Author Archives: Dan

The Protection of Sovereignty Bill risks concentrating dangerous levels of power in the hands of a single Cabinet Minister. By placing almost every aspect of civil society organizations under the direct control of the Executive, the Bill threatens the delicate constitutional balance known as the separation of powers, the principle that prevents any one branch of government from becoming too powerful. In an ideal democracy, Parliament makes the laws, the Executive implements them, and the Judiciary acts as an independent referee. This Bill dangerously blurs those lines.

Article 99 of the Constitution gives executive authority to the President, but that authority must be exercised in accordance with the Constitution and the law. The Sovereignty Bill stretches this authority far beyond reasonable limits. Under the Bill, no organization may operate as an “agent of a foreigner” without registering with the Minister under Clause 14. To register, groups must disclose detailed information about their structure, funding, staff, and activities, and even provide “any other information” the Minister may require (Clause 15). The Minister may then investigate their “suitability” in almost any manner he or she considers appropriate, including demanding information from other government agencies (Clause a16).

Even after registration, the Minister retains sweeping powers. Certificates are valid for only two years, may be issued subject to whatever conditions the Minister chooses, and those conditions may be changed at any time (Clauses 17 and 18). More troublingly, the Minister may suspend or revoke a certificate on broad grounds such as “security threats” or “disruptive activities,” and may even create new grounds through regulations (Clause 20). The Minister also controls foreign funding above a certain threshold (Clause 22), requires regular detailed financial reports (Clause 26), and may appoint inspectors with wide powers to raid offices and seize documents (Clause 28). Several clauses further empower the Minister to make regulations that effectively expand the law without returning to Parliament. In short, the Minister becomes gatekeeper, investigator, rule-maker, enforcer, and judge all in one.

This concentration of roles is the Bill’s most serious constitutional flaw. First, the Minister is granted quasi-legislative powers. By allowing the Executive to create new grounds for punishment and prescribe detailed rules through regulations, the Bill shifts real law-making authority away from Parliament, which is constitutionally vested with that power under Article 79.

Second, the Minister exercises quasi-judicial functions. Deciding whether an organization is “fit and proper,” whether it poses a “security threat,” or whether its activities are “disruptive” involves determining legal rights. These are decisions that should be made by an independent court with proper procedures and the right to a fair hearing, as guaranteed under Article 28. Instead, one politician is allowed to play judge.

Third, the Bill gives the Executive unchecked enforcement power. Inspections, information demands, and sanctions may all occur without prior court approval. The coercive power of the state is therefore exercised administratively rather than judicially. When one office makes the rules, enforces them, interprets them, and punishes breaches, the separation of powers collapses. What remains is not regulation, it is control.

Power this broad and discretionary is rarely exercised neutrally. In practice, it becomes a tool for targeting organizations the government dislikes. Critical voices, human rights groups, or opposition-linked initiatives could face endless delays in registration, sudden revocation of certificates, repeated inspections, or funding blocks. Courts have previously struck down laws that grant such unfettered discretion to the Executive over fundamental rights because they invite abuse, as reflected in Human Rights Network Uganda & 4 Others v Attorney General (2020). Even the limited right of appeal to court under Clause 18(3) offers little real protection. By the time a court hears the matter, an organization may already have been crippled, especially since certificates last only two years. Executive action comes first; justice comes later, if at all.

It is time to rethink the Bill because it does more than regulate foreign influence. It restructures how civil society exists in Uganda by placing it under the near-total discretion of a single Minister. In doing so, it undermines the very constitutional principles meant to protect Ugandans from arbitrary power.

If the Bill is to survive constitutional scrutiny, it requires fundamental changes:

• Registration and oversight should be handled by an independent body, not a political Minister.
• Suspension or revocation of certificates should require prior court approval.
• Vague terms such as “fit and proper,” “security threat,” or “disruptive” must be replaced with clear, objective standards.
• Ministerial regulations should be strictly limited and subject to proper parliamentary oversight.

Without these safeguards, the Bill does not protect sovereignty, it erodes constitutional democracy. It replaces the rule of law with the rule of the Minister. Uganda deserves better.

