk their lives in boats trying to reach European shores for safety, Europe is busy redirecting its unwanted humans back to Africa. It is the recycling of people’s lives, treating them like expired goods to be offloaded onto a continent already carrying unbearable burdens.

Uganda – America’s New Frontier for Deportation

Recent reports of the United States considering Uganda as a destination for deporting individuals it convicts under terrorism charges open yet another painful chapter. The reasoning is cynical: “If we cannot keep them here, let’s send them there.”

This logic mirrors America’s infamous post-9/11 practice of running “black sites” in Eastern Europe and Africa, where detainees were tortured outside American soil. By doing so, Washington bypassed its own constitutional protections and human rights obligations.

Now, by attempting to deport suspects to Uganda, the U.S. is effectively saying: Africa is still the place to dump problems. The irony cuts deeper when one remembers that many of these so-called terrorists were products of wars that America itself engineered in the Middle East. From Iraq to Afghanistan, America created the very instability it now seeks to export to other lands.

Africa the Marketplace of Leftovers

Dumping is not only about people; it is also about goods. Walk through the streets of Kampala, Nairobi, Lagos, or Dakar, and you will find “mitumba”—second-hand clothes imported from Europe and America. These clothes, once discarded in charity bins in London or Chicago, are sold in African markets, dressing millions cheaply but also killing local textile industries.

The same applies to cars. Africa has become the final resting place of old vehicles no longer roadworthy in Europe or Japan. These cars choke African cities with emissions, contributing to climate change while providing no long-term industrial value.

Electronics follow the same trail. Tonnes of e-waste from Europe are dumped in Ghana’s Agbogbloshie, one of the world’s largest digital graveyards, where children burn wires to extract copper, inhaling poisonous fumes.

This dependence on second-hand goods exposes Africa’s refusal—or inability—to industrialize. Instead of building industries to produce clothes, cars, or electronics, leaders accept the hand-me-downs of others. Pan-Africanism becomes empty rhetoric when the economy is stitched together with discarded fabrics and expired technologies.

Toxic Waste and Silent Poisoning

Beyond clothes and cars lies a more sinister dumping: toxic waste. In the 1980s, Italian companies secretly shipped hazardous waste to Somalia and Côte d’Ivoire, exploiting weak governments and corrupt officials. In 2006, the Probo Koala incident in Abidjan saw toxic sludge dumped in the city, killing 17 people and sickening thousands.

These cases are rarely discussed in Pan-African conferences, yet they reveal how the West sees Africa as a space where environmental crimes can be committed with little consequence. Where Europe has strict laws protecting its environment, Africa is seen as the loophole—a place where human lives are cheaper than compliance costs.

The Role of African “Patriots”

The most bitter pill to swallow is that this dumping is not only imposed; it is enabled. African leaders, who love to preach Pan-Africanism on podiums, are often the very ones signing contracts that turn their nations into landfills.

They welcome second-hand clothes instead of building textile industries. They import expired medical supplies while sending their own families to Europe for treatment. They buy armored cars from Germany while factories in Namanve or Aba collapse. They cheer when Western donors announce aid packages, even when those packages come with chains.

It is not just foreign exploitation; it is domestic betrayal. The dream of Kwame Nkrumah, Julius Nyerere, and Patrice Lumumba has been replaced by the politics of begging bowls. Pan-Africanism is recited in speeches but betrayed in practice.

The Psychological Dumping

Colonialism was not only about economic exploitation; it was also psychological dumping. Africans were taught to see their languages, cultures, and traditions as inferior. English, French, and Portuguese became symbols of progress. Even today, an African child who speaks fluent English is praised, while one who masters Kiswahili or Luganda is often dismissed as “local.”

This cultural dumping is dangerous because it convinces Africans to accept inferiority as normal. When Donald Trump praised Liberia’s president for speaking English, he was not complimenting; he was mocking centuries of cultural theft.

Is Africa Really a Dumping Site?

So, is Africa a dumping site? The evidence is overwhelming:

Historical dumping of freed slaves in Liberia.

Britain’s plan to deport migrants to Rwanda.

America’s plan to deport suspects to Uganda.

Second-hand clothes and cars flooding markets.

Toxic waste scandals across the continent.

Psychological and cultural displacements.

But Africa is not only a victim; it is also complicit. By failing to industrialize, by tolerating corruption, by accepting aid that comes with chains, African governments have kept the gates open.

The Way Forward

If Africa is to stop being a dumping site, several hard truths must be embraced:

Industrialization is non-negotiable. Africa cannot depend on second-hand imports forever. Local industries must be built, protected, and scaled.

Pan-Africanism must move from rhetoric to practice. Leaders must reject deals that compromise dignity, whether in migration, trade, or waste disposal.

Youth must reclaim dignity. With over 60% of Africans under 25, the youth cannot inherit a continent of leftovers. Education must focus on skills that create, not just consume. Cultural pride must be restored. Speaking African languages, wearing African textiles, and valuing African systems should not be considered backward.

Strong legal frameworks against dumping. Laws must criminalize the importation of toxic waste, expired goods, and exploitative contracts.

The world calls Africa a “developing continent.” But perhaps the real description is a “dumped-upon continent.” From Liberia’s founding to Rwanda’s migrant deal, from Uganda’s looming deportation cases to the mountains of second-hand clothes and cars in markets, Africa remains a landfill of global conscience.

But Africa is not condemned to this fate. The day Africans realize that dignity is not begged for but claimed, the dumping will stop. The day leaders stop trading sovereignty for aid, the landfill will be closed.

As another African proverb says, “If the drumbeat changes, the dancers must also change their steps.” Africa must change its steps—not to dance to the rhythms of foreign dumping, but to drum its own beat of dignity, self-reliance, and justice.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

The World Does Not Want Weak People: Lessons from Gaza, Iran, Russia, and Uganda

Date: August 24, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

History has shown, over and over again, that the world has no patience for the weak. Weak people are stepped on, weak nations are invaded, and weak leaders are bought off. From the battlegrounds of the Middle East to the political corridors of Uganda, one truth remains clear: those who are considered powerless are not respected, and those who cannot defend themselves are often humiliated, used, or destroyed.

This reality explains why Israel invaded Gaza with confidence but hesitated when faced with Iran. It explains why Western nations that support Israel’s endless bombardment of Palestinians are the same voices calling for a ceasefire when Russia gains an upper hand in Ukraine. And closer to home, it explains why in Uganda, politicians with no backbone are easily bought off by the government, silencing the opposition and crushing any meaningful dissent.

This article will dig deep into these examples — Gaza, Lebanon, Iran, Russia, and Uganda — to uncover one fundamental truth: the world does not want weak people.

Gaza: The Story of Power and Weakness

When Israel invaded Gaza, it did not do so out of fear, but out of confidence in its superior military power. Gaza, despite the bravery of its people and the resilience of Hamas, lacks the military capacity that modern warfare requires. Hamas does not have tanks rolling through battlefields, it does not have squadrons of fighter jets patrolling the skies, and it does not have fleets of drones armed with precision-guided missiles. Its fighters, mostly armed with light weapons and homemade rockets, are seen as a nuisance compared to the might of Israel’s army.

And so, Israel went into Gaza believing it would crush resistance within days. The world — particularly the West — stood by silently or even cheered. The argument was that Israel had a right to defend itself, while Palestinians had no such right. For decades, this has been the script: Gaza is weak, and therefore its suffering does not command urgency.

But what is striking is how this same world, which applauds Israel’s aggression against Gaza, changes its tone in other battlefields where the opponent is strong. When a weak people are attacked, the aggressor is celebrated. But when a powerful nation is challenged, suddenly the chorus of “ceasefire” begins.

This is hypocrisy laid bare.

Lebanon: Another Case of Calculated Aggression

The same logic applies to Lebanon. Israel often launches incursions or bombings into southern Lebanon with relative confidence. Hezbollah, though much stronger than Hamas, is still not at the level of Israel in terms of tanks, artillery, and advanced drone warfare. Yet even here, Israel is more cautious than it is with Gaza, because it knows that Hezbollah’s rockets can rain heavily on northern Israel.

The lesson is consistent: the world measures respect and negotiates peace not with the weak, but with those who can hit back. Weakness invites bombardment, while strength commands caution.

Iran: When Power Demands Respect

The clearest example of this principle is Iran. When the United States and its allies considered direct confrontation with Iran, they realized quickly that it was not Gaza or Lebanon. Iran is a powerful nation with a modern military: ballistic missiles, advanced drones, artillery, tanks, and a highly organized Revolutionary Guard. It is a country of more than 80 million people, with resources and resilience.

When Iran responded to American provocations and regional threats, it did not respond with sticks and stones, but with firepower that the world took seriously. American bases in Iraq felt the weight of Iranian missiles after the assassination of General Qassem Soleimani. The message was clear: unlike Gaza, Iran could hit back hard.

And what was the response of the West? They suddenly spoke the language of restraint. Suddenly, there were calls for de-escalation. Suddenly, ceasefire became urgent. Why? Because the aggressors realized they had bitten off more than they could chew.

The world respected Iran not because it begged for peace, but because it demonstrated that it could inflict serious damage.

This shows the double standard clearly: negotiations are forced only when strength is demonstrated. When weakness is exposed, there is no mercy.

Russia and Ukraine: Ceasefire for the Strong

The same hypocrisy is evident in the ongoing conflict between Russia and Ukraine. When Russia took to military operation on Ukraine, Western nations quickly armed Ukraine with billions of dollars in weapons and declared that Moscow must be defeated. They insisted that peace would only come after Russia had been weakened.

But as the months stretched into years, it became clear that Russia was not going to collapse. Despite sanctions, despite international isolation, Russia not only held its ground but also advanced. Its military power, combined with its nuclear arsenal, turned the war into a stalemate where Ukraine’s dreams of easy victory evaporated.

And suddenly, the same Europe and America that cheered aggression elsewhere began to demand negotiations. They now speak of “peace” and “talks without preconditions.” Why? Because Russia is not Gaza. It is not a people with sticks. It is a nuclear superpower.

The hypocrisy is undeniable. With Gaza, negotiations must happen only after Palestinians are bombed into submission. With Russia, negotiations must happen immediately because the West fears defeat.

The lesson is crystal clear: the world does not want weak people. It respects only the strong.

Why Does the World Side with the Strong?

The answer lies in human nature and the ugly truth of international relations. Nations act not out of morality, but out of interests. Supporting Israel’s invasion of Gaza serves Western interests. Calling for a ceasefire in Ukraine serves Western interests. Standing down before Iran serves Western interests.

Morality, human rights, justice — these are words for speeches, not for action. The world respects power because power determines survival. Weakness invites domination, while strength commands negotiation.

This is not just international politics. The same principle operates in domestic politics, in business, and even in personal life.

Uganda: A Case of Political Weakness

To bring this closer to home, look at Uganda. Here, weakness in politics is not punished by bombs, but by bribery. The government has mastered the art of buying off important and significant people. Opposition leaders who raise their voices loudly often end up silent after “negotiations.” Activists who begin with fire in their bellies end up with contracts, jobs, or envelopes.

Why does this happen? Because weakness is everywhere. Many politicians in Uganda enter politics not with firm principles, but with hunger for survival. The government exploits this weakness, buying them off and leaving the masses without real leaders to stand for them.

Those who remain strong, who refuse to be bought, are often harassed, jailed, or silenced by force. The pattern repeats: the world, and even Uganda, does not respect the weak.

The Consequences of Weakness

Weakness has consequences. For Gaza, it means endless bombardment and little international sympathy. For Lebanon, it means constant violations of sovereignty. For Uganda, it means opposition voices are silenced, and the same leaders stay in power for decades.

Weakness is not just about lacking weapons or money. It is about lacking resolve, lacking unity, and lacking the ability to say “no” with consequences.

The lesson for individuals, communities, and nations is the same: if you are weak, you will be walked over.

Lessons for Uganda and Africa

Uganda and Africa at large must take lessons from these global examples. Africa is rich in resources, but weak in bargaining power. Leaders often negotiate away the wealth of their nations because they are either greedy or powerless against foreign powers. Multinational corporations walk away with gold, oil, and timber, while the people remain poor.

If Uganda and Africa want respect, they must build strength — economic strength, political strength, and military strength. Begging will not earn respect. Being dependent on aid will not bring dignity. Only strength will.

A World of Hypocrisy

From Gaza to Iran, from Russia to Uganda, the story is the same: the world is full of hypocrisy. Those who cry for human rights in Ukraine are silent about human rights in Palestine. Those who call for immediate ceasefire when Russia advances demand endless bombings before Palestinians can negotiate. Those who preach democracy abroad buy off opposition at home.

It is a world that does not want weak people.

Choose Strength

The message of history and current affairs is clear. If you are weak, you will be used, abused, and discarded. If you are strong, you will be respected, even by those who hate you.

Israel respects Iran because Iran is strong. The West respects Russia because Russia is strong. The Ugandan government silences the weak opposition but fears those who remain unbought.

The lesson for individuals and nations is simple: build strength. Not just military strength, but economic, intellectual, and moral strength. Stand for something that cannot be bought. Resist the temptation of weakness disguised as compromise.

Because at the end of the day, the world does not want weak people.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

“Used and Dumped: Why the Alaska Summit Speaks to Uganda’s Own Political Story”

Date: August 18, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

On August 15, 2025, the world’s cameras turned to Joint Base Elmendorf–Richardson in Anchorage, Alaska. There, U.S. President Donald Trump and Russian President Vladimir Putin sat across from each other, under the heavy shadow of the ongoing war in Ukraine. The expectation was simple: maybe, just maybe, peace would be born from this icy soil.

Instead, what unfolded was a master class in political theater. Putin walked away looking stronger, Trump praised the talks as “productive,” but Ukraine — the nation at the center of the storm — was left on the margins, not even seated at the table where its fate was being discussed.

That scene struck me deeply, because it whispered a truth familiar to every Ugandan: you can be used, paraded, even celebrated, but once your usefulness expires, you are discarded.

This is not just the story of Ukraine and its Western “friends.” It is also the story of countless Ugandans who rally behind leaders, clap for politicians, chant slogans, or risk their lives in service, only to be forgotten the moment the cameras turn away.

As an African proverb says: “When the drumbeat changes, the dancer must adjust his steps.” Ukraine danced to NATO’s drums, only to be abandoned mid-song. Ugandans, too, have danced to the tunes of their leaders — only to find themselves standing alone once the music stops.

This piece will explore the Alaska summit, the symbolism of betrayal, and the stark parallels with Uganda’s own political story.

Part I: The Alaska Summit — A Show Without a Song

The Meeting of Giants, The Silence of the Victim

The Alaska summit was framed as a historic opportunity. The world expected Trump and Putin to seek a breakthrough in the Ukraine war. Instead, it was a meeting filled with handshakes, platitudes, and grandstanding — but no ceasefire.

Putin demanded recognition of Russia’s control over occupied territories. Trump suggested Ukraine must “make hard choices” if peace was to come. Yet President Volodymyr Zelensky was not even in the room.

Imagine being the one whose house is on fire, but your neighbors sit on your veranda deciding how best to rearrange your furniture — while you are locked outside. That is what Ukraine experienced in Alaska.

Body Language of Betrayal

Analysts noted how Putin seemed calm and assured, while Trump projected impatience and self-congratulation. Even their handshake symbolized imbalance — Putin’s grip firm, Trump’s posture defensive. When they parted, Trump seemed eager to declare victory in hosting the summit, while Putin celebrated having re-entered global diplomacy on his own terms.

Ukraine, meanwhile, was left like the proverbial goat tethered outside the feast — its bleating drowned out by the laughter inside.

The Harsh Reality: Allies Have Limits

NATO and the U.S. had armed and supported Ukraine, but they stopped short of what Ukraine truly wanted: full membership and full protection. When Russia escalated, Western soldiers never came. Billions in aid could not replace the absence of boots on the ground. Ukraine learned the hard way: a benefactor can support you when it benefits them, but abandon you when the costs rise too high.

Part II: Uganda’s Mirror — The Politics of Use and Dump

The Alaska summit is not just geopolitics; it is a mirror for Uganda’s political landscape.

1. Campaign-Time Promises, Post-Election Amnesia

Every election season in Uganda is a carnival of promises. Politicians descend on villages with sugar, soap, envelopes, or pledges of roads, schools, and hospitals. Youth are given T-shirts and transport money to fill rallies. Elders are assured pensions or scholarships for their grandchildren.

But once ballots are cast and victory secured, silence falls. Projects stall. Roads remain potholes. Hospitals stay understaffed. Citizens realize they were courted not as partners, but as stepping stones.

Like Ukraine at Alaska, they find themselves excluded from the decisions that shape their future.

2. The Parish Development Model (PDM) — A Case of Selective Memory

The government’s much-publicized Parish Development Model was rolled out as a miracle cure for poverty. Billions were announced, and communities cheered. Yet many parishes report receiving nothing or only fragments. In some cases, money was channeled to cronies, while the ordinary farmers were left waiting.

During campaigns, the PDM is praised and paraded; after elections, it becomes a ghost program. Villagers are left with broken hopes — used and dumped.

3. Veterans and Bush War Heroes — Forgotten Foot Soldiers

Uganda’s liberation struggle produced countless veterans. They sacrificed youth, families, and health in the bush. They were promised land, pensions, and honor. But many today live in poverty, abandoned on small farms, waiting decades for delayed gratuities.

The leaders who benefited from their sacrifices built mansions and dynasties, while the foot soldiers — like Ukraine today — are sidelined from the banquet of decision-making.

4. Opposition Supporters — Wooed, Then Bruised

Opposition supporters in Uganda also taste betrayal. Leaders rally them with fiery speeches, urging them to risk arrest, tear gas, and bullets. Yet when power negotiations or compromises arise, these grassroots supporters are rarely considered.

Just as Ukraine was excluded from Alaska talks, so too are ordinary Ugandans excluded from the closed-room deals that determine the nation’s course.

Part III: Historical Patterns of Betrayal

This “use and dump” cycle is not new — it runs deep in both global and Ugandan history.

Colonial Betrayals

During colonial rule, chiefs and collaborators were promised wealth and protection if they supported the British. But when independence approached, many were discarded. Kings lost power. Chiefs lost privileges. The colonial benefactor had no loyalty beyond its interests.

The Cold War Example

Africa in the Cold War was littered with abandoned pawns. Leaders like Patrice Lumumba of Congo were courted, then betrayed when their alignment threatened Western interests. Rebels were armed and then abandoned. Coups were sponsored, then disowned.

Ukraine’s sidelining in Alaska follows this same pattern.

Post-Independence Uganda

Even within Uganda, betrayal is a familiar song. Milton Obote used alliances to rise, then turned on them. Idi Amin betrayed colleagues who brought him to power. Every regime has recycled this pattern: use, benefit, discard.

Part IV: Why Betrayal Keeps Repeating

Dependency Politics: Ukraine depended on NATO, just as Ugandans depend on patronage networks. Dependency breeds vulnerability.

Short-Term Illusions: Citizens and states alike trust promises without ensuring long-term guarantees.

Power Imbalance: Benefactors always hold more power, making betrayal inevitable.

Selective Memory: Leaders forget sacrifices; beneficiaries forget risks. The cycle repeats.

Part V: Lessons for Uganda

Lesson 1: Do Not Outsource Your Future

Just as Ukraine cannot outsource its sovereignty to NATO, Ugandans must not outsource their destiny to politicians. Empowerment comes from self-reliance.

Lesson 2: Demand Accountability

Blind loyalty breeds betrayal. Citizens must insist on transparency: where did the PDM money go? Why are hospitals underfunded? Why are veterans unpaid?

Lesson 3: Beware of Campaign Love

The sudden affection during elections is transactional. Ugandans must remember that promises made with drums and songs are often forgotten once the drums fall silent.

Lesson 4: Build Collective Power

When citizens organize — through SACCOs, farmer cooperatives, advocacy groups — they reduce vulnerability to political betrayal.

Lesson 5: Remember the Proverbs

“The child who is carried on the back does not know how far the journey is.” Ugandans must learn to walk on their own.

“When the food is finished, the plate is thrown away.” Refuse to be treated as disposable.

“The axe forgets, but the tree remembers.” Citizens must remember betrayals and hold leaders accountable.

Part VI: Expanding the Mirror — Uganda’s Modern Paradoxes

Ugandans today face contradictions that echo the Alaska summit:

Billions promised to sports when hospitals lack beds.

Foreign investors given tax holidays while local traders suffocate.

Leaders urging patriotism while their children study abroad.

Citizens applauding at rallies, only to queue at health centers without medicine.

All these reveal one reality: citizens are courted when convenient, discarded when inconvenient.

From Alaska to Kampala

The Trump–Putin Alaska summit was not about Ukraine’s victory or peace; it was about great powers flexing muscles while the victim stood outside the gate. Ukraine learned the painful lesson of being used and dumped.

Uganda must learn too. Citizens must refuse to be pawns, refuse to be silenced, and refuse to forget. The Alaska summit is not just global news — it is a parable for our politics.

Ugandans, the time has come to demand a politics of honesty, to insist on genuine service, and to build resilience that cannot be betrayed.

Because as another African proverb reminds us: “Until the lions have their historians, tales of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.”

Ugandans must become their own historians, their own protectors, their own destiny-makers — so that they are never again used and dumped.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

As We Brace for 2026: Can We Choose a Different Path?

Date: August 10, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

It was a Tuesday evening when I found myself walking home from town. The air smelled faintly of dust and roasted maize, and the streets were unusually alive for that hour. As I approached the trading centre, my eyes landed on the electric poles — every few metres plastered with bright posters of men and women smiling down at us. Some wore suits, some wrapped themselves in party colours like a shield, others wore posed in humble t-shirts to signal “I am one of you.” The message was the same: Vote for me.

It struck me how early the posters were going up. The general elections are still months away, yet the race has already begun. That evening, later at home, while watching the 9p.m news, the same faces appeared again — some speaking in exaggerated tones at rallies, others exchanging accusations in interviews.

The same script we have seen for decades was unfolding again: promises of better roads, free education, jobs for the youth, clean water, and corruption-free governance. And yet, deep down, many of us already knew — we have heard this song before, and it always ends the same way.

