Author Archives: Dan

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.

By the morning of 16 January 2026, eighteen hours had passed since Ugandans cast their votes, and the National Tally Centre at Lweza–Lubowa on Kampala’s southern fringe had acquired an air of suspended waiting.  The numbers were coming in-this this was where Uganda’s democratic promise would be made or broken.

Justice Simon Byabakama, the Chairperson of the Electoral Commission, stood at a lectern and read the results aloud to an audience of diplomats, domestic and international observers, party agents, journalists, and civil society representatives who had gathered in a place that was, technically, the most transparent location in the country at that moment. 

But, the numbers lacked geography: which polling stations had reported, which districts were complete? Which of the 50,739 stations across Uganda’s 146 districts had yet to transmit? Nobody seemed able to say.

Figures accumulated on screens in cumulative totals, implying a journey from village to sub-county to district to the national centre without showing it. Anthony Asiimwe, Uganda Law Society Vice President, gave voice to what many in the room were thinking when he told NTV Uganda: “As an observer, I must say I’m not getting what I expected to have seen. For me it’s a bit disappointing from the Chairperson of the Electoral Commission to come and just read for people figures.” He added something that cut to the heart of the problem: “We don’t know where the figures are coming from, we don’t know what they represent, from where. There’s no detail that you can attach to the result he’s giving us.”

Asiimwe was stating a procedural fact.  The lack of detail, compounded by a five day nationwide internet blackout, meant the only narrative available was the government’s.

How the Process is Supposed to Work

Uganda’s electoral architecture is designed around a verifiable paper trail. After ballots are counted, presiding officers at each polling station fill in Declaration of Results forms and announce outcomes publicly. These forms together with all other ballot materials travel to sub-county headquarters, then to district tally centres, where returning officers compile results before forwarding totals to the national tally centre for final declaration. Party agents have the right to be present and to receive copies of the declaration forms at each stage.

Justice Byabakama had signaled before election day that he understood this. At a press briefing on January 12, 2026, he laid out the timeline: results would flow from district tally centres to Lubowa, where they would be compiled before the presidential winner was announced within 48 hours of the close of polls. He also specified that results envelopes could only be opened at district or city tally centres, not at sub-county level. “The procedure is aimed at safeguarding the integrity, transparency, and credibility of the electoral process,” he said. åBut on January 16, aggregate totals arrived at Lubowa without this architecture being visible.

The Election Results Visualization System, a digital platform projected on large screens, showed colour-coded maps of which candidates led in which districts. But, Benjamin Katana, National Treasurer of the National Unity Platform, rejected the figures saying they differed from dec;sration forms held by party agents. “The results being shown at the National Tally Centre were just cooked, they don’t reflect the outcome of the voting exercise.”  The EC did not produce the declaration forms for public inspection. 

Asiimwe warned this was not a procedural nicety: “That alone is a legal issue. Because candidates are likely to contest these results. And when they do, one of the things they will ask is: where are the declaration forms?”

The Shutdown that Changed Everything

To understand why the opacity at Lubowa mattered, you have to go back to 6:02 PM on January 13, 2026, when the internet in Uganda went dark. The Uganda Communications Commission’s directive, (ECO/436, 13 January 2026) ordered all licensed Mobile Network Operators and Internet Service Providers to suspend public internet access, SIM card sales, and data roaming services. The directive further required blocking of all public internet traffic, including social media, web browsing, video streaming, personal email, and messaging applications. The Commission had, until days before, assured the public no shutdown would happen.

The African Commission on Human and Peoples’ Rights described the directive with precision in its statement of January 16, 2026: it blocked “public internet access, the sale and registration of new SIM cards, and outbound data roaming services to One Network Area countries.” The AU-COMESA-IGAD Election Observer Mission, led by former Nigerian President Goodluck Jonathan, noted in its preliminary statement that the UCC “had assured observers that internet services would remain available throughout the electoral period,” and that this assurance had been contradicted in full. The East African Community’s observer mission, whose 58 observers had been deployed across all five regions, reported that the shutdown “disrupted observation activities and limited public access to information during a critical phase of the electoral process.”

The EAC Mission head, Ambassador Edda Mukabagwiza, addressed reporters directly on the operational consequences: “The Uganda Communications Commission issued a directive to suspend public internet access which had a direct impact on the compilation and analysis of field reports from our observers.” Observer missions that are unable to compile and analyse field reports in real time cannot provide what observer missions exist to provide. Uganda’s 2026 election observation record was, by design, incomplete.