---

In the weeks following Uganda’s January 2026 elections, political conversation shifted almost entirely to digital platforms. WhatsApp, Facebook, X, TikTok, and YouTube now serve as the primary spaces where Ugandans discuss events, share opinions, and debate outcomes.

However, this online environment is far from neutral. Many messages, memes, and videos that appear spontaneous are actually part of a deliberate, coordinated effort to guide public opinion, reduce criticism, and reinforce pro-government perspectives. This coordinated propaganda reaches millions of Ugandans daily, influencing political discourse and citizens’ ability to engage in open, fact-based discussions.

Recognizing the mechanisms behind this propaganda is crucial, as it influences not only political discourse but also citizens’ capacity for open, fact-based discussion and informed decision-making.

The use of digital platforms for political campaigning has become increasingly sophisticated, with candidates leveraging social media, influencers, and targeted messaging to reach voters. This shift has significant implications for electoral integrity, campaign regulation, and democratic resilience.

Organized Messaging Networks and the structure behind it. 

At the center of this activity are structured networks that distribute messages with precision. Content is typically drafted centrally and then disseminated through multiple channels according to a clear plan. WhatsApp proves especially effective due to its private groups and end-to-end encryption. A single message, often originating from coordinators or aligned sources, can be forwarded across dozens of groups and reach thousands of users within hours, frequently with identical wording. This uniformity creates the appearance of broad, organic agreement. 

These networks operate hierarchically: influential individuals such as public figures, community leaders, or sponsored creators introduce and amplify the content first, allowing it to spread further in a polished, emotionally engaging form by the time it reaches everyday users. Past investigations during the 2021 elections, including those by the BBC, have revealed networks of nearly 200 fake accounts on platforms like X and Facebook despite its restrictions in Uganda that spread pro-government messaging and targeting critics.

Evidence of coordinated digital influence in Uganda is not limited to observation. Social media companies have acknowledged removing networks linked to organized political messaging. In 2021, what was then known as Twitter announced it had suspended hundreds of accounts that engaged in coordinated inauthentic activity across several countries, including Uganda. According to the company, 418 accounts were removed for amplifying pro-government messaging related to President Yoweri Museveni and manipulating conversations on the platform.

These accounts were removed for violating platform policies on spam and coordinated manipulation, not just their political views.  The company described the activity as structured and synchronized, with accounts acting together to boost particular narratives and create artificial momentum around certain political themes. 

Around the same period, Facebook also removed hundreds of accounts connected to coordinated influence campaigns in multiple regions. Although Facebook remains restricted in Uganda, the 2021 removals demonstrated how digital political networks can operate across borders and platforms, often blending authentic users with fake or duplicate accounts to amplify specific messages. 

These takedowns confirm that organized online propaganda in Uganda has been formally identified and documented by platforms themselves. They illustrate how digital political messaging can be engineered to manufacture visibility, simulate popular support, and crowd out dissenting voices.

The relevance to 2026 is clear. The strategies remain consistent: synchronized posting, artificial amplification, repetition of coordinated talking points, and blending genuine and inauthentic accounts. Understanding this history helps explain why similar patterns observed today warrant careful scrutiny. 

Recycled Talking Points

There’s evident repetition building beliefs, a core strategy involving consistent repetition of the same key messages across different platforms. Statements emphasizing national stability, economic achievements, or the risks associated with opposition voices reappear regularly in text messages, voice notes, and short videos. For instance, claims framing opposition figures as threats to peace have been seen, with General Muhoozi Kainerugaba persistently calling   members of the National Unity Platform terrorists and portraying government actions as essential for progress, including arbitrary arrests and killings of opposition members.

These stances often recycle the same phrases and narratives. This repetition fosters familiarity and acceptance, even when the information is incomplete or misleading. These recurring points are frequently combined with emotional appeals, fear of instability, pride in national progress, or patriotic sentiment, encouraging people to share them without close scrutiny through reposts especially on X and thereby extending their reach.

Sponsored Influencers

Another important element involves sponsored influencers- individuals with established online followings who receive incentives to incorporate specific political messages into their content. These messages may appear subtly within lifestyle posts, personal commentary, or casual updates. In some cases, networks linked to government entities have used fake or duplicate accounts to boost posts, impersonate users, or amplify certain views, as documented in platform takedowns for coordinated inauthentic behavior. 