As we brace ourselves for the 2026 general elections, a question lingers in my mind: How about we choose to do things differently this time?

The Habit We Cannot Break

Uganda’s political landscape has become predictable, almost like a poorly written drama series where you know the plot before the actors speak their lines. Every five years, the same cycle repeats: the ruling elite deploys state machinery, the opposition battles financial and logistical handicaps, and the ordinary voter — the very person whose voice matters most — gets lost in a fog of promises, handouts, and fear.

Projects like the Parish Development Model (PDM) suddenly find speed during campaign seasons. In 2021, billions were released in the months leading up to the elections, just as the same thing happened with Operation Wealth Creation before 2016. These initiatives are framed as anti-poverty programs, yet the timing and selective targeting reveal a political motive: influence votes through “development gifts.”

The Uganda Bureau of Statistics reports that over 39% of Ugandans live in poverty or near poverty, yet we keep seeing funds concentrated in swing areas only when elections approach. It’s done under the banner of development, yet in reality, it is political theatre — a form of vote-buying wrapped in official paperwork.

And here is the problem: our politics has become business politics. Leaders invest in campaigns the way a trader invests in importing goods from Dubai. They expect returns — not in community well-being, but in personal enrichment.

As my grandmother used to say: “A goat does not bleat without a reason.” If a candidate spends hundreds of millions to win a seat, do we really believe they will simply serve without seeking to recover and multiply that investment?

The Price of Business Politics

We, the citizens, bear the cost in multiple ways.

Development is delayed because leaders are busy servicing campaign debts.

Corruption becomes inevitable — inflated contracts, ghost projects, public funds diverted — because the leader needs to “eat” before the next election.

Accountability disappears when a leader’s loyalty lies with their financiers, not their voters.

A 2022 Transparency International report ranked Uganda 142 out of 180 countries on the Corruption Perceptions Index, scoring just 26 out of 100. This is no surprise when parliamentary seats cost small fortunes to win. In 2021, some candidates openly admitted spending over UGX 1 billion on campaigns.

Worse, we don’t even know where some candidates get their money. Loans from banks. Dangerous agreements with moneylenders. Silent sponsorships from business tycoons seeking political favours. The result? Leaders financially and morally compromised before they even take office.

A Lesson from Elsewhere

In some Western democracies — and even in parts of Africa like Botswana — running for office is expensive, but candidates are often funded by their communities and transparent donors. This changes everything. The leader starts their term beholden to the people, not shadow financiers.

Imagine this in Uganda. Picture a respected nurse in your district — someone who has served for decades without a single bribery scandal. Now imagine that instead of being sidelined for lack of funds, the community decides: This is our candidate. Each household contributes a small amount, churches and mosques chip in, youth groups organise fundraisers — and suddenly, the nurse has enough to run a credible campaign.

That is people power in its truest form — not a slogan, not a chant, but a lived reality.

Do We Still Have Good People?

Some say all politicians are the same. I disagree. There are still good people in Uganda — teachers, health workers, community organisers, environmental activists — but they are financially incapacitated.

Take the example of Paul Kawanga Ssemogerere in the 1980s, who remained largely free from corruption scandals despite Uganda’s turbulent politics. These examples show that integrity is possible.

“When the roots are deep, there is no reason to fear the wind,” goes the proverb. If we grow our leaders from the roots of our communities, they will stand firm against the winds of corruption and political compromise.

Scenarios from Real Life

Scenario 1: The boda boda stage

At a stage in Kyaliwajjala, a rider told me how an MP once gave them UGX 500,000 to share before the 2021 election. They split it, bought beers, and forgot the rest. Now, he drives past them without even waving.

“We can’t blame him,” one rider said. “We sold ourselves cheap.”

Scenario 2: The market vendor

At Namawojjolo market, a tomato seller told me how she had campaigned for her cousin in the LC elections. They pooled money, cooked for rallies, went door-to-door. The cousin won — and to this day, she shops at their stalls first every Saturday. That is the bond people-powered politics creates.

The Roadblocks We Must Face

Mistrust among citizens — Many believe every politician will “eat” eventually.

Fear of reprisals — In 2021, Human Rights Watch documented over 50 cases of voter intimidation and harassment.

Low civic education — The 2019 Afrobarometer survey found that only 33% of Ugandans fully understand how Parliament works.

Economic hardship — With inflation hitting 10% in 2022, contributing to campaigns feels unrealistic for many.

How to Make It Work

We could start small, district by district:

Identify candidates through community meetings.

Create non-partisan committees for vetting.

Run transparent fundraisers — publish income and expenses.

Train candidates in governance and financial management.

Monitor them after elections with regular accountability forums.

The Long Game

Democracy is expensive — but the cost of corruption is far higher. If we invest in leaders grown from our own soil, the harvest will be sweet. Roads will be built because they are needed, not because a contractor paid a kickback. Schools will have books because the budget will not be stolen. Hospitals will have drugs because procurement will be honest.

If we fail, we will keep recycling leaders who treat politics as a business. And as the old saying goes: “If you cook with rotten firewood, do not be surprised when the food smells bad.”

As 2026 approaches, we must decide: keep the old system or fund a new one ourselves. It will mean saying no to short-term handouts, yes to community fundraising. No to political investors, yes to grassroots candidates.

Because at the end of the day, the quality of our leadership reflects the quality of our choices. And as another proverb warns: “He who refuses to think is like a farmer who plants nothing yet expects a harvest.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

If Trump Were in Africa, He Would Make a Perfect Dictator: A Conscience-Driven Reflection

Date: August 09, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

In the realm of global politics, certain names carry such magnetic weight that they reshape the landscape of political conversation wherever they go. Donald J. Trump is one of those names. Whether adored or abhorred, he is rarely ignored. The 45th President of the United States turned politics into prime-time theatre, his every move engineered to evoke reaction—whether of awe, fear, or laughter.

But this piece is not just about Donald Trump as he is. It is about imagining what he would be—had he been born and raised in Africa. It is an honest, non-abusive, but deeply critical journey into the possibility that Donald Trump, had he governed from Kampala, Kinshasa, Lagos, or Harare, would not just be a populist—he would likely be a perfect dictator. Not because of Africa, but because of Trump.

This article is not meant to demonize a man but to dissect a style. It is not meant to insult, but to reflect. And as an African who believes in the dignity of truth and conscience, I write not what is popular, but what is principled.

Trumpism: Not a Policy, But a Personality Cult

Donald Trump is not a man of ideology. He is a man of self. He does not so much stand for something as he stands as something. To his followers, he is the truth, the way, and the light. Facts that contradict him are fake. Laws that challenge him are “rigged.” Journalists who criticize him are enemies. Judges who check him are “Obama appointees.” His style of governance doesn’t revolve around constitutional order, but personal glorification.

In Africa, we’ve seen this movie before.

From Idi Amin in Uganda to Yahya Jammeh in The Gambia, from Robert Mugabe in Zimbabwe to Mobutu in Zaire, African political history is soaked with leaders who thought the sun rose and set on their command. They wanted to be praised endlessly. They demanded obedience. They created echo chambers of loyalists who agreed with every breath they took. Trump, had he been one of them, would be no different—except that he would probably do it with gold-embroidered MAGA robes and a state-sponsored reality show.

The Rise of Trump, African Style

In the African context, Trump's rise would follow a familiar script. He would likely emerge not from the military or revolutionary struggle, but from wealth and media dominance. Perhaps as the son of a real estate tycoon in a major African city, Trump would use his inherited riches to build casinos, hotels, and golf courses, all emblazoned with his name in capital letters, as if branding the country itself.

He would first gain fame through television, becoming a national celebrity who openly mocks politicians, promises to “fix everything,” and tells the rural poor that their misery is due to foreigners, saboteurs, and weak leaders.

When he finally enters politics, it would be under a banner of “Making Our Country Great Again.” The poor would love him. The elites would laugh at first. But slowly, his crude charisma, his grandiose promises, and his ability to speak directly to the frustrations of the common citizen would lift him to the presidency.

And once there, the real Trump would show himself.

He Would Rule by Decree, Not Dialogue

Donald Trump does not believe in process. He believes in power. As President of the United States, he showed contempt for institutional norms. He fired FBI directors for investigating him. He dismissed intelligence reports that didn’t praise him. He threatened to imprison political opponents and called for protests against governors who didn’t follow his COVID-19 advice.

In Africa, where separation of powers is often fragile, such tendencies would be catastrophic.

Trump would likely issue decrees in the night, changing tax codes, arresting journalists, and appointing his children to strategic positions. Parliament would be reduced to a rubber stamp. Judges would either toe the line or be labeled “anti-national.” Electoral commissions would be chaired by his golf buddies.

Institutions, rather than serving the state, would become branches of Trumpism. The national army would patrol streets wearing MAGA colors. Government buildings would feature murals of “the great leader.” He would demand schools to teach the “correct version” of history—his version.

The Media Would Be Either Silenced or Bought

One of Trump's most consistent enemies was the press—unless, of course, the media praised him. In the United States, he called CNN “fake news,” accused The New York Times of treason, and walked out of interviews that challenged his falsehoods. Under African conditions, where press freedoms are often thinly protected, Trump would likely do worse.

He would criminalize dissenting journalists. He would raid newsrooms that publish exposés. He would buy off the largest media stations and replace editors with loyalists. Independent media would be branded as “foreign agents.” Twitter and Facebook would face constant bans or throttling. Internet shutdowns during elections would become routine.

Meanwhile, state broadcasters would air daily praises: “The President has today walked on water… farmers say their crops now grow faster thanks to his speeches… children cry with joy when they see his picture...”

If you think this is exaggeration, look at the way he handled Fox News. When they criticized him, even once, they were vilified. In a context without constitutional protections, things would turn dangerous quickly.

He Would Turn Lies Into National Policy

Donald Trump has a complicated relationship with the truth. According to multiple independent fact-checkers, he told over 30,000 false or misleading claims during his four-year presidency. But Trump’s skill lies not just in lying—but in believing his lies. He says them with such confidence that his supporters internalize them as gospel truth.

In Africa, this would be weaponized.

He would declare that the economy is booming while people go hungry. He would say inflation is “a hoax by jealous elites.” He would blame imaginary forces for every failure—“fake news,” foreign conspiracies, deep state enemies. And those who challenge the narrative? They would be arrested, discredited, or worse.

Truth, in Trump’s Africa, would be whatever he tweets.

And since Twitter would likely be banned for “undermining national security,” only state-issued truth would be allowed. Dissent would be branded as terrorism. Opposition would be considered treason. Facts would become threats.

He Would Build Monuments to Himself, Not Infrastructure for the People

Trump is obsessed with grandeur—but not in the public interest. His presidency in America did not deliver major health reforms, education systems, or poverty eradication. Instead, he focused on spectacle: walls, parades, rallies, and tax cuts for the rich.

In Africa, such a leader would construct lavish presidential palaces, gold-plated statues, and overpriced conference centers while hospitals rot and schools decay. He would fly private jets over communities that lack clean water. And yet, every new building would bear his name: “The Donald J. Trump International Highway.” “The Trump National Stadium.” “Trump University for Leadership.”

Aid money would be misused for vanity projects. Foreign loans would go to infrastructure that looks good on TV but serves no real economic purpose. Corruption would flourish behind the scenes—because for a man obsessed with winning, transparency is weakness.

He Would Demand Loyalty, Not Service

In Trump’s world, loyalty matters more than competence. He surrounded himself with family members and sycophants. Those who challenged him—whether in the White House, Cabinet, or party—were fired, mocked, or threatened.

In Africa, where nepotism already chokes governance, this would be turbocharged. Trump would make his children ministers. His son-in-law would head national security. His daughter would be in charge of education policy. Senior appointments would go to those who flatter him most, not those with the best qualifications.

The civil service would become a Trump fan club. Technocrats would be sidelined. Professionals would be ignored. Corruption investigations would be halted the moment they come close to his family or business empire.

In such a system, talent flees. Integrity suffers. And the nation stumbles.

Elections Would Be a Theatrical Ritual

Trump’s refusal to accept the 2020 election loss was not just undemocratic—it was dangerous. He alleged fraud without evidence, encouraged lawsuits to overturn results, pressured state officials, and incited a mob to storm Capitol Hill.

Now picture that in an African election.

Trump would likely declare himself winner before counting ends. He would intimidate electoral commissioners, bribe polling agents, and demand security forces “secure the vote.” Any candidate who dares to win would be branded as “illegitimate,” and violence would erupt. Ballots would be burned. Courts would be co-opted. And when asked about democracy, he would say: “I’m the people’s choice. Only God can remove me.”

He Would Rewrite the Constitution to Stay Forever

Power addicts don’t quit. Trump hinted multiple times that he deserved a third term “because of the way he was treated.” He joked about staying longer than eight years. In Africa, those are not jokes—they’re policy.

He would pressure Parliament to remove term limits. He would bribe MPs, intimidate the judiciary, and launch a national campaign declaring: “Let Trump Finish the Great Work.” He would blame all national problems on his predecessors and claim that only he can fix them. And if people protest? He would send in the army.

The Cult of Trump Would Outlive His Rule

Trumpism, like many African strongmen ideologies, would outlive Trump himself. He would become a myth. A savior. A symbol of resistance. His quotes would be printed in schoolbooks. His pictures would hang in churches. His birthdays would be national holidays. Future politicians would claim to be his “true sons,” competing over who loved him most.

And for a generation, the country would remain hostage to his ghost.

What Trump Teaches Us About Power

Let’s be clear: Donald Trump was elected in a democracy and removed by a democracy. That is what saved the United States. But his presidency offered a global warning: that populism can mask authoritarian instincts, and that charisma can camouflage danger.

If Trump were in Africa, he would not be a politician—he would be a ruler. He would not leave office—he would entrench himself. And he would not accept accountability—he would outlaw it.

The question is not about Trump. The question is about the systems that allow such figures to rise and remain. The antidote to Trumpism is not just criticism—it is institutional strength. It is civic education. It is a citizenry that refuses to worship men and instead demands service.

In the words of an African proverb: “When the drumbeat changes, the dance must also change.”

Let us change the dance of politics—from praising strongmen to building strong systems. Let us reject the lie that we need saviors. We need servants. We don’t need Trumps. We need truth.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

“Forgive My Language, But I Must Be Blunt”: The Tragedy of Ugandan Universities Teaching What They Don’t Practice

Date: August 03, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

Forgive my language, but I must be blunt: there is something fundamentally broken in how our institutions of higher learning operate. It’s a tragedy camouflaged in gowns, celebrated convocations, and graduation fanfare. Our universities — once proud pillars of enlightenment, innovation, and national pride — are increasingly becoming glorified exam centers, producing theory-fed graduates who roam the streets with CVs in their hands and nothing practical to show for years of education.

Allow me to put this more plainly: our institutions are either teaching obsolete things or they do not believe in what they deliver to their students. Both are painful to admit. And I should know — I studied at Makerere University, Uganda’s premier government university, a place I once looked at with admiration and still do with a tinge of patriotic nostalgia. But nostalgia does not blind me to truth.

The Central Teaching Facilities: A Lesson in Irony

Not long ago, Makerere unveiled some of its grandest, most aesthetically impressive projects — the Central Teaching Facilities I and II, and the New School of Law Block. These are world-class structures, state-of-the-art buildings that scream progress. They were built under the African Centers of Excellence II project with funding support from the World Bank, and it’s clear that no coin was spared. The contractors? XXL Construction Ltd, a foreign company.

Let’s be clear: this is not a problem with the buildings themselves. They are marvels. The problem — the heartbreaking irony — lies in the fact that these buildings were not built by Makerere’s own graduates, not by its civil engineering faculty, not even by its own in-house Works and Estates Department. This, from a university that has taught civil engineering for over 40 years. Makerere trains some of the best engineers in Uganda. Many of them go on to excel abroad. But at home, the institution that taught them does not trust them to construct its own infrastructure.

Let that sink in.

The Civil Engineering Tragedy

What message are we sending to the students who study engineering for five years only to be told — implicitly and structurally — that their skills aren’t good enough? That when real construction happens, the contracts go to foreign firms?

What message are we giving the lecturers who labor to produce credible syllabi, supervise dissertations, and innovate curriculum, only to find their departments sidelined when real-world opportunities arise?

It is almost like saying, “We don’t trust what we teach, nor do we trust those we teach.”

Isn't this the very definition of academic schizophrenia?

The Medicine Without Hospitals

And Makerere is not alone. This is a trend that cuts across nearly every public university in Uganda. Let’s talk about medicine. Across Uganda, universities offer courses in medicine and surgery — Mbarara University of Science and Technology (MUST), Gulu University, Busitema University, Kampala International University (KIU), and of course, Makerere itself through its College of Health Sciences.

We churn out doctors by the thousands every year. But how many of these universities have their own fully functional teaching hospitals? We train medical professionals, yet when it comes to practice, we throw them into already overstretched, government-run hospitals like Mulago. Mulago, as overstressed as it is, remains the one-size-fits-all solution. What about Gulu University Hospital? Mbarara University Hospital? Why aren’t these institutions backed by robust, well-funded university hospitals where students can learn by doing?

Wouldn’t you, as a citizen, feel safer and prouder to be treated at a Muni University Hospital in Arua, a KIU Hospital in Bushenyi, or a Busitema University Medical Centre? Wouldn’t this not only reduce pressure on Mulago but also restore confidence in the quality of our local healthcare training?

The Unused Brains and Dormant Potential

We love to boast about Uganda’s intellectual capital. Every convocation is a celebration of this capital. We sing of innovation hubs, ICT centers, research clusters, think tanks, and faculty publications. Yet when push comes to shove — when there’s need for construction, consultation, legal advice, or technical design — we look outward, never inward.

This is not just disappointing; it is a national betrayal.

Why is it that universities are centers of theory and not of practice?

Why is there no university-led construction firm run by Makerere alumni?

Why do we not have university hospitals, university pharmacies, university-led architectural consultancies, or university-owned ICT firms?

Why do universities like Kyambogo and Ndejje — with departments in industrial art and design — not run their own furniture factories or creative studios?

Why do we teach entrepreneurship without a single student-run enterprise beyond the classroom?

These are not just missed opportunities. These are betrayals of the potential we claim to nurture.

The Case for Institutional Self-Reliance

If Makerere University — with over 100 years of history — cannot build its own facilities, what hope is there for a newer university like Soroti or Lira?

Universities must be the breeding grounds for self-reliance, for innovation that is not only taught but practiced. It is time we adopted a new model: the Practice-While-Teaching model. This means every department must be tied to a real, operational enterprise within the university.

Engineering faculties must operate functional construction units that bid for and execute campus projects.

Medical faculties must run teaching hospitals with their own laboratories and wards.

ICT departments must develop, manage, and maintain the university's digital infrastructure — from student portals to registration systems.

Agriculture faculties must run model farms that not only serve as training grounds but also generate revenue.

Law faculties must operate free legal clinics and perhaps even university-based law firms.

Education faculties must own demonstration schools or manage selected UPE schools to link theory with classroom realities.

This is not impossible. It only takes vision.

Confidence: The Missing Ingredient

You may ask, “Why aren’t we already doing this?”

The answer is both sad and simple: We don’t believe in ourselves. And our leaders — whether in academia, politics, or public service — reflect that self-doubt. This lack of belief shows in our curriculum choices, our contracting decisions, and our policy formulation. Instead of cultivating confidence in the Ugandan brain, we outsource everything — knowledge, leadership, and even basic construction.

We need a policy shift — and not just at the national level, but at the institutional level. University councils and senates must pass internal resolutions that prioritize the use of in-house expertise. Let us start small. Let Makerere’s Engineering Department construct a library extension. Let MUST’s medical students run a week-long outpatient clinic. Let Gulu University Law students run a pro bono legal desk for the Northern Uganda region. These are not dreams. They are necessities.

The Cost of Outsourcing

When we outsource everything, we also export opportunities. We pay foreign companies for services that local graduates are capable of delivering. This increases the wage gap, stifles local job creation, and fuels brain drain. Our own graduates — frustrated and undervalued — either migrate abroad or settle into jobs far below their qualification level.

Makerere students should be building Makerere. MUST students should be researching local diseases in their own labs. Kyambogo students should be designing ergonomic school furniture for UPE schools. Every university student should see a direct, practical connection between what they are taught and how society benefits from it.

That is how you build confidence. That is how you build a nation.

From Policy to Practice: What Government Must Do

The government must take a bold step. The Ministry of Education and Sports — in conjunction with the National Council for Higher Education (NCHE) and Ministry of Finance — should:

Draft a national policy mandating universities to implement internal capacities first before outsourcing.

Allocate seed funding to universities for practical labs, teaching hospitals, and construction units.

Tie accreditation of courses to availability of real-world practice centers (i.e., you cannot teach mechanical engineering without a functional workshop).

Provide tax incentives and grants for university enterprises and student-led innovations.

Create a National Academic Works Agency (NAWA) — a body that regulates and facilitates university-led development initiatives.

Reclaiming Pride in Public Education

Let us reclaim our pride in Ugandan education. Let us move beyond degrees and certificates to actual capability and self-reliance. Let every new building at a university be a testimony to its own teaching. Let every patient healed in a university hospital be a validation of its medical training. Let every student graduate with not just theory, but a portfolio of real-world projects tied to their course.

Uganda does not lack knowledge. We lack faith in our own knowledge. We must end this self-inflicted sabotage.

If Makerere is indeed the hill of the wise, then let it shine not only through research papers and academic rankings, but also through buildings constructed by its own students, medicine dispensed from its own hospitals, and solutions delivered from its own brain trust.

The time for excuses is over. The tragedy is too loud, too visible, and too expensive to ignore. Our students deserve more than syllabi. They deserve opportunities to build, heal, fix, and innovate — right there where they learn.

Let us no longer produce job seekers when we can train solution creators. Let us not teach what we do not practice. Let us stop doubting the very seeds we sow.

