By Praise Aloikin Opoloje
A young journalist reports on Uganda’s rising public debt. An economist shares verified inflation data online. In most democracies, these are ordinary acts of public service. Under the Protection of Sovereignty Bill, 2026, these acts could land them in prison for up to 20 years if authorities interpret them as “economic sabotage” or as acting “against the interests of Uganda.” The Bill’s apparent aim—to protect Uganda’s independence from harmful foreign influence—is understandable. However, Clauses 5 and 13 employ dangerously vague language that threatens the fundamental rights of ordinary citizens.
At the heart of the problem is language—broad, undefined, and dangerously elastic. Clause 5 prohibits any activity that “promotes the interests of a foreigner against the interests of Uganda.” Yet the Bill does not define what “the interests of Uganda” means. Does it refer to current government policy, the views of the ruling party, or a broader and more enduring national consensus? Without clear criteria, the phrase risks becoming whatever those in authority say it is at any given time.
Clause 13 goes further by creating the offence of “economic sabotage.” It criminalizes publishing information or engaging in conduct that “weakens or damages the economic system,” or causes “disruption, insecurity or instability.” Critically, the provision appears not to require proof of intent to harm, nor does it clearly provide a defence for truthful reporting or actions taken in the public interest. Terms such as “weakens,” “disruption,” and “instability” are so broad that they could potentially encompass a credit rating downgrade, reporting on corruption, criticism of budget mismanagement, or even the dissemination of accurate unemployment figures.
The Bill also uses the term “disruptive activities” in an expansive manner, capturing conduct deemed to threaten security or promote foreign interests. Such language fails to draw a clear distinction between genuine threats and ordinary democratic activities such as journalism, academic analysis, advocacy, or peaceful protest.
Article 28 of the 1995 Constitution guarantees the right to a fair hearing. At its core is a simple but powerful principle: no person should be convicted of a criminal offence unless that offence is clearly defined in law (Article 28(12)). Citizens must know, in advance, what conduct is prohibited. Vague laws replace certainty with fear.
Ugandan courts have addressed this issue before and have consistently struck down vague criminal provisions. In Francis Tumwesige Ateenyi v Attorney General (Constitutional Petition No. 36 of 2018) [2022] UGCC 10, the Constitutional Court invalidated parts of the “rogue and vagabond” offences in the Penal Code, finding them overly broad and ambiguous. The Court held that such provisions failed to give adequate notice of prohibited conduct and enabled arbitrary enforcement—precisely the danger presented here.
Similarly, in Andrew Karamagi & Another v Attorney General (Constitutional Petition No. 5 of 2016) [2023] UGCC 2, the Court struck down Section 25 of the Computer Misuse Act, which criminalized “offensive communication.” The Court found that the vague wording violated Article 28(12) because it did not clearly define the offence and created room for abuse. These decisions establish a clear principle: penal laws must be precise. Where they are not, violate Article 28 and where they risk capturing legitimate conduct, they are unconstitutional. The Sovereignty Bill appears to ignore this lesson.
Its vagueness creates a chilling effect. Journalists may hesitate to report. Economists may self-censor. Citizens may think twice before speaking. Not because they are wrong—but because they cannot be sure they are safe. At the same time, the absence of clear standards opens the door to selective prosecution, enabling authorities to target critics while ignoring those aligned with the government. This dynamic undermines transparency, as honest discussion about economic conditions, public debt, or governance may be recast as criminal behaviour.
Even more troubling are the penalties. A potential twenty-year prison sentence for conduct that may include truthful reporting or legitimate criticism is not just excessive—it is intimidating. Rather than strengthening sovereignty, such measures risk weakening it by suppressing the open debate in a resilient nation, signalling that the cost of speaking out could be devastating.
Ultimately, the Protection of Sovereignty Bill cannot justify a legal framework that leaves “national interest” undefined while exposing ordinary expression to criminal sanction. For the Bill to align with constitutional principles, Parliament should revisit its drafting to include clear and objective definitions, require proof of intent and demonstrable harm, incorporate public-interest defences, and ensure that penalties are proportionate.
Without these safeguards, the Bill risks turning “national interest” into a weapon rather than a principle. The central question therefore remains: who defines the “national interest”? In a constitutional democracy, the answer cannot be left to shifting political power. It must be anchored in the Constitution and shaped by the people. Anything less risks replacing the rule of law with the rule of discretion—and that is a far greater threat to sovereignty than any foreign influence.
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