The result is an echo chamber in which similar viewpoints emerge from multiple sources that appear independent, reinforcing the perception of widespread support. This dynamic makes it increasingly difficult for users to distinguish authentic opinions from orchestrated promotion, often overshadowing independent or dissenting perspectives.

The Effects on Civic Space.

Coordinated propaganda undermines public discourse in several serious ways. It distorts perceptions of majority opinion on governance, elections, and policy. It discourages open expression, particularly through fear-based messaging or direct attacks on critics, amplified in semi-private spaces like WhatsApp where participants are often known to one another. 

Over time, repeated exposure to manipulative content erodes confidence in media, institutions, and personal networks. Nevertheless, digital spaces remain contested. Independent platforms like Agora Discourse provide valuable alternatives, offering fact-checking, network analysis, and evidence-based discussion, helping to sustain meaningful civic engagement through documented evidence and transparent dialogues on corruption, accountability, and political issues.

Citizens can strengthen their digital resilience by verifying sources before sharing content, especially when messages provoke strong emotions. Participating in transparent discussion spaces like Agora Discourse allows people to engage with evidence and challenge misleading narratives. Sharing verified, balanced information helps counter the volume of coordinated material. Systemic changes like government accountability and media transparency are important, but individual vigilance is key. By identifying these patterns, Ugandans can regain control over their online conversations. 

Finally, from forwarded WhatsApp messages and repeated slogans to carefully crafted memes and sponsored influencers, these organized efforts influence perceptions and limit the range of visible viewpoints and yet this is not an inevitable outcome. Citizens, researchers, and independent platforms demonstrate that commitment to facts, critical thinking, and open dialogue can effectively counter manipulation. Through consistent, thoughtful participation online, Ugandans can foster greater transparency and contribute to a stronger democratic conversation. The digital public square belongs to all who use it, and its integrity depends on each person’s choice to prioritize truth, one careful share and one honest question at a time.

Uganda’s general elections on January 15, 2026 unfolded amid severe digital restrictions and systematic suppression of civil society actors, casting serious doubt on the transparency and integrity of the process. The communications regulator, Uganda Communications Commission (UCC), imposed a nationwide internet shutdown starting January 13, blocking public internet access, social media platforms, messaging apps like WhatsApp, web browsing, new SIM registrations, and outbound data roaming. 

The Executive Director together with the police described these steps as essential to prevent misinformation, electoral fraud, incitement to violence, and the “weaponization” of digital platforms. In reality, the measures curtailed independent monitoring, real-time reporting, and public scrutiny, favoring the incumbent, Yoweri Museveni.

In the days before polling, restrictions extended beyond connectivity. Widespread arrests targeted opposition supporters, while journalists endured physical assaults, equipment seizures, threats, and revocation of accreditations, pushing many toward self-censorship and reliance on slower channels like Short Message Service-SMS. In October 2025, the Nation Media Group and the Daily Monitor Newspaper were barred from covering parliamentary sessions and State House events involving Museveni. 

Several civil society organizations including the Alliance for Finance Monitoring (ACFIM), Chapter Four Uganda, Human Rights Network for Journalists-Uganda (HRNJ-U), the National NGO Forum, and the National Coalition of Human Rights Defenders had their operations suspended.  Election observers and party agents were denied entry to polling stations and tallying centers, severely limiting verification of ballot integrity, voter turnout, and results transmission. By sidelining these independent watchdogs, the state minimized challenges to official accounts of events.

Global and regional groups raised alarms. The #KeepItOn Coalition, representing over 345 organizations opposed to internet shutdowns, urged President Museveni to restore connectivity, arguing that such restrictions violate human rights, delay accurate results, and distort democratic participation. The African Commission on Human and Peoples’ Rights condemned the curbs as threats to freedom of expression, association, and assembly. Domestic and international election monitors highlighted how politically motivated arrests and digital blocks undermined oversight and eroded confidence in the outcomes.