The African proverb says, “The child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.” Let us not abandon our graduates to the cold. Let us embrace their potential. L

Let us build — with our own hands, our own minds, and our own universities.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

He Has Been Buried, But Will His Legacy Live? What Uganda Must Learn From the Life of Professor George Kanyeihamba

Date: August 02, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

The body of Professor George Wilson Kanyeihamba now rests in his ancestral home in Fort Portal. The flags flew at half-mast, mourners shed tears, and Uganda's legal fraternity stood still. Politicians came, judges bowed, and scholars quoted his words with reverence. But now that the dust has settled and the grave is closed—what next?

As the government in power and its leadership mourn his passing, the real question must be: will Uganda merely bury the man and forget the mission? Or will we rise to honor his values through action?

Professor Kanyeihamba was not just a lawyer or a judge—he was a national conscience, a custodian of truth, and a torchbearer for constitutionalism. If Uganda’s leaders truly want to pay tribute, they must go beyond the lip service of speeches. They must adopt and implement the very values this giant of the law lived and died for.

A Humble Beginning That Shaped a Giant

Born on August 11, 1939, in Kinaba, Kinkizi District, George Kanyeihamba grew up in a modest Christian household. One of eleven children, he attended primary schools run by churches before joining Kigezi High School and later Busoga College Mwiri, where he distinguished himself as an academic prodigy.

At a time when higher education for Africans was a rarity, he went on to Portsmouth University in the UK, and eventually earned a PhD in Law from the University of Warwick—one of the first Ugandans to do so. This was more than a personal victory. It was the emergence of a future voice for justice, equipped not only with knowledge, but with purpose.

A Life Woven Through Government, Academia, and Law

Over his lifetime, Professor Kanyeihamba served Uganda in all three arms of government—a rare accomplishment.

1. In the Executive

He was appointed Minister of Commerce, Attorney General, and later Minister of Justice and Constitutional Affairs during the formative years of the NRM government. He played a key role in reorganizing Uganda’s legal and commercial institutions.

2. In the Legislature

As a member of the Constituent Assembly (1994–1995), he chaired the Legal and Drafting Committee that shaped the 1995 Constitution—a progressive document that emphasized the separation of powers, rule of law, and fundamental rights.

3. In the Judiciary

In 1997, he was appointed to the Supreme Court of Uganda, serving until 2009. His tenure was marked by bold judgments, legal brilliance, and fierce independence.

Through each of these arms, he consistently upheld the same principles: fairness, justice, truth, and loyalty to the Constitution—not to men.

A Judge Who Chose Principle Over Popularity

The 2006 Election Petition

In a landmark moment, Professor Kanyeihamba was among the few judges who voted to nullify President Yoweri Museveni’s controversial re-election, citing massive electoral irregularities. While the majority upheld the results, he dissented—firmly and fearlessly.

That dissent cost him. His term at the African Court on Human and Peoples’ Rights was quietly terminated. But even in the face of political retaliation, he remained steadfast. "A judge must not fear to stand alone for the truth," he famously said.

Condemning Executive Overreach

He openly criticized the 2005 siege of the High Court by armed security operatives who rearrested treason suspects granted bail. He called it a "rape of justice"—a rare moment when a sitting Supreme Court judge directly condemned state abuse.

His voice echoed far beyond the courtroom—it resounded through corridors of power and classrooms alike.

The Scholar and Teacher of a Generation

Though his robes bore the weight of the nation’s justice, his heart always beat for the classroom. He lectured at Cardiff, Portsmouth, Coventry, and Makerere University, mentoring a generation of lawyers, judges, politicians, and public servants.

He authored over 30 legal texts, many of which remain prescribed reading in East African law schools. Key among them:

Constitutional Law and Government in Uganda (1975)

Kanyeihamba’s Commentaries on Law, Politics and Governance (2006)

Constitutional and Political History of Uganda: From 1894 to Present (2010)

As Chancellor of Kampala International University and Kabale University, he championed academic freedom and promoted integrity over convenience. His legacy isn’t only in the courtroom—it lives in libraries, classrooms, and the minds of all who passed through his lectures.

He Has Been Laid to Rest — But What Now?

On July 18, 2025, Uganda buried a national treasure. The ceremony in Fort Portal was marked by solemnity, honor, and praise. President Museveni described him as a “patriot” and “architect of Uganda’s legal foundation.” The judiciary called him a “pillar of justice.” Parliament observed moments of silence. Professors eulogized him as the “colossus of constitutional law.”

But praise without change is hollow.

The greatest tribute to Professor Kanyeihamba is not naming buildings after him. It is leading the country the way he believed it should be led—with honesty, courage, and constitutional discipline.

What Uganda’s Leaders Must Learn From His Life

1. Defend the Constitution Relentlessly

The 1995 Constitution, which Kanyeihamba helped draft, has been frequently amended, often to serve short-term political interests. The removal of age limits in 2017, for instance, was a betrayal of the very spirit Kanyeihamba fought for.

If our leaders are sincere, they must resist constitutional manipulation, respect term limits, and allow institutions to function without executive interference.

2. Protect Judicial Independence

Kanyeihamba’s legacy is a warning against the subjugation of the judiciary. Government must ensure that judges are appointed based on merit, protected from political interference, and allowed to make decisions without fear of reprisal.

3. Eradicate Corruption From the Roots

He hated corruption, often describing it as "a virus in the bloodstream of governance." Government must empower the Inspectorate of Government, Auditor General, and anti-corruption courts to prosecute even the most politically connected.

4. Institutionalize Civic Education

He believed a democracy is only as strong as its citizens are informed. Civic education should be made compulsory in schools and community centers. Ugandans must know their rights and responsibilities under the Constitution he helped build.

5. Create A Legacy Institution in His Name

Establishing a George Kanyeihamba Institute for Constitutional Governance, or a national fellowship for ethical leadership, would be a living monument more meaningful than any statue or street name.

The Shame of Burying Ideas With the Man

If Kanyeihamba’s ideas are buried with him, we will have committed national suicide. His legacy is not in his name; it is in what we do next.

Every politician who eulogized him must ask:

Have I upheld the rule of law?

Have I championed justice?

Have I empowered institutions or suffocated them?

Every judge who honored him must ask:

Do I fear to dissent?

Have I stood for truth in the face of pressure?

Every student who read his books must ask:

Am I a tool of the system, or a reformer of it?

To bury the man and not his message is our task.

Closing the Grave, Opening a New Chapter

As the red soil of Fort Portal was shoveled over his casket, many wept not just for the man, but for the Uganda he envisioned. A Uganda where the law is supreme, justice blind, leaders accountable, and citizens empowered.

Let us not reduce Professor Kanyeihamba’s funeral to a footnote in history. Let it be a turning point. A moment when Uganda finally rises to fulfill its constitutional destiny.

Because only then—only then—will his soul rest in true peace.

Let us stop burying giants and start raising their ideas.

Let us stop reciting tributes and start living their truths.

Let us not just say, “Rest in Peace.” Let us say, “Rise in Purpose.”

Because if we truly live by the values he taught, then he will never die. He will live

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

Uganda’s Crisis of Leadership: Incompetence or a Deliberate Design to Keep Ugandans Suffering?

Date: July 26, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

Uganda as a nation, is richly endowed with natural beauty, immense human capital, and boundless potential. But beneath its rolling hills, majestic lakes, and youthful population lies a country riddled with chronic mismanagement, reactive leadership, and a glaring absence of strategic planning. The question many Ugandans are now boldly asking is: Are our leaders merely incompetent, or do they intentionally want us to suffer?

From erratic public policies to wasteful infrastructure practices, Uganda’s governance system increasingly appears like a tragic comedy of errors. Decisions are made without foresight, implemented without coordination, and reversed without accountability — leaving the average citizen frustrated, confused, and burdened by the very government that should be serving them.

The Cost of Half-Baked Policies

A functioning nation relies on well-thought-out policies rooted in research, consultation, and long-term vision. In Uganda, however, policy is often more like a roadside vendor’s menu — constantly changing depending on the mood, money, or political agenda of the day.

Take infrastructure development, for example. In Kampala and other urban centres, it is not uncommon to see a newly paved road being dug up just months after construction. First for internet fiber cables, then water pipes, then sewer lines, and finally, perhaps another drainage channel. It is a cycle of destruction, reconstruction, and destruction again.

For instance, the Kabuusu-Bunamwaya-Lweza Road was launched with fanfare, yet sections were dug up repeatedly within just two years of its construction. And this is not an isolated case. From Namugongo to Bweyogerere, and from Ntinda to Kyaliwajjala, residents will tell you the same tale — new roads that barely survive before being drilled again. This is not just embarrassing — it’s wasteful. It’s a sign of systemic rot.

Beautify Today, Destroy Tomorrow: A Tale of Trees and Taxes

In another bewildering episode of Uganda’s policy reversals, city authorities embarked on an ambitious tree planting campaign in Kampala. Trees were planted in the name of beautifying the city and combating climate change. Taxi operators were taxed, and shop owners were levied in the name of “city development.” Billboards lauded the initiative, and speeches were made praising “green urban planning.”

But barely three years later, those same trees were cut down — some to widen roads, others to pave way for more concrete structures. This happened along Jinja Road, parts of Kololo, and sections of Nsambya where flowering and mature trees, planted using taxpayer funds, were reduced to logs without meaningful consultation.

This contradiction tells us that either leaders never meant what they said about urban greening, or they plan in reverse — acting first, thinking later. “We are cutting them to plant better ones,” some officials said. But Ugandans are not fools. One cannot spend millions to plant trees, only to spend millions again to destroy them — unless the goal is to burn public funds.

The Lubowa Hospital Debacle: A Case Study in Misplaced Priorities

Perhaps the clearest symbol of Uganda’s reckless planning and policy misalignment is the Lubowa Specialized Hospital project. Launched in 2019, the government guaranteed over USD 379 million to an Italian investor to build a world-class hospital that would treat Ugandans and reduce medical tourism abroad.

Fast forward to 2025: there is still no functioning hospital. Instead, there’s a fenced ghost site, allegations of embezzlement, and a Parliament that seems more complicit than alarmed. Meanwhile, ordinary Ugandans still fly to India, Turkey, and Kenya for surgeries and cancer care. How do leaders justify this?

Health centers in rural Uganda lack basic gloves. Mulago National Hospital often has no medicine. Yet billions are parked in a phantom project. This isn’t just incompetence — it reeks of collusion, betrayal, and contempt for citizens.

A Government of Firefighting, Not Forecasting

In developed cities, infrastructure is laid based on a Master Plan — a document that accounts for 10, 20, or even 50 years ahead. Roads are built with embedded utility channels to avoid future digging. Green zones are permanently preserved. Sewage, water, and data lines are mapped to avoid clashes and duplication.

In Uganda, master plans exist — at least on paper. Kampala has a Physical Development Plan, and districts have five-year development strategies. But the reality is different. What we observe instead is governance by reaction.

Only when a school collapses do we inspect structures.

Only when a major flood hits do we unclog drainages.

Only when a bridge is swept away do we remember infrastructure audits.

Only after fires gut city markets do we begin talking about urban resilience.

This model is not sustainable. Leadership by reaction is dangerous. It costs lives, money, and progress. Yet it persists, seemingly unchecked, in both national and local government.

From Namboole to Flyovers: Flashy Projects, No Maintenance

Another disturbing trait in Uganda’s leadership is the obsession with launching grand projects, but an allergy to maintaining them. Namboole Stadium was once East Africa’s pride — now it's a weed-ridden shadow of itself. The Entebbe Expressway was hailed as a flagship toll road — now it's frequently in the news for accidents, poor lighting, and incomplete access roads.

Even Kampala’s much-hyped flyover projects, financed by loans from the Japan International Cooperation Agency (JICA), have taken years with little communication to the public. Meanwhile, business around the construction areas is paralyzed, traffic diverted, and dust fills the lungs of vendors and commuters.

Planning isn’t just about building. It’s about sustainability, engagement, and future-proofing. Uganda’s planning stops at ribbon-cutting — the rest is an afterthought.

Broken Promises, Betrayed Hopes: Voices from the Ground

In Mbale, residents remember how their town was declared a “model city.” The roads were to be upgraded, waste management reformed, and urban sprawl controlled. Five years later, many of those roads are back to dust. The waste trucks arrive once a week, and open drainage remains a public health hazard.

In Arua, vendors were forced out of markets “temporarily” to allow redevelopment. But temporary turned into permanent, and many now operate under umbrellas in rain and shine, while their promised stalls remain ghost shells.

In Masaka, a city upgraded with celebration, residents now complain that potholes have only changed names. They remain the same dangerous holes. These voices aren’t just complaints — they are cries of betrayal. When people pay taxes and obey rules, they expect dignity. Not just laws. Not just slogans.

Incompetence or Calculated Neglect?

Let’s revisit the core question: Are our leaders clueless, or cruel by design?

If it is incompetence, we would expect frequent reshuffling, performance audits, and resignations. But Uganda’s governance culture protects failure. Ministers who preside over collapsed programs are recycled, not removed. Even Parliament rarely censures disastrous leadership.

If it is intentional, then it means suffering is being used as a political tool. A desperate, poor, and divided population is easier to control. When people are too busy fetching water or dodging floods, they don’t organize protests. They don’t ask about oil revenues. They don't scrutinize defense budgets or offshore accounts. Is this the game being played? Either way, the outcome is the same: Ugandans suffer.

Where Is the National Planning Authority?

Uganda does have a National Planning Authority (NPA). It has developed impressive frameworks like: Vision 2040; National Development Plans I–IV;Third National Development Plan (NDPIII) which focuses on industrialization, infrastructure, and human capital.

But these plans are often undermined by lack of implementation, duplication of roles, underfunding, and political interference.

If a district chairman wants a new road for political mileage, it often takes precedence over technical priorities. When international loans arrive, they are allocated more based on patronage networks than actual need. Even where NPA recommends policy coherence, ministries act in silos. Each does what pleases its top officials, not what benefits the country.

The Hypocrisy of “Service Delivery”

In official speeches, Ugandan leaders preach about “service delivery.” But service delivery has become an illusion. What exactly is being delivered? Is it the ghost hospitals with no staff? The classrooms without teachers? The markets without toilets? The roads that exist on maps but not on the ground?

Meanwhile, those in power live like foreign dignitaries. Their children attend international schools. Their medical trips are fully covered. Their fuel is paid for. Their homes are guarded. They don’t feel what Ugandans feel.

As the Acholi proverb says, “The monkey does not see its own tail — only the tails of others.” Our leaders do not feel their own failures because they are insulated from their consequences.

What Must Be Done?

If Uganda is to avoid collapsing under the weight of its own dysfunction, certain urgent reforms are non-negotiable:

Strengthen Institutions: Empower planning authorities with legal and financial independence.

Punish Poor Performance: Leaders who mismanage funds or deliver failed projects must be publicly dismissed and prosecuted.

Citizen Oversight: Encourage communities to track projects, budgets, and timelines using digital tools and public barazas.

Decentralize Meaningfully: Let districts and municipalities plan based on local needs, not top-down political agendas.

Reward Merit, Not Loyalty: Appoint professionals based on qualifications, not tribal or political affiliation.

Enforce Planning Laws: Make it illegal to implement any government project without a long-term, budgeted, and coordinated plan.

The Time for Silence Is Over

Ugandans are tired. They are tired of leadership that thinks in election cycles instead of generations. They are tired of plans that live in offices while chaos reigns in the streets. They are tired of paying taxes that deliver no visible results. And they are tired of leaders who treat the country like their personal playground.

As the Luganda proverb says, “He who fears to speak will die with his secret.”

Uganda is bleeding from a thousand wounds — many of them avoidable, most of them self-inflicted. Whether it is out of incompetence or a grand scheme to oppress, the outcome is the same: Ugandans are paying the price of broken systems and unaccountable leadership.

It is time to demand a different Uganda. One where roads are not dug up twice. One where trees are not cut after being planted at a cost. One where hospitals are not empty shells and public offices not family empires. One where planning is sacred, leadership is humble, and public funds are sacred.

As the proverb says, “ It is the cry of the chick that drives the hawk away.” Silence has allowed mediocrity to reign. It is time for Ugandans to cry out.

This country is too beautiful to be governed so poorly. Its people are too hardworking to be condemned to decades of potholes, empty hospitals, and failed policies. Whether the problem is incompetence or calculated neglect, the suffering is real — and it must stop. Leadership must stop being a comfort zone for the privileged and start becoming a service station for the people.

Uganda deserves better — and if those in charge won’t give it, the people must demand it. Loudly. Relentlessly. Peacefully. But firmly.

Because enough is enough. Ugandans deserve better — not tomorrow, but now.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

The Hypocrisy of Patriotism: Why I Refuse to Be Blackmailed by BUBU

Date: July 25, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

"A hen cannot be told to love the coop while the owner dines on chicken from the supermarket." – there goes the saying.

Let’s get this clear right from the start: I love Uganda. I was born here, I live here, and I will likely be buried in this soil. I am not one of those who pretend that life is better abroad simply because it is foreign. No, I know the value of home, the sweetness of the Luganda tongue, the warmth of our communities, the rich soil that feeds us, and the unmatched resilience of the Ugandan spirit. But there comes a time when love of country must be separated from the blind loyalty that is demanded by those who, ironically, show no love for their own motherland.

You cannot, in good conscience, ask me to be patriotic while you wear Italian suits, take your children to school in Canada, and treat your illnesses in India. Patriotism is not a one-way street. You don’t demand it from the masses while exempting yourself from its responsibilities. That is not patriotism—it’s exploitation.

Buy Uganda, Build Uganda (BUBU): A Noble Policy Gone Rogue

The idea behind BUBU is noble. It aims to promote local production, support indigenous businesses, and retain wealth within Uganda’s economy. On paper, it makes perfect sense. In reality, however, it has become a veil—thin and transparent—behind which lies state hypocrisy, double standards, and economic bullying.

Government ministries demand that citizens buy Ugandan products. Yet, when those same ministries are procuring supplies or services, they look abroad. When it's time to construct hospitals or buy medicine, tenders are given to Chinese companies or drugs imported from Europe, even when local manufacturers exist. When it's time to eat, they dine on imported wine and cheese while lecturing peasants on the importance of local cassava and posho.

Let’s be real. What we have isn’t BUBU; it’s selective BUBU—a version that only applies to the poor. For the political class, foreign is prestige. For the struggling vendor or boda rider, patriotism becomes an obligation.

The Politics of Poor Quality: Why Are Ugandan Goods Often Subpar?

One of the main reasons Ugandans hesitate to buy local products is quality. This is not about self-hate or colonial hangovers. It is about value for money. Would you rather buy a Ugandan-made pair of shoes that lasts three weeks, or a Turkish one that lasts three years?

Manufacturers often blame this on lack of support from Ugandans, but the truth is many of them don’t invest in quality because they know there is no accountability. Some local producers hide behind slogans like "Buy Uganda, Build Uganda" to dump poor-quality products on loyal citizens. And when we complain, we’re called unpatriotic.

But patriotism should not mean tolerating mediocrity. It should mean demanding excellence from ourselves and from each other. If we are to support local industries, then those industries must respect us by producing goods that meet global standards.

Why is it that when Ugandan manufacturers export, they manage to produce better versions of the same product? Why are our best coffee beans sold in Europe while we drink the worst? Why do Ugandan pineapples fetch high prices in Qatar, yet our own markets are flooded with chemically-treated, overripe fruits?

If you’re going to ask me to buy Ugandan, then sell me something worth my money. Otherwise, that’s not patriotism—it’s extortion.

Leadership Without Example

President Museveni and his government frequently preach patriotism and self-reliance. But let’s take a hard look at the facts. The Presidential jet is not Ugandan-made. The medicines used by our top officials are not locally produced. Even their favorite foods—salmon, cheese, fine wine—are not Ugandan.

Ugandan leaders routinely fly out for basic medical check-ups. The late Speaker Jacob Oulanyah died in a hospital in Seattle, USA. Why? Because the local hospitals were not good enough. But who is responsible for making them good enough if not those same leaders?

The hypocrisy is glaring. How can I be told to sacrifice for a country whose leaders have never sacrificed anything for its people? How can I be told to love what you yourself despise?

The tragedy is not that Ugandan hospitals are bad. The tragedy is that those responsible for improving them have zero incentive to do so, because they will never need them. And until leadership begins to lead by example, all this talk about BUBU and patriotism will remain empty rhetoric.

Favoritism in the Name of Investment

Let’s talk about the elephant in the room: China. In the name of foreign direct investment, our government has opened every door to Chinese companies. They are given tax holidays, free land, and preferential treatment in contracts. Meanwhile, Ugandan businesses struggle to survive under mountains of taxes and bureaucracy.

Many Chinese companies flood the market with low-cost, low-quality goods—often worse than what local manufacturers can produce. But because of their economies of scale and political connections, they outcompete Ugandan businesses. Ironically, these same Chinese companies then become the beneficiaries of government tenders, while Ugandan firms are told to "improve their competitiveness."

So let me get this straight: I should buy local, but you give every opportunity to foreigners? I should be loyal to Ugandan brands, but you partner with companies that barely hire Ugandans, repatriate their profits, and sell us poor-quality goods?

If patriotism means protecting our economy, then it must start by regulating who gets to do business in Uganda and under what conditions. We must not allow foreign companies to exploit Ugandans under the banner of investment while local companies die from neglect.

The Real Patriotism Uganda Needs

True patriotism is not about buying Ugandan for the sake of it. It's about building a country where Ugandan goods are the best because they are made with love, innovation, and integrity. It’s about creating industries where our youth can find meaningful employment, not just exploitative factory jobs. It’s about building hospitals where our leaders are proud to be treated, not ashamed.

Patriotism is about equality. If I am to make sacrifices for my country, then so should you—the minister, the MP, the commissioner. If I am to buy Ugandan toothpaste, then so should your children in London. If I am to trust Ugandan doctors, then so should the First Family. Otherwise, what you’re demanding is not patriotism—it’s compliance.

BUBU Should Mean Building Up Better Uganda

There is a way to make BUBU work. But it must begin with honesty and fairness.

Enforce quality standards. The Uganda National Bureau of Standards must stop being a toothless dog. If a local manufacturer produces substandard goods, they must be held accountable. If they produce high-quality goods, they must be promoted aggressively both locally and abroad.

