What happens when billions of shillings meant to serve Ugandans are allegedly diverted through systems of power and political protection?
In this explosive episode of “What Ought We”, we host Atuheire Agatha, one of Uganda’s leading anti-corruption voices and the woman behind several major exposés involving Parliament and public officials.
From leaked vouchers and questionable SACCO transactions to the broader culture of impunity at the heart of governance, this conversation unpacks the allegations that billions of money were stolen at Parliament before the election and what that means for accountability, democracy, and ordinary citizens.
We discuss: The leaked Parliament SACCO vouchers How public money is allegedly diverted through political networks Why corruption persists despite public outrage The risks faced by whistleblowers and investigators Whether Uganda’s institutions can still hold power accountable What young people should understand about corruption and elections This is a conversation about more than scandal. It is about the future of public trust in Uganda. Watch, share, and join the conversation.
The sustainability of civil society depends fundamentally on access to resources. Clause 22 of the Protection of Sovereignty Bill, 2026 threatens this reality by capping foreign funding at 20,000 currency points (equivalent to UGX 400 million per year ) and requiring ministerial approval for any amount above that limit. Presented as a defence of national sovereignty, the provision risks becoming a sophisticated tool for silencing independent voices through financial control.
Article 29(1)(e) of Uganda’s 1995 Constitution guarantees every person the right to freedom of association. This right is meaningful only if associations can raise and use funds effectively, whether for public interest litigation, environmental protection, healthcare in remote areas, or monitoring governance.
Clause 22 undermines this right in two critical ways. First, the funding ceiling is unrealistically low for organisations operating at scale. Second, it converts a constitutional right into a discretionary privilege granted by the Minister. When civil society actors must seek executive permission to access resources, genuine independence is eroded.
The Constitutional Court has previously cautioned against laws that grant unfettered discretion to officials in matters affecting fundamental rights. Subsection (4), which allows the Minister to prescribe vague procedures, risks creating precisely such a regime. Although the provision does not explicitly ban advocacy, it controls the resources that make advocacy possible. By restricting funding, the State indirectly determines which organisations can operate effectively and which must shrink or disappear.
Organisations engaged in human rights, anti-corruption, and government oversight already operate under pressure. The risk of delayed approval, denial, or forfeiture of funds under Clause 22(3) encourages self-censorship. Furthermore, the threat of up to twenty years’ imprisonment under Clause 22(2) transforms even minor compliance issues into existential risks. This is not neutral regulation; it is regulation by fear.
Article 43 permits limitations on rights only if they are acceptable and demonstrably justifiable in a free and democratic society. While protecting sovereignty from undue foreign influence is a legitimate aim, Clause 22 fails the proportionality test. The arbitrary cap lacks evidentiary justification, and the prior-approval mechanism is more restrictive than necessary. Criminalising financial flows with decades-long prison terms is especially disproportionate for what is essentially a regulatory matter.
Uganda is not acting in isolation. Over the past three decades, more than 130 countries have introduced restrictions on foreign-funded NGOs, ranging from burdensome registration to outright bans and stigmatizing “foreign agent” laws.
In recent years, this trend has accelerated. In the Americas, countries such as Ecuador, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Paraguay, Peru, and Venezuela have adopted or tightened anti-NGO laws between 2024 and 2025. These measures impose excessive reporting obligations, require prior authorisation for funding, and levy heavy taxes on foreign grants.
El Salvador’s 2025 Foreign Agents Law, for example, requires organisations receiving foreign funding to publicly label themselves and pay a 30% tax, prompting some prominent human rights groups to shut down. In many cases, such measures are justified in the name of national security or sovereignty but primarily serve to delegitimise critics and shrink independent civic space. CIVICUS reports that only about 40 out of 198 countries currently enjoy open civic space, while 81 are rated as repressed or closed.
Like the laws in El Salvador, the bill seeks to use foreign funding as a proxy for control, framing external resources as inherently suspicious. The low funding threshold, ministerial approval requirement, and severe penalties mirror tactics seen in other jurisdictions where governments have successfully reduced the operational capacity and legitimacy of independent organizations.
While many countries target NGOs specifically, the Bill’s potential impact extends beyond civil society. Its implications for routine banking transactions, credit lines, and private investments risk broader economic disruption, an issue already flagged by the Uganda Bankers Association. The low cap of UGX 400 million could capture ordinary financial flows, creating compliance challenges and deterring legitimate investment.
In both the global trend and Uganda’s case, the result is the same: independent voices are starved of oxygen while the State gains the power to determine which causes can thrive. The difference is that Uganda’s provision, if enacted, could simultaneously weaken civil society and harm the wider economy.