On election day, Ugandans voted largely offline. Traditional media, including state-run Uganda Broadcasting Corporation and select radio stations, continued broadcasting, but journalists struggled to verify incidents or report reliably amid heavy security presence and access barriers. Unsubstantiated claims of ballot stuffing, malfunctioning biometric voter kits, abductions, and voter suppression spread through word-of-mouth and SMS. Opposition leader Robert Kyagulanyi (Bobi Wine) of the National Unity Platform alleged widespread interference and questioned the process’s credibility. Fact-checkers like PesaCheck encountered major hurdles in rapid verification due to the information vacuum, while delayed official communications allowed rumors including manipulated AI-generated content, such as unverified claims about Kyagulanyi’s safety to proliferate and heighten tensions.

On January 17, the Electoral Commission announced Yoweri Museveni the winner with 71.65% of the vote, against Kyagulanyi’s 24.72%. Partial internet restoration began later that day, enabling some general access by 18 January.  Full nationwide connectivity, including social media, was only restored around 26 January after what authorities called “technical and security assessments.”

These lingering controls hampered post-election efforts: opposition claims of fraud, ballot irregularities and intimidation, could not be independently verified or widely circulated in real time. Civil society responses remained constrained, prolonging uncertainty and allowing misinformation to solidify into entrenched narratives. The disruptions extended beyond politics, digital businesses and mobile money services suffered losses, citizens faced communication barriers, and journalists could not fully monitor safety or integrity concerns.

Uganda’s approach in 2026 exemplifies digital authoritarianism, where governments exploit control over online spaces to consolidate power. By pairing internet restrictions with repression of journalists and civic actors, authorities fostered conditions where misinformation flourishes and accountability weakens. Though justified as safeguards for public order and against disinformation, the measures deepened information asymmetries, undermined institutional legitimacy, and intensified public mistrust in elections and governance.

Human rights organizations, including Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch, documented patterns of repression, violence, and an uneven playing field. The opposition rejected the results outright.

In conclusion, rebuilding trust demands ending arbitrary digital controls, safeguarding civic space, and committing to transparent electoral processes. Absent meaningful reforms, information suppression risks becoming a standard tool, eroding democratic prospects in Uganda.

From a student who vanished for six weeks to a novelist who fled barefoot after military torture, Uganda has built an architecture of digital fear so efficient that many citizens now police themselves. The government barely needs to lift a finger. In a country where a shoe hawker named Juma Musuuza received twelve months in prison for a TikTok post, where a 21-year-old called Emmanuel Nabugodi spent two years and eight months in jail for a mock video he uploaded to his social media, where a novelist was held in a military facility for twenty-eight days, tortured with pliers, and told by the president’s son to stop writing, the decision not to put your name to a political opinion is not paranoia. It is pattern recognition.

Uganda’s government arrested enough people, at scattered intervals, in ways visible enough to register but irregular enough to feel unpredictable, until the population learned to regulate itself.

The Law

Section 25  of the Computer Misuse Act of 2011 criminalised “offensive communication,” defined with the kind of latitude that made it useful for almost any purpose: the “willful and repeated use of electronic communication to disturb or attempt to disturb the peace, quiet, or right of privacy of any person.” In January 2023, the Constitutional Court Petition No. 5 of 2016 unanimously declared Section 25 unconstitutional, citing its vagueness and broadness, giving enforcement agencies “unfettered discretion to punish unpopular or critical protected expression.” The petitioners were lawyer Andrew Karamagi and blogger Robert Shaka, who had himself spent time in detention after police alleged he was operating under the pseudonym Tom Voltaire Okwalinga, a Facebook page followed by hundreds of thousands of Ugandans for what it claimed were insider accounts of the first family’s private affairs. Shaka denied it. Police, in their charge sheet, said he had disturbed the president’s privacy by posting statements about Museveni’s health.

The ruling was a real victory. But by the time it came, the government had already moved. The Computer Misuse Amendment Act of October 2022 introduced a new set of offences: sharing “malicious information,” “unsolicited information,” or content “likely to ridicule, degrade or demean” any person. “The real purpose of this law,” as one commentator put it with precision, “is to protect the thin-skinned political class.”

What Disappearing Does to People who Watch

On June 8, 2025, Elson Tumwine was working as an agricultural intern in Hoima, western Uganda. He was twenty-three years old and in his third year at Makerere University. He had posted a TikTok video in May in which he used a “doctored” clip of parliament speaker Anita Among appearing to accuse President Museveni of various historical atrocities, including the 1989 Mukura massacre in Teso region. On June 8, Tumwine vanished.