The observation record of Uganda’s 2026 election was, by design, incomplete.

What Disappeared When the Internet went Dark

The shutdown lasted five days. Partial restoration began on January 18, but social media and messaging platforms remained restricted for an additional eight days. Full restoration did not occur until January 26, eleven days after polling. This timeline is important because it means that the period during which results were being announced, disputed, and received by the international community was a period in which ordinary Ugandans had no independent means of verifying, contesting, or amplifying what they were being told.

Consider what this meant in practice. Citizen observers couldn’t photograph Declaration of Results forms and share them. Civil society organisations whose entire monitoring methodology depended on digital coordination lost their primary channel. Journalists couldn’t file and upload reports.

Bobi Wine’s National Unity Platform, which like most opposition operations in Uganda had relied heavily on digital communication because traditional broadcast space is tightly regulated and largely state-aligned, couldn’t circulate its own account of the vote. The NUP’s party agents who were at polling stations couldn’t tell anyone what those forms said.

“We were reporting blind,” one journalist told Unwanted Witness researchers afterward. At polling stations, observers couldn’t transmit updates. Without connectivity, without real-time documentation, there was no independent means to transmit, or verify information.

The Narrative that Filled the Silence

Into the information vacuum, one data source was broadcast without interruption. The National Tally Centre required all media stations to broadcast their data in real time via state television and radio. Most media stations like UBC, NBS, and NTV Uganda, operating under EC-accredited licences, were at the tally centre. 

Byabakama was releasing updates at scheduled intervals, 9:30am, 2pm, and again the following morning, creating a rhythm of official disclosure that structured how the count was experienced by those watching. The first set of results, released late on January 15 showed Museveni leading with 0.26% of 133 polling stations reporting. By 9:30am on 16 January, he had 71% with results from 22,758 stations representing 44.85% of stations reporting.By the sixth session of results, the proportion had reached 93.61 percent of stations, and his share had barely moved. 

By 4pm on 17 January, Byabakama declared Museveni president with 7,946,772 votes (71.65%). “And with votes cast in his favour exceeding 50 percent of the valid votes, the commission hereby declares the elected President: Tibuhaburwa Kaguta Museveni.” The total: Robert Kyagulanyi had 2,741,238, or 24.72 percent.

Museveni’s margin was striking in itself. In 2021, he had won with 59 percent. A jump of nearly 13 percentage points in five years, in an election conducted under more restrictive conditions than its predecessor. The main opposition candidate’s home which was under military siege from the moment polls closed, invited scrutiny that the tally process was not designed to satisfy. The EC refused to comment on videos that circulated, through the limited channels still operating, alleging ballot box stuffing. Wikipedia’s summary of the election noted that “no tally was published further amplifying concerns of fraud.”

When the opposition challenged the difference between EC figures and the declaration forms their agents held, the EC’s answer was to reiterate that the process had been lawful. Robert Kyagulanyi’s response to the results was made from hiding. Police had raided his home in Magere on the night of January 16. He had escaped. His wife and other family members remained under what he described as house arrest. He posted on X, one of the few platforms some Ugandans were still accessing through VPNs, before authorities tightened restrictions further. 

In a video message, he said he knew they were looking for him but he had a message for Ugandans. ‘We reject whatever is being declared by Mr Simon Byabakama because those so-called results that they are declaring are fake and they don’t in any way reflect what happened at the polling stations.”

All such claims could not be verified during the voting process. Social media, through which documentation typically travels, was dark. By January 18, when partial internet restoration began, the news cycle had moved on. The window for real-time accountability had closed.

The Normalisation of Electoral Darkness

Uganda’s conducted internet shutdowns in 2016, 2021, and 2026 elections. In 2021, the blackout lasted 100 hours. The 2026 shutdown was longer and more sophisticated.   

Unwanted Witness described the pattern in its February 2026 report, No Signal, No Voice: “What was once exceptional is becoming normalised. Elections in digital darkness risk becoming routine governance practice. That is the democratic alarm bell.”

The US Senate called the 2026 election “a hollow exercise.” Human Rights Watch said it was “marred by human rights abuses.” Amnesty International described the campaign period as “a brutal campaign of repression.” The African Commission on Human and Peoples’ Rights issued a press release calling for immediate internet restoration and the reinstatement of civil society permits. All of these statements were issued after the result had been declared, the winner had been congratulated by regional heads of state, and the machinery of a seventh Museveni term was already in motion.