In a democratic society, the State should not decide which voices can afford to speak. If Clause 22 is enacted in its current form, Uganda risks joining a growing list of countries where “protecting sovereignty” becomes a pretext for shrinking freedom.
Part III (Clauses 14–20) of the Bill does not merely regulate, it creates a powerful system of state control over anyone working with foreign partners or funding. What is presented as a transparency measure quickly becomes a permission-based regime that places civil society on a short leash.
At its core, this section criminalizes ordinary cooperation with the outside world unless the State grants prior approval. It replaces the constitutional right to freely associate with a bureaucratic process backed by harsh penalties. This is not routine administration; it is a fundamental shift in how Ugandans are allowed to organize, speak, and collaborate on issues that matter to them.
Clause 14 is the clearest example. It makes it a criminal offence to act as an “agent of a foreigner” without registration, punishable by up to ten years’ imprisonment or heavy fines. The implications are far-reaching. A local environmental group partnering with an international climate fund, a women’s rights organization receiving training from a foreign network, or a health NGO working with global partners on HIV prevention could all fall foul of the law for failing to comply with registration requirements.
This directly conflicts with Article 29(1)(e) of the 1995 Constitution, which guarantees the right to freedom of association. The Constitutional Court has consistently held that any limitation on this right must be demonstrably justifiable in a free and democratic society. A blanket criminal prohibition, backed by severe penalties, is neither narrow nor proportionate. It transforms a fundamental freedom into a privilege granted at the State’s discretion.
Clause 15 imposes extensive disclosure obligations. Organizations must reveal detailed information about funding sources, foreign relationships, governance structures, and even specific contracts. Clause 15(2)(e), for instance, requires granular reporting on every shilling received from abroad. While transparency is important, these requirements go well beyond accountability. They compel organizations to expose their internal operations in ways that resemble surveillance rather than oversight.
This approach is inconsistent with international human rights standards. Article 22 of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR) protects not only the right to form associations but also the ability to seek, receive, and use resources, including foreign funding. The UN Human Rights Committee has affirmed that restricting access to such resources undermines civil society itself.
Moreover, registration carries the implicit label of “foreign agent,” a term that invites stigma and suspicion. It suggests disloyalty and, when combined with penalties under Clause 20, risks deterring donors, partners, and even local supporters from engaging with affected organizations.
Clause 16 grants the Department sweeping powers to assess an applicant’s “suitability,” including their character, physical and mental health, financial standing, and past conduct. These terms are undefined. Such open-ended criteria give officials wide discretion to determine who qualifies and who does not. What constitutes “bad character”? Who decides “mental fitness”? Vague standards invite arbitrary decision-making and potential discrimination.
The Constitutional Court, in Human Rights Network Uganda & 4 Others v. Attorney General (Constitutional Petition No. 56 of 2013), emphasized that restrictions on rights must be clear, justified, and narrowly tailored. A registration system grounded in subjective assessments cannot meet this standard.
Even where registration is granted, Clause 17 makes clear that it is not a right but a temporary privilege. The Minister may impose any conditions deemed appropriate, and certificates are valid for only two years. Renewal is uncertain. This creates a climate of insecurity in which civil society organizations must constantly guard against falling out of favor with authorities.
Clause 19 reinforces this uncertainty by linking renewal to compliance with prior conditions. Minor administrative errors, or shifts in political priorities, could jeopardize an organization’s continued existence.
Most concerning is Clause 20, which empowers the Minister to suspend or revoke registration where an organization is deemed a “security threat” or engaged in “disruptive activities.” These terms are undefined, granting broad interpretive latitude. Experience shows that such language can be used to target organizations that criticize government policy, advocate for marginalized groups, or operate independently.
Regional human rights standards underscore the danger. Article 10 of the African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights affirms that registration should not be used to suppress legitimate association. Organizations should not require prior government approval to exist.
Taken together, these provisions concentrate extraordinary power in the hands of the Minister—who controls registration, sets conditions, and determines suspension or revocation. This level of discretion creates fertile ground for selective enforcement. Organizations perceived as critical or independent can be constrained through delays, burdensome requirements, or sudden deregistration—without the need for an outright ban.
In conclusion, by criminalizing unregistered work, imposing intrusive disclosure requirements, introducing vague suitability criteria, and granting sweeping ministerial discretion, these provisions threaten the independence and vitality of Ugandan civil society.
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.
At a recent Makerere University School of Law lecture on criminal procedure, an ordinary exchange turned into a moment of reflection on Uganda’s legal system.