Makerere University’s Guild Council issued a public appeal for information. Six weeks passed. On July 13, Tumwine reappeared at a police station in Entebbe, 230 kilometres from where he had been working. NUP Secretary General David Lewis Rubongoya said he had been “dumped” there after being subjected to torture at the hands of military intelligence. The authorities did not comment on how Tumwine had come to be in Entebbe. They charged him with two counts under the Computer Misuse Amendment Act: hate speech and malicious information. Tumwine had refused to allow lawyers from civil society organisations to represent him, and had instead pleaded guilty and asked the court for forgiveness. The Entebbe magistrate sentenced Tumwine to two months in prison on August 5, noting his plea for leniency.

Three weeks later, on August 29, Juma Musuuza, a twenty-seven-year-old shoe hawker who posted political commentary on TikTok under the name Madubarah, was sentenced to twelve months for hate speech and spreading malicious information about Museveni, General Muhoozi Kainerugaba, and speaker Among. Among his alleged offences: saying publicly that if Museveni handed power to his son, “the country will be destroyed within two days.” 

The Effects on Society

In Uganda, the impact of laws restricting online expression is palpable. Cases of individuals facing prosecution for social media posts have led to widespread self-censorship, with content creators, journalists, and citizens hesitant to express dissenting opinions. Ismael Basalirwa, a Makerere University student representative, questioned the limitations on free speech in a democratic society, saying, “How shall we live in a country where dissenting opinions are being sidelined? There should be no limitation to free speech in a democratic dispensation.”

The Centre for International Peace Research and Initiatives (CIPESA) in its pre-election reporting noted that this fear of legal repercussions is affecting not just individuals but also media houses and telecom companies, which often comply with state directives that may infringe on constitutional rights.

The political consequence of Uganda’s surveillance system is indeed difficult to measure precisely because it suppresses measurement itself. When people stop expressing their true opinions, polling becomes unreliable, and journalists self-censor, creating an incomplete public record. Activists also self-censor, losing civil society’s diagnostic function. 

The government benefits from all three of these outcomes. A population that has learned to paraphrase its political opinions in socially acceptable language looks, to a certain kind of analysis, like a population that has accepted the status quo.

On January 16, 2026, around 3:00 am, about 35 miles outside Kampala in Butambala District, people gathered near a police station in Butambala District, allegedly to monitor their votes being verified. What happened next is disputed in its details but not in its outcome: Police opened fire, killing several people.  Spokeswoman Lydia Tumushabe described those present as “machete-wielding opposition goons” who had “attempted to storm the station,” forcing officers to use lethal force “in self-defense.”

What the country was left with, in that first dark morning after polling, was an official language: goons, rioters, self-defence. A word count so practiced and so consistent it could only have been ready in advance. advanceadvance.

This linguistic strategy isn’t new in Uganda. It’s part of a broader pattern where official language shapes narratives, often justifying state actions. Understanding this requires examining its historical context and application over time.

The Vocabulary of Official Violence

State media and official narratives in Uganda shape public discourse by framing events in specific terms, often predetermined.

In 2011, following a disputed presidential election, opposition groups led by the now incarcerated Col. Dr. Kizza Besigye organised the Walk to Work protests against fuel and food price hikes. The government’s response was lethal: security forces killed at least nine people, including a two-year-old child in Masaka. The official framing was that the protests were riots, that the participants were rioters, and that the cause was not inflation but opposition manipulation. 

The government’s narrative, echoed by then NRM spokeswoman Mary Karooro Okurut, (now deceased), portrayed the protests as criminal acts, dismissing their peaceful nature. Karooro wrote in New Vision: “By now everybody knows that the motive for the walk-to-work riots has little or nothing to do with the inflation. The rioters simply want to make Kampala ungovernable.” The word ‘rioters’ converted them, in official discourse, into a criminal enterprise.

Museveni himself blamed the media for the protests’ spread. At a press conference in his home village of Rwakitura, he challenged journalists directly: “Why do you give updates on the demonstrations that Besigye is now here, is doing this or that? If you are balanced, also give updates that Museveni is meeting investors at his home, he’s planting potatoes.” The equation of protest reporting with imbalance was not rhetorical. 