Ugandan voters who supported Museveni have reasons to believe he won legitimately. He has real support, and the result, while large, is not arithmetically impossible given his incumbency advantages. But opacity matters because a transparent count in a genuinely contested election protects the winner and loser. It is the documentation that makes a result defensible. By conducting the count in conditions where documentation was structurally impaired, the EC did not only prevent scrutiny of the outcome but also proof of the outcome.Byabakama, urging calm at the declaration ceremony, said: “We are not here to hide anything.” But the internet was off, declaration forms weren’t published, seven civil society organisations were suspended, and the opposition candidate was in hiding. Observers couldn’t compile reports, and people couldn’t trace the numbers.  

A controversial government proposal to restructure medical training in Uganda is raising a troubling question in the health sector: who, exactly, will treat patients in public hospitals?

At the centre of the debate is a new policy direction from the Ministry of Health and the Ministry of Education that would fundamentally alter how doctors are trained. From July 2026, medical students may need to complete a one-year internship before graduating, extending the five-year program to six years, and automatically embeds internship into the academic curriculum. 

On paper, it is presented as a quality assurance measure. But inside Uganda’s hospitals and lecture rooms, it is being read differently.

In a recent media interview, Dr. Frank Asiimwe, a lecturer and specialist, voiced a concern that has since unsettled many in the profession. He questioned whether it would be safe or even ethical to entrust critically ill patients to individuals who, under the new system, would still be classified as students.

Across Uganda’s public hospitals, interns are not passive learners. They run emergency wards at night, stabilize patients, assist with surgeries, and ensure care in chronically understaffed facilities. Under the proposed changes, they’d technically not be graduates.

For many practitioners, that contradiction is alarming. The Uganda Medical Association has openly rejected the reforms, warning that they blur the line between academic training and professional practice.

Dr. Mirembe Joel, the general secretary of Uganda Medical Association, argues that graduation is an academic certification, while internship is a separate, regulated stage for licensure. Merging the two creates confusion in roles, standards, and accountability. “This conflates two distinct processes,” Dr. Mirembe explained.

Dr. Nalukwago also explained, emphasizing that internship is a professional requirement governed by regulatory bodies, not universities. 

The concerns also involve another controversial issue: money. For years, the government has struggled to consistently pay medical interns, despite relying heavily on their labour in public hospitals. Reclassifying them as students could mean withdrawing financial support altogether. This could let the government justify ending allowances, saying interns are “in training,” not working. That fear is not unfounded.

Senior doctors have pointed out that the proposal has been accompanied by discussions around reducing or eliminating intern pay. Dr. Joel Mirembe described the move as deeply concerning, warning that internship is not a luxury but a mandatory, supervised stage critical for patient safety. 

To many in the profession, the implications are stark. A medical student who’s completed five years of training, passed exams, and fulfilled all academic requirements would still not graduate. Their degree would effectively be withheld until they complete internship, a period during which they may also not be guaranteed pay. Ironically, hospitals would still rely on them to deliver care.

This contradiction has sparked resistance across the medical fraternity. Associations representing doctors, students, pharmacists, and nurses have all rejected the policy, warning it could lead to exploitation, financial strain on families, and weakened professional standards.

The other concern is that the reform risks placing an additional burden on students and their sponsors. With internship now embedded into the academic programme, families may be required to finance an extra year of training, adding to the already high costs of medical training.

Then there’s the issue of patients. Uganda’s health system already operates under significant pressure, with shortages of doctors across many regions. Interns help bridge this gap, providing essential services in emergency units, maternity wards, and general hospital departments. Any policy that disrupts their role, motivation, or welfare could have immediate consequences for patient care.

This is where voices like Dr. Judith Nalukwago, Head of Professions at the National Unity Platform, who recently petitioned the office of the leader of opposition in parliament, framed it as both a labour rights concern and a public health risk. Her position reflects the sentiment that the country can’t afford to weaken the very workforce sustaining its hospitals.

Government officials, however, maintain that the reform is intended to strengthen training and improve the quality of healthcare workers. The Ministry argues that integrating internship into the academic programme allows for better supervision and assessment before graduation. 