Lead by example. Every government institution must be required to procure at least 80% of their supplies locally—if and only if those supplies meet minimum quality standards. Let Parliament chairs be Ugandan-made. Let our police uniforms be stitched in Mbale. Let ministers drive cars assembled in Uganda.

Equalize the playing field. Remove the tax privileges of foreign companies unless they meet strict criteria on local employment, technology transfer, and fair competition. Level the field so that Ugandan companies can compete fairly.

Invest in capacity building. Provide grants, not just loans, to help local businesses improve quality. Fund research and development. Create local incubators and design hubs to support entrepreneurs.

Public-private partnerships. Build industrial parks, but prioritize local participation. Ensure Ugandan engineers, not just foreign ones, are involved in infrastructure projects. Stop outsourcing everything to Chinese contractors.

When Public Service Becomes Public Suffering

Across the education sector, health services, transport systems, and even waste management, Ugandans encounter more frustration than facilitation. Public hospitals lack medicine, yet government officials seek treatment in Nairobi, India, or Dubai. Government schools are underfunded, but leaders send their children abroad. Roads are crumbling, but ministers drive in taxpayer-funded luxury SUVs. There is a pattern here — a culture of "one Uganda, two systems."

The leaders live in a Uganda of comfort, while the rest endure a Uganda of chaos. When citizens raise their voices, they are told to be “patriotic” — as if blind obedience is a form of national pride. But patriotism is not about suffering in silence. It is about holding your leaders accountable for their responsibilities.

The Weaponization of Patriotism

In many African countries, patriotism has been weaponized. It is used to silence critics, to suppress dissent, and to demand loyalty even when the state has failed to earn it. In Uganda, this has become especially dangerous.

Criticize the government, and you are labeled a saboteur. Complain about service delivery, and you are told you hate your country. Refuse to buy local soap that burns your skin, and you are accused of undermining the economy.

This is not patriotism. It is psychological warfare.

A government that truly wants to build patriotism must first build trust. And you cannot build trust while looting national resources, silencing critics, and rewarding incompetence. You cannot build patriotism while failing to protect local farmers from exploitative middlemen or giving wetlands to foreign investors in the name of development.

Real patriotism is born from pride. If I am proud of my country, I will support it. But pride must be earned. It cannot be commanded.

I Love My Country, But I Will Not Be Abused

Let me say it once more for those in the back: I love Uganda. I support local businesses. I eat in local restaurants. I wear Ugandan fabric. But I will not be guilt-tripped into buying poor-quality products simply to make someone rich. I will not be told to tighten my belt while those in power grow fat on foreign deals.

I will not be blackmailed by slogans. Patriotism cannot be dictated—it must be inspired. If you want me to buy Ugandan, make it worth buying. If you want me to be patriotic, show me a country that respects me back.

Until then, I say no to performative patriotism. I say no to selective BUBU.I say no to double standards. Because loving my country should not mean accepting less than I deserve.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

Uganda is Not Your Father’s Property: The Shameful Dance of Power and the Betrayal of the People’s Mandate

Date: July 20, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

“When a leader becomes so drunk on power that he forgets who he serves, he starts to think the village well is his private bathroom.” — An African proverb.

Uganda, our beloved Pearl of Africa, has seen many chapters. From the hopeful chants of independence in 1962 to the brutal years of Idi Amin and Obote, we have carried scars and triumphs alike. Yet, despite our painful past, we cling to the idea of democracy — that the power belongs to the people, not the throne. But in recent years, that hope has become a bitter taste in our mouths, thanks to a leader who has decided that Uganda is his personal estate and its people are mere tenants at his mercy.

The Audacity of Impunity

President Yoweri Kaguta Museveni’s recent remarks, dripping with arrogance and ignorance, have left many Ugandans stunned and heartbroken. During his countrywide tours and rallies, he is reported to have told citizens, “You didn’t give me votes last time; that’s why you don’t have services,” and on another occasion, “Let those who voted for you provide services for you.”

Okay, I would like to believe him: "I", "we", "they" did not give him votes in some places, but he got votes that he claims got him into power. My question stands: Do those places where he claimed votes anywhere near Dubai? Are they shimmering cities of gold? Do they enjoy state-of-the-art hospitals, flyovers, and uninterrupted electricity? Or do they, too, struggle with potholes deep enough to bury a cow, clinics without gloves, and schools where children study under mango trees?

This question is not meant to insult, but to awaken. To remind us that a leader’s duty is not a gift but an obligation. It is not a favor, but a constitutional mandate

Imagine a father telling one child, “Because you didn’t greet me yesterday, you shall starve today,” while feeding the other children to their fill. It sounds absurd, doesn’t it? Yet that is the logic our president has adopted — a tragic betrayal of the very idea of leadership and public service.

A Leader’s Duty Beyond the Ballot

A president is not a tribal chief distributing meat only to loyal warriors. He is the embodiment of the national will. Article 1 of Uganda’s 1995 Constitution is crystal clear: “All power belongs to the people who shall exercise their sovereignty in accordance with this Constitution.” The people — not the president, not the NRM, not State House.

Article 21 guarantees equality and freedom from discrimination, while Article 38 insists that every Ugandan has a right to participate in the affairs of government, individually or through representatives. Nowhere does it say that access to roads, hospitals, water, and schools is a gift to be bestowed only upon the obedient voter.

Public funds are not drawn from Museveni’s cattle farms in Rwakitura. They come from taxpayers in every corner — from the fisherman in Kasenyi to the boda boda rider in Kisenyi, from the tea grower in Fort Portal to the hawker in Arua. Every Ugandan contributes to the national cake; therefore, every Ugandan deserves a fair share of services.

The Dangerous Normalization of Division

These reckless utterances do more than just sting; they deepen an already fragile national fracture. Uganda is a tapestry woven from diverse ethnicities and religions — Baganda, Basoga, Banyankole, Acholi, Iteso, Lugbara, Muslims, Christians, and traditional believers. The president’s statements fuel tribalism and regionalism, encouraging leaders and citizens to think in silos: “Those are not our people. Why should we care about them?”

This divisive politics is neither new nor accidental. In the 1990s, Museveni was celebrated as a unifier who ended years of civil war and instability. But over time, as political competition stiffened and the youth grew restless, he increasingly resorted to the colonial trick of “divide and rule.” From branding opposition supporters as “bayaye” (hooligans) to suggesting they don’t deserve government attention, he has steadily alienated millions of Ugandans.

The Constitution is Supreme — or Is It?

It is a painful irony. The same man who once proudly declared that Africa’s problem is leaders who overstay in power now treats the constitution as a personal diary — to be rewritten at his whim.

In 2005, presidential term limits were scrapped. In 2017, the age limit was lifted, allowing him to contest again at 76. All these amendments happened amid brutal crackdowns on opposition voices and protests — a clear sign that the people’s mandate had been hijacked.

What do we see now? A leader who, rather than embracing constitutional principles, weaponizes state services to punish dissenting regions. The constitution ceases to be a covenant between leaders and citizens; it becomes an ornamental document, showcased when convenient.

When Arrogance Meets Ignorance

Museveni’s statements are not just offensive; they betray a deep ignorance about modern governance. Public service is not a campaign gift. In advanced democracies, presidents often lose in certain states or constituencies, yet development and services continue as normal. In the United States, President Biden, the 46th American president,didn’t say Texas shouldn’t receive disaster relief because it voted Republican.

By suggesting otherwise, Museveni reduces governance to a transactional game: “Vote for me, or starve.” This is dangerous. It turns elections from a sacred civic duty into a fearful barter, where people are forced to sell their conscience for a school, a borehole, or a health center.

A Legacy of Fear and Silence

For over three decades, Ugandans have been told to keep quiet. Journalists are jailed, activists are tortured, opposition rallies blocked. The state has become an all-seeing eye, with intelligence agencies planted even in market stalls.

People now whisper their political opinions in taxis and hush each other in shops. It is fear so deep that even family gatherings are guarded.

Yet, what they fail to realize is that when leaders choose to neglect certain populations, they create pockets of resentment. Young people without hope become fertile ground for radicalization, violence, and crime. Instead of nation-building, we get nation-breaking.

The Human Cost

These reckless words are not abstract insults; they translate into real human suffering.

In Karamoja, families still walk kilometers for water. In Northern Uganda, some schools lack roofs, and children sit on dusty floors. In parts of Busoga, mothers give birth on muddy floors because health centers have no equipment. In downtown Kampala, garbage overflows because urban poor communities are neglected.

Imagine telling these mothers that they deserve this because they dared to choose a different leader. It is a level of cruelty unworthy of a village elder, let alone a head of state.

Those Who Cheer: The Accomplices

The president’s accomplices, often ministers and MPs, echo these divisive statements shamelessly. They cheer, clap, and feed off people’s ignorance, as if they are medieval lords overseeing peasants. They forget that they, too, are servants, bound by the same constitution to serve all, regardless of politics.

It is these accomplices who justify land grabs, protect corrupt contractors, and announce ghost roads and ghost hospitals. They silence local leaders who dare to raise concerns and brand them “saboteurs” or “enemies of development.”

The Myth of Eternal Power

History is replete with leaders who believed they would rule forever. Where are they now?

Mobutu Sese Seko of Zaire was once considered untouchable. He died in exile, a lonely man.

Muammar Gaddafi ruled Libya with an iron fist for 42 years. He was dragged out of a drainage pipe by his own people.

Robert Mugabe ruled Zimbabwe for nearly 40 years, only to be ousted and left to watch his legacy unravel.

In each case, the same arrogance — the same belief that power is eternal and services are favors — led to their fall. Leaders forget that the people’s patience is not infinite.

Uganda: A Nation or a Farm?

When Museveni says, “You didn’t give me votes,” he implies ownership — as if Uganda is his farm and we are the cattle. But Uganda is a republic, not a ranch.

Public resources belong to the republic. Services are a right, not a presidential gift basket. If a child in Rakai is denied a textbook because their parent voted differently, it is a crime against humanity, a betrayal of the social contract.

Silence is Not Consent

Some may argue that Ugandans accept this because they do not protest in large numbers. But silence should never be mistaken for agreement. It is often the silence of fear, exhaustion, or despair.

A mother whose child has malaria and cannot afford treatment does not have the luxury to protest in the streets. A farmer trying to escape poverty cannot risk arrest. But deep inside, hearts are boiling with anger and betrayal.

The media, though heavily intimidated, must refuse to normalize these statements. Journalists must remember they are not mouthpieces of State House but the voice of the voiceless.

Civil society organizations must reawaken civic education, reminding citizens of their rights and responsibilities. It is their duty to teach that services are funded by taxes, not by presidential generosity.

Museveni and his entourage must be reminded: Uganda is not your father’s property. The constitution is not your personal diary. Public funds are not your private wallet.

When you stand on a podium and mock citizens who dared to vote otherwise, you spit in the faces of freedom fighters who died for universal suffrage. You insult the memory of those who marched for independence. You betray the faith of every taxpayer who toils from dawn to dusk.

Some suggest that these leaders should be stripped of their positions. While this is politically and legally complex, it highlights the depth of public anger. If leaders cannot serve all citizens equally, they should step aside.

Democracy cannot be reduced to a marketplace where services are sold to the highest bidder or most loyal voter. True leadership demands serving even those who insult you, who campaign against you, who refuse to bow.

We must rebuild civic consciousness. We must teach our children that a borehole, a health center, or a road is not a presidential favor. It is a constitutional right.

We must reject leaders who campaign with sacks of money and petty gifts. We must hold town hall meetings, write letters, use social media responsibly, and vote with our conscience.

Above all, we must remember the proverb: “A tree that refuses to dance with the wind will eventually break.” The leaders who refuse to bend to the will of the people will ultimately fall, however long it takes.

Our Shared Duty

Uganda is not for sale. Uganda is not a family farm. Uganda is a republic — a collective dream, a shared inheritance.

We must rise, not with stones and guns, but with pens, ballots, and voices. We must demand that services be given to every child, every mother, every elder, regardless of their vote.

Museveni and his cheerleaders must know: leadership is not about punishing dissent; it is about healing wounds and building bridges.

The sun will set on every reign, no matter how long it burns. And when that day comes, may history remember who stood with the people and who mocked them.

Because Uganda deserves better. Because every Ugandan child deserves a chance — not because of a vote, but because they are human, because they are Ugandan.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

Uganda’s Beautiful Laws and the Season of Selective Enforcement: The Dance Before Elections

Date: July 13, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

The law is often likened to a mother: nurturing, fair, firm, and ever-present to guide her children onto the right path. But in Uganda, this mother sometimes forgets some children while disciplining others with utmost strictness. As we approach the 2026 general elections, this duality in the application of laws becomes not only obvious but even more pronounced and, some would say, grotesque.

It is true — Uganda’s legal framework is, on paper, among the best in Africa, and by some standards, among the best in the world. Our Constitution is hailed as progressive, our statutory laws robust, and our institutions — the judiciary, parliament, electoral commission — are designed to function independently and uphold the sanctity of justice. Yet, as the Swahili say, “Mchungaji mzuri hufuga kondoo wake wote, si baadhi tu” (A good shepherd tends all his sheep, not just some).

But what happens when the law is selectively applied? What happens when the rule of law becomes the rule of convenience? The months leading up to Uganda’s general elections provide the most vivid example of this selective motherhood — a time when laws are bent, suspended, or reinterpreted, depending on who you are and which poster you carry on your taxi windscreen.

Uganda’s Legal Framework: A Golden Book

Uganda’s 1995 Constitution is considered one of the most progressive constitutions in Africa. It enshrines human rights, freedom of expression, freedom of association, and equal treatment before the law. It even has elaborate provisions for environmental protection, minority rights, and gender equality.

Complementing the Constitution are laws such as the Penal Code Act, Traffic and Road Safety Act, the Public Order Management Act (POMA), and the Local Government Act, among many others. Together, these laws paint a picture of a country determined to build a just and orderly society.

Ask any law student at Makerere or Uganda Christian University, and they will proudly recite the preambles, quote articles on human dignity, and cite judgments where courts have defended rights. Indeed, Uganda’s judiciary has at times stood firm — from the famous Susan Kigula death penalty case to rulings nullifying election results due to irregularities.

However, as a Luganda proverb warns, “Amagezi g’omusajja tegamulabisa buto” (A man’s wisdom cannot prevent him from making mistakes). Our well-written laws do not guarantee their even-handed enforcement.

The Dance of Elections: Laws for Some, Freedoms for Others

Elections in Uganda are not mere exercises in democracy; they are festivals. A time of song, dance, brand new T-shirts, free sugar, and, ironically, selective amnesia.

During these months, laws appear to be put on pause — but only for the right people. Downtown Kampala, for instance, becomes a lawless bazaar. Traders who previously faced harsh fines for street vending suddenly find freedom to set up anywhere: in the middle of roads, on pavements, even on roundabouts.

The Kampala Capital City Authority (KCCA), known for its relentless crackdown on street vendors, miraculously disappears or turns a blind eye. Why? Because the regime needs the support of the urban poor — a large, vocal voting bloc. Traders are allowed to flood the streets to create an illusion of economic vibrancy and freedom, yet this freedom is temporary and conditional.

The Curious Case of Traffic Laws

On normal days in Kampala, traffic police are feared as if they were a phalanx of Greek soldiers. An expired third-party insurance, a cracked windscreen, missing side mirrors — all attract immediate fines or threats of impounding your car.

Yet as elections approach, a peculiar phenomenon occurs. Drivers, especially those with the incumbent's poster on their windscreen or bumper, drive with reckless abandon. Vehicles with no lights, bald tires, or belching smoke beyond belief crisscross the city, creating mobile dust storms.

Matatus (taxis) speed past traffic lights, boda-bodas weave through jams like water through reeds, and no one stops them. The law evaporates into thin air.

Those same police officers who usually wield notebooks and issue tickets vanish or pretend not to see. Because the very politicians who demand strict enforcement during ‘peace times’ suddenly need these voters’ goodwill. A crackdown on their supporters' old vehicles might cost votes. Thus, public safety is quietly sacrificed on the altar of political expediency.

Selective Freedoms: Posters and Impunity

Uganda’sPublic Order Management Act (POMA) was created ostensibly to regulate public gatherings and maintain order. But it has become notorious for restricting opposition rallies while giving leeway to regime-aligned processions.

In these pre-election months, processions with ruling party flags can block entire highways, halt traffic for hours, and even harass bystanders. No police teargas, no baton charges.

Contrast this with opposition gatherings. A group of 15 youth wearing red berets singing "Tuliyambala Engule" might be labeled an "illegal assembly," promptly dispersed with tear gas and rubber bullets.

A friend of mine who runs a car rental business shared a chilling observation: "If you want to avoid roadblocks or heavy fines, just put an incumbent candidate's poster on your windshield. Suddenly, your car becomes invisible to the law."

The Rural Dimension: Trading Law for Votes

This selective application of laws is not confined to urban centers. In rural districts, where voter mobilization often determines the election outcome, we see even more bizarre legal gymnastics.

Government trucks distribute food, salt, sugar, and other "gifts" to entire villages. Under the law, this is clearly voter bribery. The Electoral Commission guidelines strictly forbid gifts meant to induce voting behavior. Yet, no one is arrested or even cautioned. When opposition figures attempt to distribute even soap for hygiene campaigns, they are branded as corrupting voters. Their items are confiscated; their campaigns banned.

In 2021, a rural community in Eastern Uganda saw brand-new boreholes constructed overnight after residents threatened to boycott voting. Normally, borehole construction follows a strict procurement process, environmental impact assessment, and budgeting approval. Yet here, urgency overrides all.

The people are happy in the moment — water flows, children dance. But after elections, many of these boreholes break down within months due to poor workmanship and zero maintenance plans. The same laws that were supposed to ensure quality public service delivery are ignored.

Legal Institutions: Watchdogs or Lapdogs?

Uganda’s judiciary is often referred to as the last hope of the common man. Judges have at times issued landmark judgments against powerful interests. But during election seasons, the judiciary is often perceived as treading carefully, like a cat crossing a flooded rice field.

The Electoral Commission, mandated to ensure free and fair elections, finds itself both referee and player. While it has powers to sanction illegal activities, it occasionally issues vague statements instead of firm decisions.

Law enforcement agencies, which should serve as impartial guardians of the law, become tools of selective repression. An old woman selling mangoes on a city street without a license may face a heavy fine or confiscation during "normal" months. Yet now, she can hawk mangoes on a flyover bridge if it pleases the local mobilizer.

The Media: Law as a Storyline

During elections, media houses transform from watchdogs to lapdogs or propaganda megaphones, depending on where their loyalties lie.

Regulatory bodies such as the Uganda Communications Commission (UCC) have broad powers to suspend, fine, or shut down stations. Opposition voices are often cut off mid-broadcast; journalists covering opposition rallies are harassed or arrested. Meanwhile, those covering ruling party events get prime airtime and protection. The law guarantees freedom of the press, yet, during these months, this freedom is rationed like wartime sugar.

The Downstream Effects: Erosion of Public Trust

A wise old man in Mbale once told me, “Akayinja akali ku mugga tekasibwa” (A stone already in the river cannot be removed easily). Once the public perceives that the law only applies to certain people, trust begins to evaporate.

If a boda-boda rider sees a fellow rider escaping punishment for reckless driving because he wears a ruling party T-shirt, why should he obey traffic laws?

If a downtown vendor is allowed to sell on the roads during elections, why would she willingly vacate afterwards?

These inconsistencies breed a culture of impunity that transcends elections. The short-term strategy to win votes turns into a long-term governance headache. After elections, when authorities attempt to restore order, it often sparks resentment and violent clashes. People feel betrayed, and enforcement efforts are labeled as political witch-hunts.

The Cost to Society

Selective law enforcement does not happen in a vacuum; it has real consequences.

Economic Cost

When downtown traders occupy roads, formal businesses suffer reduced foot traffic. Tourists and investors witness chaotic urban management, discouraging investment. Transport inefficiencies due to reckless driving increase accident rates, insurance claims, and healthcare burdens.

Social Cost

Inequality becomes further entrenched. Those aligned with power continue to enjoy privileges, while others bear the brunt of enforcement. This deepens divisions and fuels resentment.

Psychological Cost

Citizens develop a sense of helplessness and cynicism. If laws are only for the weak or for the "unconnected," the belief in justice and fairness dies. Once this social contract breaks, it becomes difficult to rebuild.

Historical Context: A Cycle of Convenience

Uganda is no stranger to electoral periods marred by selective law enforcement.

In 2011, downtown Kampala traders were "allowed" to operate with minimal interference as long as they rallied behind the regime. In 2016, motorcycle taxis without registration flooded city streets to mobilize support. In 2021, COVID-19 restrictions were strictly applied to opposition gatherings, yet large ruling party rallies proceeded unhindered.

Each cycle reinforces the belief that laws are not universal but rather tactical weapons wielded in a game of power.

Towards 2026: Déjà Vu or Reform?

As 2026 looms, signs indicate a repeat of past patterns. Already, downtown traders are preparing to reclaim road spaces; taxi drivers have started printing incumbent posters to gain immunity from traffic enforcement.

Political observers warn that unless this cycle is broken, the law will continue to lose its moral authority. If the law is seen as a sword used against enemies rather than a shield protecting all, democracy itself is imperiled.

The Path Forward: Reclaiming the Rule of Law

To restore faith in the legal system, Uganda must move from selective enforcement to universal application.

Strengthen Institutions

The judiciary and the Electoral Commission must operate free of political interference. Appointments should be transparent, and funding independent to prevent coercion.

Civic Education

Voters must understand that the short-term "freedom" to sell in roads or drive recklessly costs them in the long run. True democracy thrives when everyone obeys the same laws.

Accountability for Law Enforcers

Police and regulatory bodies must be held accountable for selective enforcement. There should be independent oversight bodies with real power to investigate and punish misuse of authority.

Political Will

Ultimately, the tone is set at the top. If leaders commit to upholding the law regardless of political calculations, their followers will comply. This requires courage and statesmanship over short-term vote hunting.

The Law is a Mirror

A wise African proverb says, A farmer desires the field he cultivates. Ugandans deserve a society where laws are respected, not because they fear them but because they believe in their fairness.