Constitutional scholar Prof Christopher Mbazira was discussing basic principles guiding the administration of justice: lawful arrest, presumption of innocence, the rights of suspects and courts’ role in checking state power within the limits of the law. These are the foundations of any system that claims to operate under the rule of law. Students learn that no one should be arrested without lawful cause, that suspects must be brought before a court within a reasonable time, and that the judiciary exists as a safeguard against abuse of power.
In the middle of the lecture, a student raised his hand and asked a question that many in the room had probably wondered about before but had never voiced so directly. “If the things we are learning are not the reality, then what exactly are we studying?” The question drew nervous laughter, but forced a pause. Professor Mbazira first responded with a question of his own: asking the student why he had come to school in the first place. But almost immediately acknowledged something deeper. The tension between what is taught in law school and what many students observe in the world around them.
Throughout the lecture, as he explained the principles of criminal procedure, he kept adding the same caveat: the law provides one standard, but the reality on the ground can often look different. This is what triggered the student’s question. In fact, he was using the Luganda trending phrase “ku ground bi’lalamu,” meaning in the real world, things are different. This brief exchange captures a dilemma many Ugandan law lecturers confront: the gap between legal principles and practical reality.
Law schools teach the rule of law’s architecture: constitutional principles, legal safeguards, and judicial doctrines meant to protect citizens from arbitrary power. But outside, classrooms students encounter a complicated reality. They read in textbooks that arrests must follow strict procedures, but hear stories of long detentions before trial.
They study constitutional protections surrounding personal liberty, yet see public debates about civilians being tried in military courts. They learn that courts must be independent and impartial, but follow public controversies surrounding judicial appointments and politically sensitive cases.
The gap between doctrine and practice is unsettling, raising questions about law’s role in guiding power. This tension surfaces in public commentary by legal scholars. is the law truly guiding the exercise of power, or is it sometimes struggling to keep up with it?
Constitutional lawyer Busingye Kabumba recently wrote an article published in “The Observer” following the appointment of Flavian Zeija as Deputy Chief Justice.
Kabumba suggested he’d little left to say, conveying fatigue about debates on judicial independence, rule of law and constitutionalism. The article’s tone was seen as criticism and exhaustion, implying arguments may no longer make a difference or, literally, as he put it, there’s nothing to say.
This commentary’s significance lies not in its content but in its source: respected legal scholars expressing unease signals deeper concerns within the legal community. Lecturers at Makerere University and other law faculties across the country face a balancing act: teaching law as it exists in statutes, judicial decisions, and the Constitution, while acknowledging societal realities.
Law students must understand the principles that structure legal systems. Without that foundation, legal education itself would lose its meaning. At the same time, students are not studying in isolation from the society around them. They read newspapers, follow court cases, and engage in political discussions. Students notice tensions between legal doctrine and public events.
Ignoring these tensions makes education feel detached from reality; focusing on failures of institutions risks producing deep cynicism.
The result is that lecturers often find themselves navigating a narrow path between realism and idealism, explaining rule-of-law ideals while acknowledging they’re not always realised.
In many ways, this reflects Uganda’s broader conversation. The 1995 Constitution set out an ambitious framework for democratic governance and rights protection. It established institutions designed to restrain arbitrary power and protect citizens.
Over the years, however, the country has also experienced political tensions, contested elections, and public debates about the independence of state institutions. Critics have raised concerns about corruption within parts of the justice system, delays in court processes, and and political influence in certain legal decisions.
Supporters of the system, on the other hand, often point to the continued functioning of courts, the existence of constitutional litigation, and the gradual development of legal doctrine as evidence that the rule of law remains alive.
For law students watching these debates unfold, the picture can feel confusing. They are taught that courts are guardians of the Constitution, yet see caution in confronting powerful political actors. They study legal safeguards meant to protect personal liberty, but observe uneven application.
It is within this context that the student’s question during Professor Mbazira’s lecture takes on broader significance. It reflects uncertainty felt by many young people about the role of the law role in a society with evolving institutions.
reflected the uncertainty felt by many young people trying to understand the role of law in a society where institutions are still evolving.
Yet classrooms remain key spaces for grappling with these questions. Legal education preserves principles that systems should uphold. Even in societies where institutions face pressure, those principles matter. They serve as the benchmark against which power is judged and the standard by which reforms are imagined.
History shows that many legal systems have gone through periods of tension and institutional strain. In such moments, universities and law schools often become the places where the language of constitutionalism and justice continues to be studied, debated and preserved.
The students who ask difficult questions in those classrooms are not necessarily rejecting the law. In many cases, they are taking the law seriously enough to notice when reality falls short of its promises.
Perhaps that is why the question “If the things we are learning are not the reality, then what exactly are we studying?” remains powerful, driven by a desire for law to meet its ideals.