But for many doctors on the ground, the debate is not about structure; it is about reality because in Uganda’s hospitals, interns are already doing the work. They are diagnosing, treating, responding to emergencies, and making life and death decisions under pressure. Calling them students does not change that. It only raises a more uncomfortable question about the system itself. 

The question that remains is, if those providing frontline care aren’t recognized as qualified graduates, what does that mean for patients? As the policy edges closer to implementation, that question becomes urgent.

Priced beyond youth: How the Youth MP seat is Uganda’s costliest Parliamentary Election

You are probably wondering why I am writing this story. After all, monetisation has evidently become part of our country’s political culture. Money no longer merely supports politics in Uganda; it defines it. But sometimes the reality hits differently when you confront the scale of it. When you realise that even affirmative action seats, specifically created to give young people a fair chance at leadership, have become accessible only to those with extraordinary financial muscle.

I was having a casual conversation with a colleague who had been involved in managing the campaign of Mercy Kanyesigye in the National Female Youth MP race, mentioned, almost in passing, that more than six billion shillings had been spent. Six billion. I thought I had misheard him. Youth politics? Six billion? I knew elections were expensive, but was it this bad?

When Makerere University hosted a conversation on monetisation of youth politics on 6^th March, 2026, I asked Julia Muhumuza, who was a candidate in this race, how much the winner spent. She responded that she wasn’t counting, but it was billions and billions of money. 

This sparked an investigation into the structured system of spending in Ugandan elections. I spoke to several campaign insiders and mobilisers, including Kato Laban, who supported candidates in the Western Region Youth MP race before later working with Kanyesigye’s team. What emerged was not rumor, but a structured system of spending that begins long before the national vote and intensifies at every stage.

Youth MPs are chosen through an electoral college system composed of district youth leaders and structures, unlike directly elected MPs. According to Kato, spending begins at the district level, where aspiring MPs finance electoral college hopefuls with campaign materials, logistics, and facilitation. Teams “plant” loyal candidates in district youth structures to influence voting. By the time district-level elections conclude, significant sums have already been deployed.

The next phase is national mobilisation. For a National Female Youth MP candidate, this means countrywide campaigning. Candidates move in convoys, fuel vehicles, secure accommodation, and feed campaign teams and local organisers. Delegates expect “transport refunds” ranging between UGX 80,000 – UGX 150,000 depending on the candidate’s capacity and the stage of the race. In some districts, insiders allege that local leaders collude with restaurant owners to inflate bills. Candidates find large unverified invoices waiting and excess funds, sources say, are quietly shared after the campaigns leave town.

Funding sources are not difficult to trace. Many of the leading candidates come from politically and economically connected families. Mercy Kanyesigye is known to be related to a one Emma, a prominent figure in the Patriotic League of Uganda (PLU) and a businessman dealing in gold. Western Region Youth MP elect Mwine Tumwebaze is the son of Apollo Kirimi, a prominent businessman in Mbarara, who owns Kirimi Supermarkets and real estate investments. Northern Uganda Youth MP elect Elma Kapel Challa is the daughter of Esther Anyakun, a minister in President Yoweri Museveni’s government. Their opponents, too, largely fall within similar socio-economic brackets. Affirmative action, intended to level the playing field, appears increasingly dominated by those already positioned near power and capital.

As voting approaches, the expenses escalate. Delegates must be transported to the voting venue. Buses and coasters are hired, or cash is sent to facilitate the district’s team to travel. Then comes what insiders refer to as the “keep home fee.” Delegates are given money to compensate for the days they will spend away from their families. The reasoning is straightforward: if they had remained home, they would have been working and supporting their households. Candidates, therefore, pay for that absence.

Perhaps the most revealing phase is what insiders describe as “holding.” Delegates arrive several days, sometimes up to a week, before voting. They are accommodated in hotels and kept away from rival candidates. Outside Kampala, hotel rooms range between UGX 30,000 and UGX 70,000 per night. In Kampala, rates rise to between UGX 70,000 and UGX 120,000. Multiply that by hundreds of delegates over several nights, then add meals and other daily facilitation, and the figures quickly run into billions. Campaigns often include entertainment. For example, in this just concluded election, Kampe Diana, Mercy’s opponent and NRM candidate, hired musician Eddy Kenzo to perform for delegates, turning the political process into something resembling a private festival.