Uganda’s laws are indeed among the best crafted globally — the problem is not the book but the reader. As we approach the 2026 general elections, the challenge is clear: will the law be the mother to all, or continue as a selective disciplinarian?

Will Kampala’s roads become vending arcades once again, only to erupt into chaos post-election? Will old taxis with incumbent posters continue to speed past police officers without consequence?

In these questions lies Uganda’s true test — not just of democracy, but of national integrity. The law is a mirror reflecting who we are. In the months to come, as campaign songs blare and streets overflow with unlicensed traders, every Ugandan must ask: what image do we wish to see staring back at us?

A country where the law bows to power, or a country where power bows to the law?

Only then will Uganda’s beautiful legal architecture transform from mere ink on paper into a living testament to justice, equality, and progress.

— Written in the spirit of truth and love for Uganda, our motherland.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

Africa's Betrayed Blackboards: How Neglecting Teachers and Education Keeps the Continent Shackled

Date: July 12, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

In the village square, an elder once said, "When the roots of a tree are forgotten, the branches will dry and fall." In Africa, our teachers are those very roots — the silent architects of the future, the candles burning to light the way for generations. Yet, across the continent, we have chosen to forget them. Instead of nurturing our educators and investing heavily in education — the bedrock of innovation and prosperity — we have abandoned them in dusty classrooms, underpaid, under-resourced, and demoralized. Meanwhile, the politicians they once taught dine in opulence, earning twenty times more than the very people who first taught them how to read and write.

This is not just an economic tragedy but a moral disgrace that speaks volumes about Africa’s misplaced priorities. As Western and Asian countries surge ahead — sending rockets to space, mastering robotics, and dominating global trade — Africa lags behind, perpetually stuck in a cycle of poverty and dependency.

A Continent that Worships Politicians, Not Teachers

Across many African countries, teachers earn shockingly low salaries, often below the poverty line. In Uganda, for example, a primary school teacher earns about UGX 500,000 to 700,000 monthly (roughly $130 to $180). Meanwhile, members of parliament can pocket up to UGX 30 million ($8,000) per month, including allowances. The imbalance is even more grotesque when you consider that these MPs were once molded by the very hands of those underpaid teachers.

In Nigeria, teachers sometimes go for months without pay. In Zimbabwe, some educators have resorted to vending or farming to survive. In Kenya, frequent teacher strikes reveal the same story: meager salaries, delayed payments, and broken promises. The refrain is the same from Accra to Lusaka, from Kinshasa to Kigali.

Yet, our leaders keep calling teachers "the parents of the nation," praising them during elections or Independence Day speeches. They call them nation builders but treat them like disposable tools. As soon as elections end, promises vanish like morning dew under the African sun.

Lies, Lies, and More Lies

When teachers demand salary increments, governments employ a deadly arsenal: emotional blackmail and threats. They say, "You are the parents of the nation; if you stop teaching, our children will suffer!" They threaten dismissal, label teachers as "unpatriotic," and if all else fails, they offer a paltry 1% salary increase — a cruel joke more than a solution.

Imagine being a teacher who must stand before a crowded classroom of 60 students without chalk, without books, and sometimes even without food. Imagine going home to an empty pantry while seeing news headlines about politicians importing luxury vehicles or getting fat allowances for "consultations."

As an African proverb reminds us: "A child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth." In this case, the neglected "child" is our education system, and the "burning" is the perpetual underdevelopment, youth unemployment, and rising crime rates.

The Price of Neglect

Education is the engine of national development. The Asian Tigers — South Korea, Singapore, Taiwan, and Hong Kong — understood this early. In the 1960s, South Korea had similar GDP per capita figures to many African nations. But it invested massively in education, particularly in training teachers, building modern schools, and nurturing research. Today, South Korea stands among the world's technology giants.

Singapore, once a swampy island with no natural resources, bet heavily on education. By investing in teachers and creating a highly skilled workforce, it transformed into one of the world's wealthiest nations.

The Western world also understood that no nation can prosper without strong education foundations. Teachers in Finland are among the highest paid and most respected professionals. In Germany, vocational and technical education is heavily subsidized and celebrated. In the United States, while not perfect, teachers in many states receive continuous training and better pay scales compared to Africa.

Meanwhile, in Africa, we continue to spend billions on political campaigns, luxury SUVs for government officials, and unnecessary foreign trips. The few resources meant for education often disappear into pockets through corruption scandals.

Consequences: A Youth With No Future

Today, Africa boasts the world's youngest population. Over 60% of its people are under the age of 25. On paper, this is a massive opportunity — a demographic dividend that could drive economic growth, innovation, and social transformation. But how can we seize this chance if our children learn under mango trees, share outdated textbooks, or have teachers who moonlight as boda boda riders to survive?

Instead of producing engineers, doctors, and inventors, we produce armies of unemployed graduates who blame the system — rightfully so. Many end up as economic migrants, risking their lives in the Mediterranean, or as foot soldiers for political violence and extremist groups.

As the old saying goes, "If you close your eyes to facts, you will learn through accidents." Africa is learning the hard way. Our neglect of teachers and education has led to cycles of poverty, instability, and dependence on foreign aid.

How We Blackmail Teachers Into Silence

It is deeply shameful how African leaders manipulate teachers. They label strikes as "anti-patriotic," tell teachers they "cannot abandon the future of the nation," and invoke cultural guilt — that teaching is a calling and not a job.

This moral blackmail is strategic. It ensures that teachers continue working despite poor pay, so governments can keep allocating education budgets elsewhere or looting them. When teachers refuse to return to class, leaders quickly threaten mass firings or bring in unqualified volunteers.

This tactic only works because teachers care deeply. Many endure the pain because they love their students. But love should not be used as a weapon. Love cannot fill a stomach or pay school fees for teachers' children.

Teachers as the Source of Invention

Innovation begins in classrooms. The small sparks that ignite future inventions are lit by teachers. No scientist, entrepreneur, or leader emerges fully formed. They are molded slowly by the patient guidance of educators.

Look at China’s rise. It started with sweeping reforms in its education sector, especially rural teacher training programs in the 1980s and 1990s. India, despite challenges, produces one of the largest pools of software engineers and medical doctors because of continuous investments in education.

Yet in Africa, we talk about "industrialization," "technological leapfrogging," and "Silicon Savannahs," while refusing to fund the foundation — our teachers. We cannot talk about building rockets when children still learn under trees. We cannot talk about artificial intelligence when our schools lack electricity.

As another African proverb says, "If the axe forgets, the tree remembers." Our leaders may forget who taught them, but the neglected system will one day refuse to produce thinkers, leaving only followers and imitators.

A Tale of Two Pay Slips

Let us pause and imagine two envelopes.

In one envelope:

Salary for a teacher: UGX 600,000 ($160) per month. Delayed or unpaid for months. No allowances for housing, transport, or medical emergencies. Additional expenses: chalk, pens, sometimes even feeding students from their own pocket.

In the second envelope:

Salary for a politician: UGX 30 million ($8,000) or more per month. Regularly paid. Extra allowances: fuel, per diems, sitting allowances, "consultation" allowances, travel abroad allowances. Free healthcare, bodyguards, subsidized cars, and luxurious retreats.

The injustice is enough to break anyone’s spirit. The same teacher who taught this politician to read is left to rot in a rural school with leaking roofs and no laboratory.

The Hypocrisy of "Education is Key"

During campaign seasons, politicians scream "Education is the key to success!" Yet they lock the doors by underfunding schools and neglecting teachers. Some even prefer to send their children abroad to study — a silent confession that they do not trust their own public education systems.

In Kenya, Uganda, Nigeria, and many other countries, ministers proudly boast when their children graduate from Harvard or Oxford. Meanwhile, rural schools in their constituencies lack latrines and clean water.

What message does this send to the youth? That education is important only if you can escape Africa? That public schools are for the poor while the rich seek quality abroad?

Africa Cannot Develop Without Heavy Investment in Education

If Africa is to rise, it must understand that education is not an expense but an investment. It must become the top national priority, above roads, stadiums, and political rallies.

Teachers should be among the highest-paid professionals. They should receive regular training, modern tools, and dignified working conditions. Our schools need to become innovation hubs, not punishment centers.

We must modernize curricula to focus on critical thinking, technology, and problem-solving rather than rote memorization. We must build libraries, laboratories, and computer centers instead of investing in political billboards.

China, South Korea, and Japan offer clear lessons. Their governments understood that national wealth begins in the classroom. By investing in the "source of invention" — the teachers — they laid solid foundations for decades of innovation.

Time for Radical Action

It is not enough to hold education conferences or draft glossy policy documents. We need radical, concrete actions:

Increase Teachers' Salaries Significantly: Match or surpass what other professionals earn to attract and retain the best minds.

Ban Politicians from Sending Children Abroad on Public Money: Force them to fix local schools if they must use them.

Make Education Budgets Transparent: Every dollar must be traceable to actual improvements.

Promote Teachers' Voices: Let teachers have powerful unions and seats at national decision-making tables.

Invest in Infrastructure: Classrooms with electricity, internet, labs, and libraries must become the norm, not the exception.

Reward Innovation: Celebrate and support teachers who create new teaching methods or impactful community programs.

Cultural Re-orientation: Restore dignity to teaching. Make it prestigious, respected, and desirable.

A Future at Stake

Africa’s future is at stake. We can continue down this road — churning out half-baked graduates, watching skilled youth flee, and forever begging for aid. Or we can choose to honor our teachers, fund our schools, and build a self-reliant, innovative continent.

The proverb goes, "He who learns, teaches." But if the teachers are crushed, who will learn? Who will teach?

The Final Cry of the Teacher

Across the continent, the teacher wakes up at dawn, walks miles to class, often on an empty stomach. She stands before 80 children, eyes bright with curiosity. She teaches them about the world beyond their village, about science, about possibility.

She returns home to a leaky roof and unpaid bills. She sees the same children she taught, grown up, riding in convoys, guarded by soldiers, drowning in public money. She feels betrayed, unseen, and unheard.

Yet, she returns the next day because she believes in something higher than any politician’s promise — she believes in the transformative power of knowledge.

But belief alone cannot feed a family, cannot buy chalk, cannot fix a collapsing classroom.

A Call to Conscience

It is time for Africa to look in the mirror and ask: Do we want to be a continent of consumers or creators? Do we want to keep importing ideas and technologies forever, or do we want to birth our own? This is impossible without investing in the foundation — education — and in the heart of that foundation — the teacher.

To the politicians enjoying hefty salaries today: remember, without that poorly paid teacher, you would not be signing million-dollar deals or making passionate speeches on TV.

To society at large: remember, a society that disrespects its teachers is digging its own grave.Africa cannot develop when it has failed to invest heavily in the source of invention.

As we say in Africa, "The child who is not taught by its mother will be taught by the world." If we continue to neglect education, the world will continue to teach us — through poverty, disease, conflict, and shame. The time for change is now.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

As We Chant "Protest Vote" Against 40 Years of Loot and Lies: Time to Ask Hard Questions About Our Environment

Date: July 6, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

As we inch closer to the 2026 general elections, the air in Uganda feels electric. Markets are bustling with campaign posters, boda boda riders wear vests branded with politician names, and radio stations echo promises from dawn to dusk. Everyone seems to have a plan to save Uganda — at least on paper.

They tell us they will create a million jobs in five years, triple the GDP, industrialize every village, and turn every dusty road into a smooth highway. They promise us modern hospitals with MRI machines in every district, top-tier schools where every child eats a balanced meal, and free internet that reaches the farthest corner of Karamoja.

But, amidst all these grand promises, one question lingers like an elephant in the room: At what cost?

As we raise our fists and chant "protest vote" against those who have ruled and looted for four long decades, we must ask: What about the environment? What about the forests that gave us rain, the wetlands that protected us from floods, the lakes that have fed us for generations?

A Legacy of Broken Promises

Since 1986, Ugandans have listened to endless slogans — "Fundamental Change," "Vision 2040," "Securing Your Future," "Steady Progress." Yet, for all these slogans, our hospitals still lack basic gloves and medicines, our schools have children sitting on the floor, and our youth wander the streets, degrees in hand, but no jobs in sight.

The political elite have grown fat from the spoils of power. They build mansions in Kololo, drive convoys of black SUVs, and send their children to study abroad. Meanwhile, the ordinary Ugandan in Bwaise, Namayingo, or Bundibugyo struggles to put food on the table.

As if this betrayal were not enough, our environment — the very foundation of our survival — has been sacrificed at the altar of greed.

Uganda's Natural Wealth: A Blessing Under Siege

Uganda is blessed beyond measure. Our nation sits atop vast fresh water reserves — Lake Victoria, Lake Kyoga, Lake Albert, Lake Edward. We have dense rainforests, rich wetlands, and some of the most fertile soils on the continent.

Our wildlife attracts tourists from across the world, feeding our economy and creating jobs. Our wetlands act as natural water filters and buffers against floods. Our forests regulate rain patterns and provide timber, herbs, and cultural sanctuaries.

Yet, over the years, these resources have been plundered without shame. Wetlands have been drained to build hotels and housing estates for the powerful. Forest reserves are turned into private sugar plantations. Rivers are clogged with plastic bottles and industrial waste.

A study by the National Environment Management Authority (NEMA) reveals that Uganda loses about 2% of its forest cover every year. At this rate, if no drastic measures are taken, we could lose all our forests in less than 40 years. This is not just an environmental tragedy — it is a looming national security crisis.

The Wetlands Crisis: Trading Nature for Concrete

Take the Lwera wetland along Masaka Road as an example. Once a thriving ecosystem teeming with fish, birds, and rare plants, it now resembles a lunar landscape. Trucks ferry sand day and night, leaving behind gaping wounds. The sand mining industry, controlled by politically connected individuals, continues despite public outcry.

These wetlands are not just "swamps" as many call them dismissively. They act like the kidneys of our land, filtering toxins and maintaining water quality in Lake Victoria. Destroying them puts millions of people at risk of water shortages and disease outbreaks.

Communities that depended on fishing and papyrus harvesting have been pushed to the brink of starvation. Fishermen now spend days on the lake, coming home with empty nets. Women who made mats and baskets from reeds have lost livelihoods passed down through generations.

The Disappearing Forests: From Green Canopies to Sugarcane Fields

The Mabira Forest, east of Kampala, is one of Uganda’s few remaining tropical rainforests. In 2007, the government attempted to give a portion of it to a sugar company. The outcry from citizens was so loud that it forced a temporary backtrack. But smaller, quieter encroachments have continued since.

Forest cover helps regulate rainfall, prevent soil erosion, and serve as a home to countless plant and animal species. Yet, illegal logging and encroachment continue to be silently blessed by those in power.

We must ask ourselves: When the rains stop, and the land cracks under the sun, what shall we eat? Who will we blame?

Climate Change: The Price of Greed

Uganda is no stranger to the harsh realities of climate change. Longer dry spells, unpredictable rain patterns, and intense floods are becoming the norm.

In Kasese, floods regularly wash away homes, schools, and health centers. In Bududa, landslides bury entire villages, leaving behind widows and orphans. In Karamoja, drought drives pastoralists into violent conflicts over dwindling pasture.

According to the Ministry of Water and Environment, Uganda loses approximately 40% of its annual GDP to environmental degradation and climate-related disasters. This is a shocking figure that should dominate political manifestos — yet it barely receives a mention during campaign rallies.

The Myth of "Development at All Costs"

Our leaders present a false choice: development or conservation. They argue that to achieve middle-income status, we must sacrifice some wetlands here, a forest there. But this is a dangerous and outdated mindset.

Countries like Rwanda, Costa Rica, and even parts of Ethiopia are proving that green growth is not just possible but more sustainable in the long term. Rwanda has banned plastic bags, restored wetlands, and invested heavily in reforestation, all while maintaining one of the fastest-growing economies in Africa.

In Costa Rica, forest cover increased from 21% in the 1980s to over 50% today, thanks to aggressive reforestation and eco-tourism strategies.

Uganda can do the same. We have the knowledge, the youth energy, and the natural resources. What we lack is the political will and citizen vigilance.

Asking the Hard Questions

As voters, we have the power — and the responsibility — to ask hard questions:

How will you ensure new roads do not destroy critical habitats?

What policies will you implement to stop illegal sand mining and wetland encroachment?

What is your plan for transitioning to renewable energy instead of charcoal and firewood?

How will you involve local communities in conservation efforts so they benefit directly?

How will you protect future generations from the deadly impacts of climate change?

If a candidate cannot answer these questions convincingly, they are not ready to lead Uganda into a safe and prosperous future.

Lessons from Our Ancestors

Our forefathers lived with nature, not against it. They knew that when the forest cries, the village will soon weep. They practiced crop rotation, preserved sacred groves, and respected rivers as living spirits.

A Runyankore proverb goes: "What weighs heavily in the heart is what causes the body to sweat."

Today, what should weigh heavily in every Ugandan's heart is the knowledge that our environment is being destroyed piece by piece. We cannot continue to trade our birthright for short-term political gains.

The Future We Deserve

Imagine a Uganda where every village has a community forest, every town has green spaces, every city has clean air. Where rivers flow with clear water, children play without fear of floods or landslides, and our wildlife thrives.

Imagine a Uganda where economic growth means creating jobs in clean energy, eco-tourism, organic farming, and waste recycling. Where youth lead innovation in environmental technologies and rural communities become models of sustainability.

This is not a dream too big to achieve. It is a vision that requires courage, sacrifice, and above all, a collective commitment to protect what is truly valuable.

The Call to Action

As we chant "protest vote," let it not be merely a slogan against bad governance. Let it become a clarion call for holistic change — social, economic, and environmental.

Ask your MP aspirant what they will do for the wetlands, not just the roads. Ask the presidential candidate how they will stop deforestation, not just how they will increase exports. Ask local councilors what they will do about waste management in your neighborhood.

Do not let them wave manifestos thick as bibles without a single word on environmental safeguards. Do not let them distract you with sacks of sugar or brown envelopes filled with 2,000-shilling notes.

We Hold the Power

It is easy to blame leaders. Yes, they have failed us for 40 years. But every five years, we have a chance to rewrite the story. The power is in our inked thumbs.

A Lugisu proverb says: "A leader who rules through the night will eventually be swallowed by the darkness."

If we do not demand accountability and protect our land, we too will be swallowed by the darkness of droughts, floods, hunger, and disease.

A New Uganda is Possible

Uganda stands at a crossroads. We can continue down the path of empty promises, environmental destruction, and generational betrayal. Or we can choose a new direction — one of genuine progress that honors both people and nature.

In 2026, let us choose leaders who understand that true wealth is not in the number of skyscrapers or the size of the presidential convoy but in the health of our soil, the purity of our water, and the vibrancy of our forests.

As we chant "protest vote," let our voices echo through the valleys and across the hills: We want leaders who plant trees, not just billboards. We want roads that respect wetlands, not bulldoze them. We want jobs that restore the land, not poison it.

Let us be the generation that refused to eat all the mangoes and left seeds for the future. Let us be the generation that taught its children that a green Uganda is a strong Uganda.

This is our moment. Let us rise, vote wisely, and protect our Pearl of Africa for all who come after us.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

The Waning Star: How America’s Hubris Mirrors the Fate of Fallen Empires and Dictators

Date: July 5, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

History is a strict teacher. It whispers to the mighty that their reign is never eternal, and warns that arrogance—hubris—is often the final nail in the coffin of empires. The United States of America, the self-proclaimed “beacon of freedom” and defender of democracy, stands today at a dangerous crossroads. Its global reach, once celebrated as benevolent leadership, has mutated into a suffocating grip, provoking resentment and rebellion across continents. Like the ancient Roman Empire or the British Empire at its height, America’s overextension threatens to unravel its very fabric.

Across Africa, we see a similar disease in the form of strongmen who rise to power on waves of popular support but transform into monarchs in democratic robes. They too believe they are untouchable—until they find themselves betrayed by the very systems they once controlled. In comparing these two phenomena, we discover an unsettling truth: the fall from grace is often more spectacular than the rise to power.

The Roots of American Hubris

Since the end of World War II, the United States has positioned itself as the world’s indispensable nation. It rebuilt Europe through the Marshall Plan, contained Soviet influence through NATO, and intervened in conflicts across Asia, Latin America, and the Middle East under the banner of freedom and security. But as African proverbs remind us, "The chicken that digs too much in the ground will meet the blade of the farmer."

America's global military presence—over 750 bases in more than 80 countries—has become both a badge of honor and a sign of insecurity. Washington’s insatiable desire to police the world led to endless wars in Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, Libya, and countless covert operations elsewhere. These interventions have cost trillions of dollars and, more importantly, rivers of blood—both American and foreign.

Yet what did America achieve? Iraq is still unstable, Afghanistan reverted to Taliban control within days of the US withdrawal, and Libya collapsed into a playground for militias and human traffickers. In each case, Washington overestimated its power to shape distant societies, believing that it alone held the blueprint for democracy. This is the very definition of hubris.

The Economic Erosion

The illusion of American supremacy extends beyond the battlefield. For decades, the US dollar was unrivaled, its manufacturing sector dominated, and Silicon Valley set the pace for technological innovation. But today, the story is changing fast.

China, once mocked as a cheap labor hub, now challenges the US in artificial intelligence, green energy, quantum computing, and military technologies. As of 2023, China surpassed the US in electric vehicle production, solar panel exports, and is leading in 5G deployment. Meanwhile, Russia has become a resilient energy giant despite sanctions, forging strong alliances with China, Iran, and other Global South nations.

America's debt has ballooned past $34 trillion. The once-mighty industrial heartland—Detroit, Cleveland, Pittsburgh—now resembles a graveyard of factories and abandoned homes. "Made in America" has become a nostalgic slogan rather than a robust economic reality. Even allies like France, Germany, and Saudi Arabia are now questioning their reliance on the US dollar, openly exploring alternative trade arrangements using the Chinese yuan or the euro.

This economic diversification represents a tectonic shift. As African elders say, "When the roots of a tree begin to decay, it spreads death to the branches." America’s roots—its industrial might, financial discipline, and innovation leadership—are decaying, and the signs are everywhere.