This led to a 24-hour block on Facebook and Twitter. The Uganda Communications admitted in a letter that the instruction had come from security agencies to “minimize the use of media that may escalate violence.” The 2011 pattern has since become a refined system, evident in the government’s response to dissent in January 2026.

What the System Looks Like When Assembled

Before the 2026 election, the government announced, on January 5, that live broadcasting or streaming of “riots, unlawful processions, or violent incidents” was prohibited. The Ministry of Information Communication and Technology issued this through a formal statement, stating such coverage “can escalate tensions and spread panic.” 

This statement effectively gave authorities control over coverage of opposition events. Opposition campaign caravans had been dispersed with teargas throughout November and December 2025. Nothing in the broadcasting regulation required a legal finding before a gathering was declared unlawful. The police spokesperson’s characterisation of an event as “unlawful” was enough to trigger broadcasting restrictions.

This setup influences media coverage, encouraging self-censorship as outlets avoid regulatory repercussions for departing from official narratives.

What the Language Does to the People it Names

Labeling protesters “goons” or charging them with “public nuisance” rather than acknowledging their constitutional rights has a specific effect.

 When NUP members appeared before City Hall magistrates court on January 19, 2026, the photograph accompanying international news reports showed them sitting in rows, labelled by court documents as suspects arrested for “public nuisance, inciting violence and obstructing police officers.” The caption described what was visible. What was not described was that the NUP’s secretary general David Rubongoya had confirmed most were poll election watchers, whose lawful function had been to document the disputed vote.

The charge sheet’s language, like “unlawful assembly”, influences public perception, framing individuals as untrustworthy. This terminology can shape official and media discourse, affecting how the public views those exercising their rights.

General Muhoozi Kainerugaba, the army chief and Museveni’s son, made this logic explicit in a way that the official statements usually keep implicit. On January 19, he posted on X that since the election his forces had “killed 22 NUP terrorists” and that he was “praying the 23rd is Kabobi,” using his nickname for Bobi Wine. He said later that his soldiers had detained 2,000 opposition supporters since polling. “Terrorists” is the terminus of the labelling process: from protesters to rioters to goons to terrorists, each escalation in language licensing an escalation in the force that can legitimately be applied.

Threat Inflation as Governance

Researchers at Democracy in Africa noted in December 2025 that security sector actors “have incentives to exaggerate or construct threats”, boosting their importance, budgets, and leverage.

The language of “goons” and “rioters” serves as a budget justification, rationale for military deployment, and claim on state resources. The more serious the threat appears, the more indispensable the security apparatus becomes.

This created a skewed political economy of language around the 2026 elections. The Uganda Police Force transported NRM supporters and guarding their processions while simultaneously dispersing NUP caravans with teargas. State media framed these actions as “maintaining order” and “responding to disorder”, respectively. This narrative presented partisanship as neutral enforcement, naturalizing the asymmetry.

What it Means when the Language Succeeds

 Uganda’s population is over 70% under 30, with 43% youth unemployment.

Museveni’s dismissive address to Gen Z was a gamble on their irrelevance. In a televised address, he asked, “You Gen Z, what have you done so far?” But when youth take grievances to the streets and are labeled “machete-wielding goons”, by the Police, a description that is specific to NUP supporters, it creates a narrative where they’re a threat to others, not an expression of shared concerns. 

This language manages fear, persuading the domestic audience that crackdowns are protective. A Ugandan in a further constituency who heard via state-aligned media that goons were storming a police station in Butambala, who had no access to eyewitness accounts, who could not see the footage that might have existed if cameras had been present, received a coherent story about law and disorder. State-aligned media reinforces this narrative, making it the only story available. 

The government’s use of “goons” activates a classification system leading to unwarranted arrests, wanton killings, and forced disappearances.

Democratic accountability requires citizens to name what they witnessed. Uganda’s post-election architecture, in its operational specifics in January 2026 aimed to silence witnesses and shape public perception. The language of “goons” and “rioters” doesn’t describe events; it forecloses them, making accountability seem irresponsible.

---