Then comes the most direct transaction: cash per vote. Multiple sources confirm that during both party primaries and the national vote, delegates were given approximately UGX 1 million per vote. In some cases, UGX 500,000 was distributed initially, with promises of the balance later. In others, full payments were reportedly made, with additional top-ups during party primaries. By this stage, ideology and policy are overshadowed by arithmetic. Loyalty is negotiated in cash.

And there’s the counting and declaration. During the voting and declaration phase, there are also efforts to sway electoral officials themselves, despite their constitutional duty to protect the integrity of the vote. This also comes at a cost. Being voted and that result reflecting, and then being declared, is a whole different thing. 

In the aftermath of the Mercy Kanyesigye victory in the National Female Youth MP election that was witnessed by the National Electoral Commission chairperson, Simon Byabakama, Diana Kampe Ampaire filed a petition at Hoima Chief Magistrate’s Court seeking a recount of the ballots cast in the closely contested race. Kampe alleged irregularities in the counting process 

Kanyesigye had to hire high-profile advocates, including Asuman Basalirwa, who pushed back vigorously in court, and early in the proceedings, a recount was ordered. However, when the court later inspected the voting materials, it found that the ballot box integrity had been compromised, with evidence suggesting tampering with the seals and serial numbers, a discovery that ultimately led the magistrate to cancel the conditional recount order and uphold Kanyesigye’s win.

Legal fees now included, one wonders how much was spent not just on winning votes, but on influencing the very process meant to ensure they were fairly counted?

With this kind of spending, democracy risks losing its meaning. Youth MPs were created as a bridge between Uganda’s young population and Parliament, a mechanism to amplify concerns about unemployment, education, and opportunity. But when entry into Parliament reportedly costs billions of shillings, accountability becomes complicated. A candidate who has invested such sums faces immense pressure to recover them politically, economically, or otherwise.

Yet the responsibility does not rest solely with candidates. Delegates, too, have internalised the monetisation of politics. According to Kato, many demand payment because they believe elected leaders rarely return to serve them. “If they will not help us later, at least we benefit now,” he said. It is a logic born of distrust, and it sustains the cycle.

Oremo Odwe who contested in the Northen Uganda Youth MP in NRM primaries, tells of a story in the final stages of the campaign, his campaign team which was from his home area in lango called him, “We love you so much, we want you to win, you are the most competent, however, your opponent has offered shs 800,000 if each of us sign, but we want you to be our leader, do you have money to counter this offer?” that is when he realised his run was over. 

Uganda has one of the youngest populations in Africa. And while affirmative action was designed to democratise representation and open leadership space for ordinary young people, the 2026 Youth MP elections reveal a system where access is heavily mediated by wealth and proximity to power. Whether reform is possible remains uncertain. But one truth is difficult to ignore: when the price of leadership reaches billions, the voices of ordinary youth are outpriced out of their own democracy.

As Ugandans prepared to go to the polls on January 15, 2026, tension was palpable in most parts of the country. In an expected move, the government, through the Uganda Communications Commission, imposed a total internet blackout two days before the election day – lasting 5 days. They cited the need to curb misinformation and manage stability during the election period. Neither the Ugandan citizens nor the Election Observers believed that this was warranted. The move was heavily criticised by the African Union as an affront to individual rights of Ugandan citizens to participate in their public affairs.

On election day, the morning of January 15, 2026, voters were greeted with the news of a directive not to use the Biometric Voting Kit (BVK) machines following their failure in many parts of the country. This was a harbinger of what the election was to turn out like. 109,142 BVK machines which had cost the Ugandan taxpayer approximately UGX 268.38 billion were shelved. The devices, supplied by Sim Valley, had been equipped with fingerprint scanners and facial recognition software and were regarded as having the ability to deliver a free and fair election. The election day may not so much be remembered for the failure of the BVK machines but rather the beatings, killings, incarceration and election fraud that was widespread. Agora, which was collaborating with various journalists across the country was able to verify various cases of widespread violence, intimidation, and irregularities including attacks on opposition supporters, journalists, and voters.