Diplomacy Turned into Domination

America’s diplomatic strategy has often relied on sanctions and strong-arm tactics rather than genuine dialogue. The Iran nuclear deal (JCPOA) was painstakingly negotiated, only to be unilaterally abandoned by President Trump in 2018, destabilizing not just Iran but the entire Middle East.

When America sanctioned Russia over Crimea and later Ukraine, Europe suffered enormous energy shortages and inflation. In Latin America, sanctions have turned Venezuela into a humanitarian catastrophe, and in Cuba, they have perpetuated poverty for over half a century.

Countries are beginning to revolt against these policies. The rise of BRICS (Brazil, Russia, India, China, South Africa) as an alternative power bloc signifies this disillusionment. In 2023, BRICS expanded to include Argentina, Egypt, Ethiopia, Iran, Saudi Arabia, and the UAE. Their collective GDP now surpasses that of the G7, and their influence is growing rapidly in Africa, Latin America, and Asia.

This collective shift demonstrates that the US can no longer dictate global terms unchallenged. The days of unilateral American hegemony are fading.

Lessons from African Dictators

Across Africa, a parallel tale unfolds. Many leaders initially enter power with the blessings of the masses. Museveni in Uganda, Mugabe in Zimbabwe, Bashir in Sudan—each rose as a liberator, promising democracy and prosperity. But over time, power intoxicated them.

They silenced critics, rigged elections, and siphoned public funds into offshore accounts. They believed that the state was an extension of their personal fiefdoms. But as African proverbs wisely caution, "The king who does not listen to his people will be dethroned by their silence."

Robert Mugabe’s downfall is a perfect illustration. Once hailed as a freedom fighter, he clung to power for 37 years. The economy collapsed, hyperinflation ravaged savings, and people starved. Eventually, his own military—once fiercely loyal—pushed him out in 2017.

Omar al-Bashir of Sudan followed a similar script. He survived decades of Western sanctions and internal rebellions by manipulating ethnic divisions and brutally crushing dissent. But even he could not outmaneuver a popular uprising in 2019, ending up jailed by the same system he had corrupted.

In each case, these dictators’ belief in their invincibility precipitated their downfall. Their hubris blinded them to the people's suffering and eroded the very legitimacy they depended on.

America’s Domestic Blindness

While flexing its muscles abroad, the US has neglected its own backyard. Income inequality is at an all-time high; millions lack affordable healthcare; homelessness in major cities is exploding. Gun violence kills tens of thousands annually, and racial tensions remain deeply embedded in the social fabric.

Despite all this, Washington spends more than $800 billion a year on defense, more than the next ten countries combined. Infrastructure crumbles, public schools deteriorate, and water in cities like Flint, Michigan, is still unsafe to drink.

This internal decay is eerily reminiscent of late Roman emperors who lavishly spent on frontier wars while Rome itself fell into disrepair. In the words of another African proverb, "When there is no enemy within, the enemies outside cannot hurt you." America’s greatest threats are not in Beijing, Moscow, or Tehran—they are in Detroit, Chicago, and Washington D.C.

The Global Desire for Independence

As the US weakens, more nations are asserting their independence. Saudi Arabia, once America’s loyal oil partner, now cozies up to China and invests heavily in diversifying its economy. Turkey pursues an independent military strategy, buying Russian S-400 missile systems despite US objections.

Latin America is also drifting away. Lula da Silva in Brazil emphasizes South-South cooperation rather than Washington-led policies. Mexico’s president, Andrés Manuel López Obrador, frequently criticizes US interference and has strengthened ties with China.

In Africa, new leaders speak boldly of economic sovereignty, rejecting IMF and World Bank "conditionalities" that mirror colonial control. Kenya, Nigeria, and South Africa openly discuss non-dollar trade agreements. The African Continental Free Trade Area (AfCFTA) signals a decisive shift toward intra-African commerce.

All these moves underscore a shared ambition: to escape America’s orbit and redefine the global balance of power.

The Myth of American Exceptionalism

Central to America’s decline is its unwavering belief in its own exceptionalism—the conviction that it is inherently superior and destined to lead. This myth has justified countless interventions, coups, and covert operations. But myths eventually collide with reality.

In Vietnam, America learned that bombs cannot win hearts. In Iraq, it discovered that technology cannot engineer democracy. In Afghanistan, it realized that even a trillion dollars cannot outlast local resolve.

Despite these hard lessons, American leaders continue to lecture the world on democracy while tolerating oligarchs, corporate monopolies, and a broken political system at home. The hypocrisy is glaring, and the world is no longer willing to turn a blind eye.

Shared Arrogance, Shared Fate

African dictators and the American empire share a fatal flaw: both mistake temporary power for eternal right. They forget that legitimacy flows from the governed, not from guns or dollars. When they betray this truth, they awaken the same forces they once controlled.

Idi Amin, Uganda’s despotic leader, ruled with terror for eight years before fleeing into ignominious exile. Mobutu Sese Seko of Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of Congo) ruled for 32 years with US backing, only to be ousted and die in exile. These leaders all believed they could defy the people indefinitely.

America risks a similar fate on a global scale. It assumes that it can forever coerce allies, bully rivals, and ignore its internal rot. But every day, countries work quietly to build alternative alliances, create new economic systems, and nurture their own technological capabilities. Each step they take is a small rebellion against the empire.

The Inevitable Reckoning

Rome fell not because it lacked soldiers but because it lost civic virtue and social cohesion. The British Empire crumbled not because it lacked ships but because colonial subjects demanded freedom. So too, America risks collapse not from a foreign invasion but from its own hubris.

The world is watching—and learning. Countries are hedging, diversifying, and dreaming of independence. African leaders, too, should take note: the same hubris that ruins empires also topples dictators. The desire for freedom, dignity, and justice cannot be smothered forever.

As the African proverb says, "He who refuses to listen to the drumbeat will be taught by the spear." America’s choices today will determine whether it adapts and survives as a respected nation—or collapses under the weight of its own arrogance.

A Call for Humility

There is still time for the US to change course. True leadership lies not in domination but in cooperation, not in coercion but in inspiration. The Marshall Plan succeeded because it was generous and constructive, not because it enforced obedience. The same principle holds true today.

America could rebuild its moral authority by addressing domestic inequalities, investing in infrastructure, promoting fair trade rather than sanctions, and engaging respectfully with other nations. But this requires humility—a trait often abandoned by those drunk on power.

Similarly, African leaders can escape the dictator’s curse by truly serving their people, building inclusive economies, and respecting democratic institutions. The fate of leaders like Mugabe and Bashir is a stark reminder that the people's patience has limits.

The sun always rises, and it always sets. Empires and strongmen alike forget this simple truth, thinking they can hold back the dusk with threats and illusions. But history moves in cycles, and arrogance guarantees only one end.

America today stands at the tipping point of its long, extraordinary journey. Whether it becomes a wise elder or a tragic ruin depends on whether it can shed its hubris and embrace a more humble, cooperative vision of the world.

In Africa, the lesson is no less urgent. Leaders who see themselves as immortal monarchs will inevitably find that the ground beneath them can turn to dust overnight.

Ultimately, both the empire and the dictator face the same test: Can they listen to the voices they claim to serve? Or will they, like so many before them, become cautionary tales etched in the annals of history?

As an African elder once said, "A leader who does not respect the cries of his people will one day hear the echoes of his own loneliness."

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

The Bed You Made: How the West Orchestrated Africa’s Anguish and Now Fears Its Footsteps

Date: June 27, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

In the heart of Africa’s suffering lies a truth often shrouded in silence and diplomacy: the West sowed the seeds of destruction, and now the bitter fruits are being served at their gates in the form of migration, instability, and resentment. In the haunting silence of Mediterranean waters where African bodies float, in the refugee camps straining at Europe’s edges, and in the restless hearts of young Africans fleeing despair, one truth stares back—an ugly, buried truth. It is the truth of an old wound torn open repeatedly by centuries of Western greed, masked as civilization. It is the legacy of empires built on bones, and now shaken by the return of ghosts they once buried. To those who pillaged Africa and now tremble at her footsteps, we say without apology: This is the bed you made. Now lay on it.

The Original Crime: Plunder Masquerading as Progress

When European nations sailed to African shores in the 15th century, they came not as friends but as opportunists. Armed with muskets and missionaries, they presented the Bible in one hand and the chain in the other. The narrative of "bringing civilization" was a curtain behind which lay an orgy of theft, murder, and cultural erasure.

Millions of Africans were kidnapped and sold like cattle through the transatlantic slave trade. From Senegal to Angola, families were shattered, kingdoms destabilized, and human potential stolen. African soil was ploughed not with plows but with blood, its riches harvested to build the wealth of Paris, London, Lisbon, and Amsterdam. Africa’s minerals financed European industrialization. Its labor built American plantations. Its gold and ivory lined the crowns of monarchs who never once set foot on the continent. Colonialism was not a partnership; it was plunder with paperwork.

The British built railways in Kenya and Uganda—not for African mobility, but for easier extraction of coffee, tea, and minerals. The Belgians turned the Congo into a labor camp, where failure to meet rubber quotas could cost a man his hand or his life. The French turned West Africa into a cash crop empire with no regard for food security or dignity. What they left behind was not development but devastation. As African proverb warns: “The axe forgets, but the tree remembers.”

A New Era, Same Masters: Neocolonial Chains

With the wave of African independence movements in the 1950s and ’60s, the flags changed—but the hands behind the scenes did not. Former colonial powers, fearing the loss of influence, pivoted to subtler forms of control: economic dependence, political manipulation, and cultural dominance.

Currency systems like the CFA franc remain under French control. Trade deals favor European corporations. Development aid, often celebrated as generosity, comes with strings attached—open your markets, privatize your services, and keep voting the right way at the UN.

The International Monetary Fund (IMF) and World Bank, guided largely by Western economic philosophy, introduced structural adjustment programs across Africa. These policies decimated social services: schools closed, hospitals collapsed, and public employees were laid off in droves. The rationale? Africa needed to “tighten its belt.” But as usual, the belt was placed around the necks of the poor.

Western corporations still dominate the extractive industries. In the Democratic Republic of Congo, foreign companies mine cobalt for smartphones and electric cars while locals live in squalor. In Nigeria, oil wealth has enriched multinationals and elites, but left communities poisoned and impoverished.

Kwame Nkrumah called it early: “Neocolonialism is the last stage of imperialism.” Africa remains sovereign only on paper. In reality, many African leaders are caretakers of Western interests, rewarded for loyalty and punished for defiance.

Manufactured Chaos: The West’s Hand in Africa’s Wars

To ensure Africa never rises strong and united, the West has mastered the art of engineering instability. Regime change, military coups, and arms deals have been the instruments of control.

Patrice Lumumba, Congo’s visionary leader, was assassinated with Belgian complicity and CIA support because he refused to play puppet. In his place, Mobutu Sese Seko—a kleptocrat with a Western smile—was installed and propped up for decades, despite looting his country’s resources and repressing dissent.

Libya under Muammar Gaddafi had the highest Human Development Index in Africa. His push for a pan-African currency and economic independence made him a threat. In 2011, NATO forces bombed Libya into ruin. Today, it is a failed state with open-air slave markets—a grotesque irony in a post-colonial age.

In Sudan, Angola, Rwanda, and Sierra Leone, Western-funded militias and arms flooded the streets, igniting proxy wars that left millions dead. War is profitable. The same Western companies that preach peace sell the guns that fuel conflict. The architects of democracy don’t hesitate to support dictators—as long as they protect “strategic interests.”

The West destabilizes Africa with one hand and sells humanitarian aid with the other. It is like poisoning a well and selling bottled water to the dying.

The Exodus: Fleeing the Wreckage

Today, millions of Africans are on the move—not because they want to chase Western dreams, but because the West crushed their own. From Eritrea to Cameroon, from Mali to Sudan, people flee war, dictatorship, poverty, and climate change—many of which have roots in policies imposed or supported by Western nations.

They cross deserts where bandits roam. They board fragile boats on the Mediterranean, risking death. Thousands have drowned. Those who survive face detention centers in Libya, racism in Europe, or deportation back to despair.

And yet, Western leaders ask, “Why are they coming?”

The question itself is obscene. The same countries complaining about African migrants are the ones who looted Africa's future. Europe’s wealth was fertilized by African bones. Today’s refugee is yesterday’s commodity, discarded and forgotten.

When colonialism uproots, neocolonialism starves, and climate injustice suffocates, flight is not a choice—it’s an instinct.

As the Igbo say: “A man who ties a goat near a hyena should not complain when the goat disappears.”

The Hypocrisy of Fortress Europe

In recent years, European countries have ramped up anti-migrant rhetoric. They build walls, strike deals with autocratic regimes to stop migrants, and militarize their borders. Refugees are treated like invaders, not survivors.

Yet the same Europe that cries “invasion” is home to corporations that still benefit from African minerals, oil, and labor. The same Europe still lectures Africa on democracy while cozying up to dictators who stop migrants from crossing the Mediterranean.

They forget that history has a long shadow.

You cannot eat someone’s bread, burn their house, then scream when they seek shelter. Migration is not a crime—it is the residue of centuries of crime against humanity.

The irony is that as Europe ages, it desperately needs youthful labor. African migrants are not just escaping—they are filling gaps in healthcare, construction, and services. But they are unwelcome unless silent, servile, and invisible.

Europe’s fear is not about numbers. It is about reckoning. The children of the colonized are at the door, and their presence asks uncomfortable questions: What was done to our ancestors? Who benefited? And why hasn’t it stopped?

A Call for Accountability and Awakening

This is not merely a call to the West. It is also a call to Africans.

Yes, we were brutalized. Yes, we were betrayed. But we must also rise. We must decolonize our economies, our minds, and our ambitions. Our liberation will not come from foreign aid but from collective will, ethical leadership, and pan-African solidarity.

Africa must learn to say no to exploitative deals, to kick out puppet leaders, and to invest in its youth. We must reject the neocolonial script and write our own story. Africa’s future should not lie in boats on the Mediterranean but in classrooms, farms, and factories across the continent.

The West, meanwhile, must confront its past not with symbolic gestures but with transformative action. Reparations must be more than a conversation. Fair trade must replace exploitation. True partnership must replace patronage.

You cannot extinguish a fire you keep feeding.

History's Mirror

The story of Africa and the West is not just a story of colonization, but of betrayal. The betrayal of trust, of dignity, of life itself. As we bury our dead in deserts and oceans, let history not be whitewashed.

The West created the conditions that made Africa bleed. Now it watches the blood spill over its borders and blames the victims. But history has a long memory, and justice is patient. If you sow pain, you will reap desperation. If you destroy a village, do not be surprised when the villagers appear at your door.

Let truth ring loud: Europe got rich on African backs, and now cries when those same backs knock on its doors. But as we say in Africa, “He who throws a stone in the market should not be surprised when it hits his mother.” The West threw many stones—and now the market echoes with pain.

And as an old Swahili proverb reminds us: “When the music changes, so must the dance.” The music of African silence has ended. A new rhythm is rising—of memory, of resistance, and of return. The West may try to cover its ears, but the beat grows louder. This is not a threat. It is a reckoning.

You made this bed. Now, you must lay on it.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

"When Elephants Fight, It Is the Grass That Suffers": A Reflection on Global Election Interference and the Ethics of Power

Date: June 23, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

"When elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers." This Kenyan proverb encapsulates the collateral damage inflicted upon the less powerful when titans clash. In the realm of international politics, this adage resonates profoundly, especially concerning allegations of election interference. While the United States and European nations have frequently accused Russia of meddling in democratic processes, a historical lens reveals a pattern of similar interventions by these Western powers. This article delves into the intricacies of such geopolitical dynamics, emphasizing the need for a consistent ethical framework in international relations.

The United States has a documented history of intervening in the political affairs of other nations, often under the guise of promoting democracy or countering communism. Notable examples include:

Iran (1953): The CIA orchestrated Operation Ajax, leading to the overthrow of Prime Minister Mohammad Mosaddegh and reinstating the Shah's authoritarian regime.

Guatemala (1954): Operation PBSuccess resulted in the ousting of President Jacobo Árbenz, ushering in decades of civil unrest and authoritarian rule.

Chile (1973): Through Project FUBELT, the U.S. supported the military coup against President Salvador Allende, leading to General Pinochet's dictatorship.

These interventions often had long-lasting detrimental effects on the affected countries, undermining democratic institutions and leading to human rights violations.

In recent years, Russia has been accused of meddling in various democratic processes:

Romania (2024): The initial presidential election was annulled due to alleged Russian interference, leading to a rerun where centrist Nicușor Dan emerged victorious.

Germany (2025): Reports indicate that Russia invested heavily in disinformation campaigns to sway the Bundestag elections, utilizing fake social media accounts and forged news sites.

While these actions are concerning, they must be contextualized within the broader history of foreign interventions by Western powers.

The narrative that portrays Western democracies as vulnerable to foreign influence raises questions about the resilience of their political systems and the agency of their electorates. If external actors can significantly sway public opinion or election outcomes, it suggests a need for introspection regarding the robustness of democratic institutions and the media's role in informing citizens.

To uphold the principles of democracy and sovereignty, it's imperative for nations to adopt a consistent ethical stance on foreign interventions. This includes acknowledging past actions, refraining from double standards, and fostering international norms that discourage meddling in other countries' political affairs.

While safeguarding democratic processes from foreign interference is crucial, it's equally important to reflect on historical precedents and ensure that efforts to protect democracy are free from hypocrisy. A balanced approach that recognizes past missteps and commits to non-interventionist policies will strengthen global democratic norms and mutual respect among nations.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

We Need a Third World War

Date: June 21, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

Wars are never good. But when the firewood is wet, sometimes even thunder must strike to dry it. We live in a world where the loudest voices crying for peace are the same ones dropping bombs, enforcing economic sanctions, and silencing independent thought. The most powerful nations—especially the United States—have turned global politics into a theatre of control, where dissent is punished and obedience is rewarded.

This article is not a call to arms in the traditional sense. Rather, it is a plea for a global reset—a third world war not fought with tanks and missiles, but with truth, resistance, and unity against domination. If peace is merely the silence of the oppressed, then perhaps we need a different kind of conflict to reclaim justice.

Iraq (2003): A War Built on Lies

In 2003, the U.S. invaded Iraq on the claim that Saddam Hussein possessed weapons of mass destruction. These weapons were never found. Instead, Iraq was dismantled, over 200,000 civilians lost their lives, and the region became a breeding ground for extremism.

As the African proverb goes, "When elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers." Iraq became that grass—trampled

Libya (2011): From Stability to Chaos

Muammar Gaddafi was no saint, but Libya under his rule had free healthcare, free education, and one of Africa’s strongest economies. Yet in 2011, NATO — led by the U.S. — bombed Libya under the excuse of protecting civilians. Gaddafi was brutally killed. Since then, Libya has not known peace.

“He who throws away a good drum may end up drumming on an empty tin.” The West removed Gaddafi without a plan, leaving Libya a playground for warlords, smugglers, and traffickers.

"He who throws away a good drum may end up drumming on an empty tin." In dismantling Libya, the West discarded a stable regime and left behind a failed state.

Syria: The Battlefield of Hypocrisy

Since 2011, Syria has been ripped apart by war. The U.S. supported rebel groups, some of whom later joined extremist militias. Russia and Iran also got involved. While claiming to fight terrorism, many have sponsored extremist factions for strategic gain. The country became a battlefield for foreign interests.

“A snake that bites another snake is still a snake.” The superpowers fighting in Syria all claimed to bring peace, but their true motives were control and resources. The Syrian war has cost over 500,000 lives. Was it peace they were after, or power?

Yemen: Starving a Nation

In Yemen, a brutal war continues. The U.S. supports Saudi Arabia with weapons and intelligence, helping bomb markets, hospitals, and homes. The death toll is catastrophic — nearly 400,000, mostly children.

“A child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.” Yemen’s youth are growing up in rubble, and the fire they carry will burn generations unless the world changes course.

Afghanistan: Two Decades of Deceit

For 20 years, the U.S. occupied Afghanistan, promising progress and freedom. In 2021, they withdrew, and the Taliban returned to power in a matter of days.

"If the cornfield is full of weeds, the farmer has been sleeping."America sowed promises and reaped failure.

Vietnam: When Empires Overreach

The U.S. war in Vietnam killed over three million people. It was fought under the guise of halting communism but ended in retreat and shame.

"When you chase two antelopes, both will escape." America pursued both ideology and control—and achieved neither.

Haiti: A History of Exploitation

For over a century, the U.S. has interfered in Haiti's politics. Every time Haiti rises, it's cut down by foreign meddling and economic strangulation.

"You cannot shave a man’s head in his absence." But that is what America has done to Haiti time and again.

Cuba: The Price of Independence

Because Cuba chose a socialist path, America has maintained sanctions for over six decades. Yet Cuba remains defiant, with world-class healthcare and education.

"The monkey does not stop climbing because the jungle watches." Cuba climbs, despite every obstacle placed before it.

Iran: Punished for Sovereignty

Iran is under heavy U.S. sanctions for pursuing nuclear technology—something the U.S., Israel, and other powers already possess.

"Even a fly can trouble a lion if it enters its ear." Iran's independence is the real threat, not its weapons.

Venezuela: Collapsed by Sanctions

Venezuela's economy was not destroyed solely by mismanagement, but by U.S. sanctions and attempted coups.

"The mouth that eats does not speak." While Venezuelans suffer, America profits from oil and influence.

Somalia: Target of Silent Strikes

In Somalia, U.S. drone strikes continue, often hitting civilian areas. These attacks rarely make headlines.

"The thunder that kills the sheep also frightens the shepherd." America’s war on terror is a war without borders, or remorse.

Pakistan: Bombed Without War

Pakistan has suffered numerous drone attacks from the U.S., often without permission and with high civilian casualties.

"A thief who returns what he stole is still a thief." Apologies cannot undo bloodshed.

Palestine: Injustice Funded

Each year, the U.S. sends billions to Israel, supporting a regime that occupies and oppresses Palestinians.

"Until the lion learns to write, the tale of the hunt will always favor the hunter." Palestine’s truth remains unheard.

