By Praise Aloikin Opoloje
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.
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