On the night of the elections in Butambala district, seven people were reportedly killed at the home of their outgoing legislator Muwanga Kivumbi although eye-witnesses say this number was higher. Residents who preferred anonymity said army men surrounded the house as they demanded that Kivumbi step out. In the commotion, one solider opened fire, killing seven people who had run for safety inside his garage. Three days after the election, President Yoweri Museveni while addressing the nation said there were plans by the opposition National Unity Platform to attack polling stations in cases where their candidates lost. “They came with pangas (machetes) to attack the polling station and were shot. Seven of them were shot dead.” The President’s statement appears to contradict the events of the day as these people were shot at in a private home inside a garage. One woman who spoke to Agora on condition of anonymity said, “My husband was there to return declaration forms and he was shot dead. He was not a criminal.” In Kalungu district, bullets were fired from a vehicle in which State Minister for Water, Aisha Ssekindi was moving following a clash with her rival, Hellen Nakeeya. Four people were shot a day before elections, killing two people and injuring two others. The dead were identified as Ronald Kasamba and Andrew Muweesi.

In the heartland of the Luweero Triangle, an area significant for having been where President Museveni launched his 5-year guerilla war in 1980 following a rigged election, ugly scenes of electoral violence unfolded. Security officers fired tear gas and live bullets resulting in the death of three people. The victims were identified as Sarah Nagayi, 36, Ibrahim Sserubiri, 18 and Robert Sseninde. Scores were also injured as they scampered for safety. At Bulenga, five people were reportedly killed by security officers in the aftermath of the election. Extra judicial killings were also registered in the pre-election period where Edward Mukwaya and Joshua Leon were killed in Gulu. Mesach Okello was killed in Iganga, Furugensio Mutagubya, Saida Eteru, Timothy Lukenge and Hassan Karungi were killed in Bwaise. NUP candidate Ivan Kyeyune, also MP-elect for Nakasongola county, reported being assaulted by about 50 men armed with sticks on election day. Forum for Democratic Change Presidential candidate Nandala Mafabi was also assaulted, with a stone hitting him on the head, and his driver sustaining gunshot injuries. Security officials also made it a point to destroy and confiscate declaration of results forms and temporarily arrest winners from the opposition. The army also participated in declaration of winners for Parliamentary seats like in Kampala Central, Nakaseke, and Sembabule. 

In Bukedea Anita Annet Among, the Speaker of Parliament ordered for the arrest of legislator Ikojo John Bosco’s aides and his home was attacked by men moving in a Police Patrol car. Eight Sub-county Electoral Commission officers from Bukedea district where the Speaker among hails from were verbally fired and ordered not to return to office. At 2pm on election day, Speaker Among moved with her security team in the areas of Kocheka, Kasechi, Aminit, Koena among others chasing away agents of other candidates to allow them tick votes for President Yoweri Museveni and the NRM Legislator Okuwere. At Kokutu polling station, locals had their names called out and told they had voted.

Journalists were not spared either. In Arua district, two journalists, Andrew Cohen Amvesi of West Nile online news and Odama Joseph of UBC TV were beaten and their smart phones taken when they went to interview the Arua Central Division NRM parliamentary candidate Atima Jackson Lee Buti. Odama’s video camera was also damaged. Security officials warned journalists against reporting on open ballot ticking and “bad” journalists were chased from the district. In Lyantonde Farouk Twesigye, a journalist with FATWES online TV was forced to delete footage containing harassment of voters. In Kampala, both local and foreign journalists faced the wrath of security officials. Yousra Elbagir of Sky News, Sudhir Byaruhanga of NTV and Juliette a reporter with France 24 reported they were threatened by security for going about their work. Mbadhi Ivan a reporter with BBS Terefayina was assaulted and his camera smashed by security operatives while on duty. 

Agora estimates the number of arrested citizens countrywide was over 1000. In Nakaseke, 50 National Unity Platform supporters were arrested after staging a protest, 34 in Luwero, 39 in Bukomansimbi, 59 in Kalungu, 21 in Sembabule and 69 in Kyotera district. The Uganda Police confirmed they had arrested over 400 people on election day alone. On January 22, 2026, the Police revealed that the number of suspects had risen to 1,049 with Kawempe registering 57 arrests and 151 suspects arrested in Mukono over electoral related cases. As arrests were going on across the country, the home of presidential candidate Robert Kyagulanyi was also under siege. Despite government officials saying he had committed no crime, his wife was assaulted by members of the army after they broke into his house.

Despite all these incidents, which raise doubts about the credibility of the election, President Yoweri Museveni, who has ruled Uganda for the last 40 years, was declared the winner with 71.65% and awaits to be sworn in for a seventh term in May.

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