Sudan: A Proxy Playground

Foreign powers, including the U.S., have meddled in Sudan’s internal conflicts, often backing factions and prolonging chaos.

"You do not enter a man’s hut and start rearranging his firewood." Sudan needs support, not puppeteers.

Ukraine: War of Convenience

The U.S. backs Ukraine against Russia, yet ignores how NATO’s expansion provoked conflict. Billions are poured into war while global hunger and climate change are sidelined.

"He who fetches firewood infected with ants invites lizards to his home." The West stirred the hornet’s nest and now sells itself as savior.

The UN: Guardian or Pawn?

The United Nations was built to ensure peace. Yet it has become a stage for the powerful to lecture the weak.

"A dog with a bone cannot be trusted to guard the meat." The U.N. is compromised because the fox guards the henhouse.

Sanctions: The New Age Weapon

Sanctions have become the modern colonizer’s whip. Over 40 countries suffer under U.S. restrictions. These measures often starve people, collapse economies, and provoke instability.

"If the rhythm of the drum changes, the dance must change too." But the West plays the same deadly tune.

Why a Third World War?

No sane person desires war. But if the world order is built on lies, fear, and injustice, perhaps we need a different kind of war—a war of conscience. A worldwide rebellion of minds, of voices, of unity.

"A child who knows how to wash his hands dines with the elders."* The Global South is learning to wash its hands of dependency and fear.

This third world war would not be fought with bullets, but with boycotts, truth-telling, economic independence, and resistance. Let it be a war of dignity against domination, of self-determination against subjugation.

Reclaiming Humanity

If peace means obeying the loudest voice, then the world is not at peace. We must not accept a future dictated by those who have turned war into profit and peace into propaganda.

"When the music changes, so must the dance." The world must stop dancing to America’s drum.

We call not for destruction, but for disruption. Not for chaos, but for change. Let the world rise—not in flames, but in defiance.

And in Africa, we say, "Even the chicken that does not crow must one day scream when the knife draws near."

That day is here. Let the world wake up.

Why We May Need a Third World War

Let it be clear: no sane person wants war. War is pain, hunger, and loss. But when peace is nothing more than controlled silence, then war becomes a language of resistance.

“A child who knows how to wash his hands dines with the elders.” The oppressed nations are learning to wash their hands of fear, silence, and submission.

Perhaps a third world war is not about guns — but about uniting the oppressed. A global resistance of minds, economies, and alliances that say “No more” to the arrogance of one superpower.

A New Dawn or a New Doom

If peace means dying quietly, then let us live loudly. If diplomacy means only obeying orders, then let us disobey for the sake of dignity.

“When the music changes, so must the dance.” The world must change its rhythm. It cannot keep dancing to the drum of Washington.

We do not desire blood, but we demand balance. We do not crave war, but we cannot survive this kind of peace.

The third world war may not come with tanks and trenches. It may come with coalitions, with boycott, with truth-telling. But whatever form it takes, it must come — for without it, the world will remain a house where one man eats while a hundred starve, and calls it order.

And in Africa, we say, “Even the chicken that does not crow must one day scream when the knife draws near.”

That day is here. Let the world wake up.

Why a Third World War Might Be Necessary

We do not wish for war — no sane person ever does. But when a lion refuses to stop eating the goats of the village, the people must rise. The world is full of smaller countries, bullied and sanctioned for not dancing to America’s tune.

We need a war of minds, of justice, of resistance. Not necessarily with guns, but with global unity against one-sided power. If it takes a third world war to reset the balance, then maybe that is the bitter pill the world must swallow.

African proverb: "The lizard that jumped from the high iroko tree said he would praise himself if no one else did."

A World on Its Knees Cannot Stand Tall

The truth is this: the world is tired. Tired of forced democracy. Tired of puppet regimes. Tired of bombing campaigns disguised as rescue missions. Tired of being told how to live, how to pray, how to govern.

From Africa to Latin America, from the Middle East to Asia, the cry is the same — we want dignity, not domination.

Before the Storm Comes the Silence

As we stand at the crossroads of history, we must choose: either continue letting one nation police the world with bombs and sanctions, or stand up and fight — not just with weapons, but with truth, resistance, and unity.A third world war may not be the answer, but perhaps it is the question we must now ask. Because when justice becomes a tool of the powerful, the weak must become brave.

African proverb: "A child who knows how to wash his hands eats with elders."

It is time to wash our hands of this global hypocrisy. The elders must make room, because the world’s oppressed are learning to stand, to speak, and maybe — just maybe — to fight.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

Who Bewitched Us? A Tragedy of Litter, Leadership, and Lost Legacy in Uganda

Date: June 19, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

In every corner of Uganda—from the congested slums of Katwe to the once-serene wetlands of Lwera—our land is groaning. She pleads not with shouts but with slow deaths: rivers choked with plastic, soils poisoned by chemicals, and forests reduced to memory. Our eyes have seen this decay, our noses have smelled it, and our feet have stepped in it. And yet, during campaign season, when voices are loudest and promises fly like seed in the wind, no one talks about saving her.

Our politicians tour the country with megaphones and motorcades. They speak of roads, jobs, and hospitals. They promise boreholes and youth funds. But when it comes to the environment—the very earth beneath our feet—they fall silent. Not even the birds, now driven from their wetland homes, are mentioned. It is as if the environment, like the poor, does not vote.

An African proverb says: "If the drumbeat changes, the dance must also change." But Uganda's political class dances to the same tired tune—development at any cost, even if that cost is life itself.

The Deafening Silence of Campaigns

Come campaign season, Uganda transforms into a country of temporary generosity. Candidates build pit latrines, donate hoes, or resurface roads that have been potholes for years. Yet not once do you hear a candidate say:

“I will reclaim the wetland behind your village.”

“I will shut down illegal sand miners.”

“I will stop the construction in your forest.”

Why? Because environmental issues do not yield quick returns. They require long-term thinking, courage to confront powerful interests, and discipline to uphold unpopular laws. Politicians, whose main goal is to win elections every five years, prefer visible, populist projects. Environment? That's for NGOs and secondary school debates. This neglect is not innocent. It is deliberate.

Consider the irony: the same leaders who claim to fight for Uganda's future are the ones authorizing deforestation, giving away wetlands to investors, and watching silently as factories discharge untreated waste into lakes. The silence is not by accident—it is a protective cover for complicity.

Green Promises, Brown Realities

Environmental rhetoric, when it appears at all, is often ceremonial. A minister will plant a tree on Earth Day and pose for cameras. A Member of Parliament may launch a cleanup drive in their constituency—only once, with media present. Then they return to Parliament and approve budgets that allocate less than 1% to environmental protection.

Uganda signed on to numerous international agreements: the Paris Climate Accord, the Ramsar Convention on Wetlands, and the UN’s Sustainable Development Goals. But at home, these are like expensive suits worn without underwear—flashy but lacking substance.

Take Lake Victoria, for example. It sustains over 30 million people in East Africa. Yet Uganda’s part of the lake is now infested with water hyacinth, plastic waste, and industrial runoff. Fishermen complain of declining fish stocks. But what do politicians say during campaigns?

They’ll promise “modern fishing gear” but not talk about pollution, or lake restoration. It is the politics of symptoms, not solutions.

When the Elders Destroy the Granary

An old African saying goes, “When the elders sit and watch the granary burn, the children will have nothing to eat tomorrow.” In Uganda, the elders—the leaders—are not just watching the granary burn. Some are selling the ashes.

Wetlands are sold to real estate developers. Forests are converted into sugarcane plantations. Mountains are mined until they bleed. Communities are evicted in the name of investment. And when the rains come and floods wash away homes, leaders offer relief aid with fanfare. Yet they never admit that they caused the floods by allowing wetland destruction. This is more than corruption. It is environmental treason.

Take Lubigi Wetland in Kampala, for example. Once a vital water catchment area, it is now a hub of construction. Apartments, petrol stations, and churches sprout like weeds. Government institutions—including the police and NEMA itself—have built in it. How then can you expect enforcement?

The "Investor" Con Game

One of the most dangerous lies Uganda has embraced is that every investor is good. Under this lie, wetlands are gifted to foreigners who establish flower farms, factories, and private estates. These ventures promise employment, and indeed they offer jobs—but at what cost? Workers are poorly paid. Chemicals pollute nearby rivers. Locals lose land. The environment is degraded.

In Namanve Industrial Park and parts of Mukono, you’ll find companies discharging waste into streams. Ask the local community what changed after the factories came. They’ll say they breathe worse air and drink worse water.

Who monitors these factories? Where are the Environmental Impact Assessments (EIAs)? Who approved their licenses?

Often, these questions go unanswered because the so-called “investors” are backed by powerful people. Try to protest, and you’re labeled anti-development. It is like killing your mother and calling it surgery.

Littering as a Learned Behaviour

We often blame the ordinary Ugandan for littering. Indeed, many people throw rubbish without a second thought. But let’s ask: where did they learn that behavior?

Children grow up seeing adults throw bottles out of taxi windows. They see no, or not enough dustbins in towns. They see drainage channels filled with plastic. They see no consequences. And they internalize that environment is not important. This learned carelessness reflects a society whose leaders don’t lead by example.

If the President’s convoy drives past a mountain of garbage every week and does nothing, what message does that send?

If a Member of Parliament walks through plastic-choked markets but only donates t-shirts, what lesson is taught? The rot starts at the top.

Solutions Are Not a Mystery

We do not lack knowledge. We lack political will. The solutions are known:

Strict Ban on Polythene: Enforce a complete ban on kaveera and support alternatives like reusable bags, raffia, and paper packaging.

Reclaim Encroached Wetlands: Demolish illegal structures and restore wetland ecology through public works and employment schemes.

Environmental Education: Integrate practical environmental education in all school levels and fund eco-clubs.

Waste Management Infrastructure: Build sorting centers, composting sites, and recycling hubs in every district.

Elect Green Leaders: Demand that environment be a campaign issue. Ask your LC1 chairman, MP, or presidential candidate what their environmental plan is—and reject silence.

Support Green Entrepreneurship: Invest in youth-led waste recycling, eco-construction, organic farming, and green transport solutions.

Rise or Rot?

Uganda stands at a crossroads. One path leads to a future where children swim in clean rivers, forests hum with life, and air is a blessing, not a hazard. The other path—our current one—leads to choking cities, poisoned land, and a population robbed of its health and dignity. The time has come to stop pretending. To stop postponing. To stop politicking. Environmental conservation is not a luxury. It is a lifeline.

As another African proverb warns: “We do not inherit the Earth from our ancestors; we borrow it from our children.” What shall we return to them? If we do not change the way we campaign, govern, and live, future generations will ask not “who bewitched us,” but why we chose blindness over wisdom, silence over truth, and decay over life. Let Uganda rise—green, just, and proud.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

“The Earth is not ours; it is a treasure we hold in trust for our children.”

Date: June 17, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

In the dusty corners of Kampala’s taxi parks, amidst the clogged drainage systems of downtown Owino, and along the once-pristine banks of River Rwizi in Mbarara, one cannot help but ask: who bewitched us? Why have Ugandans grown so indifferent to the garbage that invades our homes, suffocates our wetlands, and corrodes our future?

The tragedy of Uganda’s environmental degradation is both a reflection of societal neglect and a consequence of deliberate political betrayal. When an old bird teaches the young one how to fly into fire, we should not be surprised when the nest burns. Our leaders, who should be custodians of our natural heritage, have themselves become agents of its destruction. They build in wetlands with impunity, authorize polythene factories that profit off pollution, and turn a blind eye to encroachers. This is not just an ecological crisis. It is a moral one.

The Unseen Cost of Littering

At first glance, a thrown plastic bottle or a discarded banana peel may seem harmless. But these are not just bits of waste — they are emblems of a deeper national sickness. Uganda produces approximately 600 tonnes of plastic waste daily, according to the National Environment Management Authority (NEMA), yet less than half of this is collected or recycled. The rest ends up in open dumps, water bodies, or is burned, releasing toxic fumes.

Urban centers like Kampala, Masaka, Gulu, and Mbale are choking under the weight of poorly managed waste. Gutters overflow, especially during the rainy season, not just due to rain, but because of plastic bags, food wrappers, and other debris blocking the flow. Mosquitoes breed in these stagnant pools, and cholera spreads with cruel efficiency in slums where waste and water mix. And who is to blame? It is easy to point fingers at the average Ugandan throwing rubbish out of a moving taxi or urinating in a corner. But is that the root cause? Or is it a symptom of a larger failure?

The Broken Mirror: Leaders Leading by Bad Example

Ugandans, especially the poor and marginalized, have been excluded from the environmental discourse. When ministers pour soil into wetlands to build malls and posh homes; when foreign investors are allowed to establish industries in ecologically sensitive areas; when environmental laws are ignored or selectively enforced — what lesson is left for the common man?

In Lwera, on the Masaka–Kampala highway, wetland destruction is a booming business. Trucks ferry sand daily. Chinese and local contractors have transformed the wetland into a vast quarry. This wetland, once a buffer that filtered water and provided refuge to endangered bird species, is now a wasteland of profit.

NEMA and Ministry of Water and Environment officials issue statements, conduct "visits," and promise action. But the wheels of justice spin slowly, if at all. The culprits are rarely punished. On the contrary, many are rewarded with new contracts or political promotions.

This elite impunity sends a clear message to the masses: the environment is not a sacred trust — it is a resource to exploit for personal gain.

The Polythene Scandal: Profits over Planet

In 2009, Uganda introduced a ban on polythene bags (locally known as "kaveera") under 30 microns. The intention was noble — to reduce non-biodegradable plastic pollution that was strangling ecosystems. However, like many Ugandan laws, this ban was enforced in press releases and forgotten in practice.

Today, kaveera is everywhere. Vendors wrap chapatti, sugarcane, and even cooked food in it. Factories continue to produce the outlawed material. Why? Because some of the owners of these companies are politically connected. Attempts by environmental activists to push for stricter enforcement have been met with resistance from lobbyists who claim banning kaveera would kill jobs. But at what cost? Our lakes are filled with plastic. Fishermen in Lake Victoria pull in more bottles than fish. Cows die after ingesting kaveera while grazing in landfills. The soil loses fertility, and water sources get contaminated. And we pretend all is well.

The Myth of the ‘Investor’

One of the most insidious contributors to environmental degradation in Uganda is the myth of the “investor.” Under the guise of economic growth, the government has opened its arms wide to foreigners who come with bulldozers instead of blueprints.

Wetlands are gifted to so-called investors to build factories, flower farms, and real estate projects. Tax holidays are offered as incentives. In some cases, local communities are forcefully evicted to make room for these ventures — their ancestral lands turned into profit zones for faceless corporations.

The Uganda Investment Authority and Ministry of Trade boast about these "developments," citing job creation and foreign exchange. But who benefits? The jobs are few, often menial, and temporary. The profits leave the country. And the environmental damage is irreversible. It is like burning down your grandmother’s house for firewood.

Education and the Missing Curriculum

Environmental education remains a neglected pillar in Uganda's academic system. While primary and secondary schools have topics on ecosystems and climate change, these are often treated as peripheral. There is little to no practical training on waste management, sustainable agriculture, or environmental rights.

How then do we expect a generation to care for a planet they barely understand?

Furthermore, the role of religious leaders, cultural institutions, and local governments in shaping environmental ethics is woefully underutilized. Buganda Kingdom, for instance, has made some strides in promoting environmental campaigns, but these are not backed by national policy or funding.

Without a grassroots revolution in environmental education and cultural reawakening, littering and environmental degradation will continue to thrive.

What Must Be Done?

To reverse this path of destruction, Uganda needs more than slogans. We need a total reset of values, policies, and leadership priorities.

Hold Leaders Accountable: Laws against wetland encroachment and illegal dumping must be enforced without fear or favor. If a minister builds in a wetland, they should be prosecuted, not protected.

Ban Polythene Bags Fully: A complete, uncompromising ban on kaveera must be enacted and enforced. Alternatives like paper bags, banana leaves, and reusable packaging should be promoted with subsidies.

Empower Communities: Local councils and youth groups should be given resources to lead cleanup campaigns, recycling initiatives, and tree planting efforts. Ownership must come from the bottom up.

Educate for the Future: Schools should adopt eco-clubs, community service programs, and practical lessons on sustainability. Every child should graduate with the knowledge of how to protect their environment.

Reclaim Wetlands and Forests: All illegal structures in protected areas must be removed, and restoration projects funded. This will also create jobs in environmental conservation.

Media and Art as Advocacy: Musicians, filmmakers, and social media influencers must be engaged as partners in the environmental struggle. A single hit song or viral video can change more minds than a hundred workshops.

A Call to Conscience

Uganda’s beauty is legendary — from the misty peaks of the Rwenzori to the mirror-like waters of Lake Bunyonyi. But this beauty is under siege. Our environment is crying out, not just from neglect, but from betrayal. The betrayal of leaders who swore to protect it. The betrayal of institutions that sold it for profit. And the betrayal of citizens who have become too numb to care.

Just as the same hands that throw garbage can pick it up, so too can the same leaders who destroy wetlands be held accountable, and the same communities that pollute be empowered to clean. It begins with truth, courage, and action. “The Earth is not ours; it is a treasure we hold in trust for our children.” Let us be worthy stewards.

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

Budgeting Lies and Broken Promises: Uganda’s Season of Deception

Date: June 15, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

As another financial year looms in Uganda, the familiar melody begins to play — ministers clad in tailored suits, budget briefs clutched in hand, parading in Parliament with performative urgency. Speeches will be delivered, pledges made, promises revived. But behind the ornate words lies a ghost town of forgotten commitments and the silent suffering of ordinary Ugandans. Like a chorus that knows the lyrics but feels no music, many have become numb to the spectacle.

The national budget — once meant to reflect the will and needs of the people — has turned into an elaborate dance of figures that rarely translate into real change. It's no longer just about numbers; it's about the erosion of trust, the corrosion of institutions, and the crumbling of accountability. As the old African proverb goes, "When the drumbeat changes, the dance must also change." But in Uganda, the rhythm of deception has remained tragically consistent.

Debt, Dependency, and Disillusionment

Uganda’s national debt is no longer just a line item in the Finance Ministry’s reports; it has become a shackle around the ankles of every citizen. As of early 2025, the public debt soared to over $29 billion — nearly half of the Budget. This means that out of every 100 shillings spent by government, nearly 50 are swallowed by debt repayments. What’s left is divided among sectors so severely that some ministries operate on life support.

Instead of confronting this issue head-on, officials justify borrowing with vague promises of future returns. Grand projects — some barely breaking ground — are cited as justification for loans, often from foreign sources that attach conditions which subtly compromise national sovereignty.

But where are the results? Where are the factories, the modern roads, the functional public hospitals that were promised? Why are ordinary Ugandans still dying in overcrowded wards while the political class flies out for medical checkups? The answers are buried beneath layers of bureaucracy, kickbacks, and public relations spin.

A Culture of Lies from Top to Bottom

One cannot speak of Uganda’s budget without confronting the issue of trust — or more accurately, the absence of it. The President will stand before the nation and assure us that all is well. Ministers will echo his optimism, and local leaders will nod in agreement. Yet at the grassroots, schools lack chalk, clinics have no medicine, and boreholes remain unfixed.

This systemic dishonesty is not limited to top-tier politics. It trickles down to district officials, LC chairpersons, procurement officers, and even parish chiefs — each playing their role in an orchestra of deceit. Lies have become an accepted form of governance. The budget speech itself has evolved into a well-rehearsed script, detached from the lived realities of Ugandans.

Year after year, the government outlines ambitious goals — 5,000 kilometers of roads to be tarmacked, 1 million jobs to be created, hospitals to be equipped, and schools to be improved. But the Auditor General’s reports consistently expose the truth: only a fraction of these plans materialize. In 2024, only 47% of planned budget outputs were fully implemented. Half measures and outright negligence account for the rest.

Misplaced Priorities in a Bleeding Nation

Perhaps nothing better illustrates the moral decay of our budgeting process than the extravagance disguised as necessity. In 2023/24 alone, nearly Shs3 trillion was spent on things like luxury bedding, “special” drinks, welfare allowances, donations, and entertainment. This, in a country where over 40% of children under five are stunted due to malnutrition.

What manner of leadership permits such disparity? Is it moral to allocate billions to refreshment and “welfare” while mothers in Karamoja trade goats to buy paracetamol?

The sense of abandonment is profound. Many Ugandans no longer even listen to budget speeches. They see them for what they are: performances that serve the elite and pacify the rest with hope that has long expired.

Healthcare in Crisis: The Forgotten Frontline

Few sectors reveal the consequences of fiscal betrayal more clearly than healthcare. Uganda's health worker shortage stands at over 180,000. Facilities remain chronically understaffed, especially in rural areas where one nurse may attend to hundreds.

And yet, while health facilities beg for funding, budget allocations often favor military spending, political patronage projects, and “classified expenditures” that cannot be publicly scrutinized. Worse still, the little that is allocated often doesn’t reach its destination. Procurement mafias inflate costs. Equipment is delivered late or not at all. Ambulances are commissioned with much fanfare and then disappear without accountability.

In a truly painful irony, even health workers who survived the COVID-19 frontline have reported months of unpaid allowances. These are not just statistics; they are fathers, mothers, and children suffering because leaders play monopoly with public funds.

Domestic Arrears and the Culture of Owing

As of 2025, Uganda’s domestic arrears — unpaid bills to suppliers, contractors, pensioners — had crossed Shs10 trillion. Small businesses that provide goods and services to government entities often wait years to be paid. Many go bankrupt.

And when people cry out, they are told to “be patient.” But patience has limits. It cannot pay rent. It cannot feed families. It cannot shield one from creditors.

This accumulation of unpaid obligations is more than bad accounting. It is a betrayal of contractual and moral obligation. It is a public statement that the government’s word is no longer bond.

Ghost Projects, Phantom Jobs, and Vanishing Billions

From Lubowa Hospital to the so-called “investor cities” in Namanve and beyond, Uganda’s development agenda is riddled with phantom projects. Billions are allocated each year to initiatives that either stall, underperform, or fail altogether.

How did we reach a point where an entire hospital could be funded and yet remain a shell, its usefulness only visible in budget documents? What happened to the promise of turning Uganda into a middle-income economy by 2020 — later revised to 2040 — and possibly 2080 at this rate?

The public has been conditioned to forget. Leaders know that a scandal today will be forgotten in two months, replaced by another, louder one. It’s a carousel of betrayal.

Elections: The High Season of Lies

Now, with the 2026 elections around the corner, the budget takes on a more sinister purpose. It becomes a tool for politicking. Constituency roads suddenly get gravel. Long-forgotten health centers receive token renovations. Government appointments swell.

And yet, these cosmetic changes are never about sustainability. They are meant to generate photo-ops, not long-term impact. The budget becomes a campaign poster, and the public a mere audience.

There is little difference between budget season and campaign season anymore. Both are dominated by promises that will never be fulfilled. Both are designed to sedate rather than empower.

Is There a Way Out?

Hope is not entirely lost. There are still individuals within the system trying to do right. Civil society organizations, investigative journalists, and whistleblowers continue to uncover abuses and demand accountability.

But systemic change will only come when citizens themselves reclaim the budget as their own. When they scrutinize it, question it, and hold leaders to account. Transparency alone is not enough; civic pressure must be constant and loud. It also requires electoral reform, stronger institutions, and the dismantling of patronage networks that protect corruption and punish integrity.

A Budget for the People or a Budget for Power?

Ultimately, the question Uganda must answer is this: who is the national budget for? Is it for the people in Gulu, Mbale, Masaka, and Arua who wake before dawn to earn a living under difficult conditions? Or is it for the political elite — whose only risk is public embarrassment, not poverty?

If the budget continues to be weaponized for power retention, if public money continues to be channeled into projects of vanity rather than necessity, then no election will save us. No new faces will matter. The rot will remain.

Uganda must choose whether to continue dancing to the same deceitful rhythm or demand a new beat — one that values truth, prioritizes service, and enshrines justice.

As the dust begins to rise in anticipation of elections and as the parliamentary chambers fill once again with lofty declarations, the Ugandan citizen must remember: promises are not policies, and budgets are not blessings. They are tools — and tools must be used, not worshipped.

If we truly want change, then the people must become the authors of their own future, not passive readers of recycled lies. As the African proverb reminds us, "When the drumbeat changes, the dance must also change." It is time for Uganda to change the rhythm.

About the Author:

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

“When the roots of a tree begin to decay, it spreads death to the branches.” – African Proverb

Date: June 13, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

There’s a stinging realization growing louder across the motherland: African leaders, particularly in Uganda, often treat their citizens not as partners in governance but as expendable spectators—too uninformed, too impotent, too trusting. It’s a perception that has fueled decades of corruption, ill-advised investments, and extravagant privilege for the few at the expense of the many. This belief, tragically internalized by those in power, has led to decisions that not only defy logic but mock the intelligence and dignity of ordinary Ugandans.

Let us unpack a bitter example that captures this dysfunction: the Lubowa Hospital saga. A hospital that exists more in press statements than in reality. A facility that was supposed to symbolize progress but instead came to embody betrayal.

The Lubowa Hospital Debacle: A Promise Built on Lies

In 2019, the Ugandan government guaranteed a $379 million loan for the construction of a state-of-the-art international specialized hospital in Lubowa. The project was awarded to an Italian investor, Finasi-Roko Construction SPV Ltd. The idea was simple on paper—Uganda would finally have a modern medical facility that could reduce the burden of flying top officials abroad for treatment. It would also become a regional health hub, attracting patients and revenue from neighboring countries.

But several years later, the "investor"—a term now abused to the point of farce—delivered nothing tangible. Construction halted. The site remains eerily incomplete. No life-saving surgeries. No jobs created. No lives improved. Yet the money—our money—was disbursed, the guarantees issued, and accountability avoided like a virus.

How can someone be called an "investor" when they have no money of their own? How does a sovereign government act as a guarantor to a supposed investor? Isn't the very definition of investing tied to putting one's own capital at risk? Uganda, it seems, redefined investment as state-sponsored gambling, where public funds back private profit, and the only losers are the citizens.

"Privatizing Everything": The Selling of the Ugandan Soul

The Lubowa project is not an isolated act—it’s part of a broader, disturbing trend: the systematic privatization of nearly every public asset. Lakes, minerals, coffee export, roads, railways—you name it, it’s either already sold, leased out, or in negotiation to be transferred into private hands. Worse, these deals are often shrouded in secrecy, without proper consultation with Parliament or the people.

The Uganda Vinci Coffee Company (UVCC) agreement, for instance, granted an Italian investor monopoly over the coffee value chain—without significant local input. Farmers, the backbone of Uganda’s economy, were left in the dark, handed exploitative contracts while profits leaked abroad. Lake Kyoga and parts of Lake Victoria, sources of livelihood for generations, have been handed over to private operators who extort local fishermen and criminalize traditional practices.

What we are witnessing is not just economic policy—it’s a betrayal of a nation's soul. We are being stripped not only of our resources but of our agency and identity. In the name of "foreign investment," we have become tenants on our own land.

Privatization as a Tool of Elite Capture

In the 1990s and early 2000s, Uganda embraced privatization under the guise of efficiency. State-owned enterprises were sold off — from Uganda Commercial Bank to Uganda Airlines and Uganda Telecom — all under the neoliberal doctrine of “private sector-led growth.”

But what has that brought?

The profits went to foreign interests, the jobs dwindled, and the quality of service collapsed. Worse still, many of these formerly public assets are now owned by shadow companies with links to politically exposed persons. What the public never fully grasped was that privatization wasn't about development. It was about transferring public wealth into private hands — specifically, the hands of a few well-connected elites. And as Ugandans groan under the weight of unemployment, poor wages, and rising costs, the beneficiaries of this looting spree live lives of obscene comfort.

The Healthcare Hypocrisy

Nothing reflects the contempt of the ruling class more vividly than their attitude toward Uganda’s health system.

Senior politicians, judges, ministers, and even military officers routinely fly out for medical check-ups. They trust foreign hospitals — in India, South Africa, Germany, and Dubai — but expect the ordinary Ugandan to die in under-equipped and over-stretched health centers. If they believed in the capacity of local health infrastructure, they would strengthen it. They would equip it. They would seek treatment there themselves. But their actions scream a different truth: they have no faith in the system they claim to lead.

In 2021, Speaker of Parliament Jacob Oulanyah was flown to Seattle for treatment and died shortly thereafter. The bill? Over UGX 2.5 billion. That amount could have equipped a regional referral hospital with ICU beds and a blood bank. Yet, the leaders continue the practice, as if the public purse is their personal health insurance. They die abroad. They bury their shame at home.

Public Debt and Private Mansions

Uganda’s public debt crossed UGX 96 trillion in 2024 — a staggering burden for a developing country. Yet, ironically, some government officials own properties abroad that rival this debt.

Who investigates the source of such wealth? Who audits their assets against their incomes? Why does a civil servant own apartments in Dubai, a hotel in Nairobi, and farmland in South Africa?

The answers are simple: corruption is systemic. Accountability is selective. And the anti-corruption rhetoric is largely for show.

What is worse is the normalizing of this theft. Wealth without traceable income is celebrated, not questioned. Politicians drive convoys of SUVs through poverty-stricken villages, not as a shameful display of inequality but as a campaign strategy — a promise of what one can become if they align with the system.

A Broken Social Contract

The relationship between a state and its people is anchored in trust and mutual responsibility. In Uganda, that trust has been broken repeatedly. The government behaves more like an occupying force than a servant of the people.

Education is privatized. Health is inaccessible. Land is grabbed. Investors are fake. Contracts are opaque. The youth are unemployed. Civil liberties are curtailed. Elections are a ritual of manipulation. And yet, every year, new pledges are made with pomp and dance.

As citizens, we are not merely disappointed — we are wounded. Our dignity has been sold to the highest bidder. Our hope is exploited during every election season. And our pain is weaponized as a justification for foreign aid, which rarely reaches those it’s meant to help.

I am not writing this from a place of abstraction. I am writing as a Ugandan who has seen his relatives die in underfunded hospitals. I have seen families impoverished by school fees, while government officials send their children to British boarding schools. I have walked past the rusted shells of public enterprises that once provided jobs, now replaced by shopping malls and private villas. The pain is personal. It should be personal for every Ugandan. Because behind every stolen shilling is a classroom that wasn’t.

Where Do We Go From Here?

We must stop normalizing nonsense. Ugandans are not dumb. They see. They hear. They feel. The silence is not ignorance — it is exhaustion. A new political consciousness must rise — one that demands accountability with facts, not just emotions. One that replaces personality cults with policy debates. One that treats national resources as sacred, not as bargaining chips.

We must reject fake investors and insist on transparent procurement. We must audit all sovereign guarantees given on our behalf. We must restore the dignity of public health and education. We must investigate wealth accumulation by public officials. We must empower institutions — not individuals. This is not a call for rebellion. It is a call for restoration.

Uganda is not poor. It is plundered. Its people are not lazy. They are misled. Its future is not doomed. It is deferred. As the African proverb reminds us, when the roots decay, the branches perish. But the beauty of trees is that they can grow anew — if we return to nurturing the soil, pruning the rot, and believing again in what is possible.

Let us replant the roots of honesty, integrity, and patriotism. Not for politicians. Not for investors. But for ourselves, and for the Uganda that still lives in our hearts — despite everything.

About the Author:

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

Uganda for Sale: The Tragedy of Wetland Exploitation and the Foreign Investor Illusion

Date: June 11, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

Introduction

In an era when climate change dominates international discourse and nations scramble to fulfill their commitments to environmental preservation, Uganda appears to be taking a perilous detour. While global environmentalists champion sustainability, Uganda's leadership seems to march in the opposite direction—opening up its natural treasures, especially wetlands, to foreign investors with alarming ease. These same wetlands are vital to the country’s ecological balance, food security, and water regulation. Yet, foreign corporations are increasingly being licensed to erect concrete empires in these sensitive ecosystems, often in exchange for dubious promises of development.

Worse still, these investors are showered with tax holidays, generous waivers, and legal shields, while ordinary Ugandans are blocked, criminalized, or ignored when they attempt to harness natural resources for subsistence or small-scale enterprise. This duality reveals a deeper crisis: a governance structure that prioritizes foreign capital over national interest, foreign investors over indigenous innovation, and short-term gains over long-term sustainability. Uganda’s wetland crisis is not just an environmental tragedy—it is a betrayal of the nation’s sovereignty and a dangerous flirtation with ecological collapse.

Uganda’s Wetlands: Natural Wealth Under Siege

Uganda is home to over 11% of Africa’s total freshwater resources and boasts approximately 15% of its land covered by wetlands. These wetlands—including the renowned Namajjuzi, Lwera, Mpologoma, and Lubigi systems—are not just aesthetic assets; they are ecological powerhouses. They filter water, recharge groundwater, protect against floods, support biodiversity, and act as carbon sinks that mitigate climate change.

Moreover, wetlands support livelihoods: an estimated 4 million Ugandans derive part of their income from wetland-based activities such as fishing, agriculture, papyrus harvesting, and ecotourism. Wetlands also host critical bird species and aquatic life, making them central to Uganda’s biodiversity and tourism potential.

However, in the past two decades, Uganda has lost more than 30% of its wetlands due to encroachment and industrial development. According to the Ministry of Water and Environment, at least 2,376 hectares of wetlands are lost annually. Satellite data shows that the once-thriving Lwera wetland, for instance, has been drastically reduced due to sand mining and rice growing by large firms.

Rather than tighten protections around these ecosystems, Ugandan authorities appear to be selling them to the highest bidder. What was once considered a sacred ecological inheritance is now treated as expendable real estate, with devastating consequences for future generations.

Foreign Investors in Wetlands: A Deal with the Devil?

The most blatant manifestation of Uganda’s environmental neglect is the increasing number of foreign companies allowed to establish industrial projects in ecologically protected zones. Chinese, Indian, and Arab-owned firms are often given priority in land allocation, including land within wetlands, with little to no transparency regarding Environmental Impact Assessments (EIAs).

Take the example of the Lwera wetland, where large-scale sand mining has been dominated by foreign entities, including Chinese and Indian firms. These companies have operated with impunity, often flouting environmental regulations and leaving behind massive ecological scars. Despite community complaints and clear violations of the National Environment Act, 2019, which prohibits developments in sensitive ecological zones without thorough review and compliance, these operations continue unabated.

Another case is Lubigi wetland, a critical drainage system for Kampala. It has suffered encroachment from foreign-backed infrastructure projects, including factories and warehouses. Reports by the National Environment Management Authority (NEMA) indicate that some of these developments were approved without proper consultation or were later regularized through political influence.

These investors often enter the country under the guise of “development partners,” yet their real impact is questionable. They create limited low-wage jobs, pay minimal taxes due to extensive exemptions, and export most of the profits—leaving Ugandans with polluted water, degraded ecosystems, and depleted natural wealth.

The Tax Holiday Mirage

One of the most controversial aspects of Uganda’s foreign investor model is the provision of tax holidays and waivers. In theory, these incentives are meant to attract capital, create jobs, and stimulate industrialization. In practice, they create loopholes for exploitation, promote inequality, and undermine national revenue collection.

According to Uganda Revenue Authority (URA) reports, foreign investors enjoy waivers on corporate income tax, VAT on imports, and even customs duties on machinery. Some firms receive exemptions lasting up to 10 years. In 2022 alone, Uganda lost over UGX 2 trillion (approx. USD 540 million) in tax exemptions, the majority of which benefited foreign companies.

This generosity stands in sharp contrast to the treatment of local entrepreneurs, who are burdened with high licensing fees, regulatory red tape, and limited access to credit. While a foreign investor in the manufacturing sector may receive a 5-year tax holiday, a Ugandan with a start-up in green technology faces multiple audits, costly compliance procedures, and no meaningful support.

The result? A two-tiered economy where the foreign elite thrive in a protected bubble of privilege, while Ugandans compete for crumbs in a hostile regulatory environment.

Blocking Ugandans, Blessing Foreigners

Numerous Ugandan farmers, fishers, and small-scale entrepreneurs have testified to being harassed or evicted from wetlands and protected lands. In Gulu, locals cultivating vegetables near the Aywee wetland were evicted by NEMA, citing environmental concerns. Just months later, a Chinese company was granted permission to establish a cassava-processing plant in the same area—without proper consultation.

This trend reveals an institutional bias: environmental regulations are enforced against ordinary Ugandans but conveniently waived for foreigners. This selective application of the law reeks of neo-colonialism. It reinforces the perception that the government trusts foreigners more than its own citizens and believes that real development can only come from external sources.

Beyond policy, there is also an implicit racial and class-based privilege that favors investors with lighter skin, foreign passports, or elite connections. It is a tragedy of post-independence Africa that foreign exploitation, once resisted with valor, is now embraced by the very custodians of national sovereignty.

Uganda in the Era of Global Climate Action

Globally, there is a robust push for climate justice, green energy, and ecosystem preservation. The Paris Agreement and subsequent Conferences of Parties (COPs) have called for nations to drastically cut emissions, conserve biodiversity, and protect carbon sinks like forests and wetlands. Uganda is a signatory to these agreements and has committed to reducing emissions by 22% by 2030 under its Nationally Determined Contributions (NDCs).

Yet the country’s domestic behavior contradicts its international rhetoric. Approving wetland destruction, tolerating environmental violations, and promoting fossil fuel infrastructure—like the East African Crude Oil Pipeline—place Uganda at odds with global sustainability goals.

The Way Forward: Reclaiming Environmental Sovereignty

To break this dangerous pattern, Uganda must urgently redefine its investment policy and environmental governance.

First, tax incentives should be restructured to reward sustainability. Only investors who adhere to stringent environmental standards and demonstrate clear benefits to Ugandans should qualify for exemptions.

Second, the environmental regulatory framework must be insulated from political interference. Agencies like NEMA should be empowered, not overridden. Environmental Impact Assessments must be made public, accessible, and subject to independent review.

Third, local investors must be supported, not stifled. This means access to green financing, mentorship, incubation hubs, and simplified regulatory procedures. The government must recognize that economic transformation will not come from external handouts but from empowering its own citizens.

Fourth, there must be legal accountability. Investors who damage wetlands should be fined heavily, required to restore ecosystems, or banned from operating. Government officials who facilitate illegal land allocations must be prosecuted.

Finally, there should be a national conversation on environmental justice. Wetlands are not just empty lands waiting for development—they are sacred life systems. Uganda must reclaim its environmental sovereignty by placing people and planet above profit.

Conclusion

Uganda stands at a critical crossroads. On one side lies the path of genuine development rooted in sustainability, equity, and national empowerment. On the other lies the illusion of prosperity peddled by foreign investors—an illusion that comes at the cost of wetlands, livelihoods, and sovereignty.

The current trend of sacrificing ecological wealth for temporary capital inflows is not only unsustainable—it is immoral. It privileges outsiders over citizens, quick money over generational wealth, and destruction over preservation. If unchecked, it will leave Uganda poorer, polluted, and permanently indebted.

About the Author:

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

The Illusion of Invincibility: How Repression and Corruption Undermine Uganda's Political Landscape

Date: June 07, 2025

By: Mujwiga Najiib

In the annals of political history, the pattern is unmistakable: leaders who cling to power through repression, corruption, and the silencing of dissent often meet ignominious ends. Despite the illusion of invincibility, the tides of justice and public sentiment have a way of turning against those who believe themselves untouchable.

"The child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth." This African Proverb is a perfect match for events that have in the recent past evolved to shape the political landscape in Uganda and Africa as a whole.

In Uganda, the persistent use of state machinery to suppress dissent, manipulate electoral processes, and entrench power has created a volatile political environment. As the nation approaches the 2026 elections, the government's actions raise concerns about the sustainability of such tactics and their long-term implications for democracy and national stability.

Pre-Election Repression: A Recurring Pattern

Uganda's political history is marked by a pattern of pre-election repression aimed at stifling opposition and consolidating power. Notably, during the 2016 general elections, opposition leader Kizza Besigye was arrested multiple times, and his party's headquarters were raided by police. The European Union Election Observation Mission reported that security forces were perceived as biased and discriminatory, documenting ongoing intimidation, harassment, and arrests of opposition supporters across various districts.

In the 2021 elections, the situation escalated. Opposition candidate Robert Kyagulanyi, popularly known as Bobi Wine, faced numerous challenges, including arrests, house arrest, and violent suppression of his campaign activities. Security forces clamped down on opposition members and journalists, violently arresting scores of people, including presidential candidates. The crackdown led to at least 54 deaths during protests demanding Kyagulanyi's release.

Draconian Legislation: Silencing Dissent

Beyond physical repression, the Ugandan government has enacted laws that curtail freedoms and target dissenters. In October 2022, President Museveni signed the Computer Misuse (Amendment) Act into law, which imposes severe restrictions on freedom of expression online. The legislation threatens the right to receive and impart information and is designed to target critics of the government.

More recently, in May 2025, Ugandan lawmakers passed a controversial bill allowing civilians to be tried in military courts, despite a Supreme Court ruling that barred such practices. Critics argue that this move undermines democratic principles and poses risks for government dissenters ahead of the 2026 elections.

The Downfall of Autocrats: Lessons from History

History offers numerous examples of authoritarian leaders who, despite their grip on power, eventually faced downfall—often abruptly and with lasting consequences for their families.

Robert Mugabe (Zimbabwe): After 37 years in power, Mugabe was ousted in a military coup in 2017. His family's fortunes dwindled, and his once-celebrated legacy was overshadowed by economic collapse and political repression.

Mobutu Sese Seko (Zaire): Mobutu's 32-year rule was marked by extreme corruption and brutality. He amassed vast personal wealth while his country languished in poverty. In 1997, he was overthrown and died in exile, his family's fortunes diminished and his legacy tarnished.

Sani Abacha (Nigeria): Abacha's regime was notorious for human rights abuses and the embezzlement of billions of dollars. After his sudden death in 1998, efforts to recover stolen assets led to international legal battles, implicating his family and exposing the depths of his corruption.

These, are the fewest of the numerous examples in Africa, of course, there is Sudan, Libya, Gabon, Burkina Faso among other nations. The common principle here, is that they underscore the transient nature of power obtained and maintained through repression and corruption.

The Futility of Repression

The strategies employed by authoritarian leaders to maintain power—such as suppressing dissent, manipulating laws, and engaging in corruption—are ultimately unsustainable. These tactics may offer short-term control but often lead to long-term instability and personal downfall.

Erosion of Legitimacy: Repressive actions erode public trust and legitimacy, fueling resistance movements and international condemnation.

Economic Consequences: Corruption and mismanagement deter investment and cripple economies, leading to widespread poverty and discontent.

Isolation: Authoritarian regimes often face diplomatic isolation, sanctions, and loss of support, both domestically and internationally.

Pathways to Sustainable Leadership

To avoid the pitfalls of authoritarianism and ensure lasting positive legacies, leaders should consider the following approaches:

Embrace Democratic Principles: Uphold the rule of law, protect civil liberties, and ensure free and fair elections.

Combat Corruption: Implement transparent governance practices and hold officials accountable to restore public trust.

Foster Inclusive Governance: Engage with opposition groups, civil society, and diverse communities to build a more representative government.

Prioritize Economic Development: Focus on policies that promote sustainable economic growth and equitable distribution of resources.

Plan for Peaceful Transitions: Establish clear succession plans and respect term limits to facilitate orderly transfers of power.

Conclusion

The chronicles of fallen autocrats serve as cautionary tales for current and future leaders. Repression, corruption, and the suppression of dissent may offer temporary control but ultimately lead to instability, personal disgrace, and national suffering. True leadership lies in serving the people with integrity, embracing democratic values, and fostering inclusive governance. By learning from the past, leaders can chart a course toward a more just and prosperous future for their nations and themselves.

About the Author:

The author is a law practitioner in Uganda, a writer, and a passionate advocate for social justice, global equity, and historical truth.

For contact and feed back: mujwiganajiib@gmail.com

"When Elephants Fight, It Is the Grass That Suffers": A Reflection on Global Election Interference and the Ethics of Power

Date: June 05, 2025