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Category: Judicial Service Commission

  • FROM BROWN TO PLESSY: WHY FARUKU MAY BECOME THE MOST CONSEQUENTIAL CONSTITUTIONAL REGRESSION OF THE LAST TWO DECADES

    FROM BROWN TO PLESSY: WHY FARUKU MAY BECOME THE MOST CONSEQUENTIAL CONSTITUTIONAL REGRESSION OF THE LAST TWO DECADES

    Constitutionalism, Deterrence and the Price of Violating Non-Derogable Rights

    Constitutional courts shape legal culture. Some decisions expand the reach of rights. Others contract it. Some become monuments to constitutional progress. Others become warnings from history.

    The Constitutional Court’s decision in Faruku Muhamed & Others v Attorney General belongs to the latter category.

    Indeed, it may come to be remembered as one of the most consequential constitutional regressions since the promulgation of the 1995 Constitution.

    The judgment has already generated intense debate. Supporters praise it as a restoration of balance between the rights of accused persons and society’s legitimate interest in the prosecution of crime. Critics view it as a retreat from the robust protection of non-derogable rights that Ugandan courts painstakingly developed over the last two decades.

    I count myself among the latter.

    Not because I underestimate the importance of criminal accountability.

    Not because I believe every constitutional violation should automatically free every accused person.

    But because I believe the Court has fundamentally misunderstood the constitutional function of consequences.

    At its heart, Faruku is not a case about criminals.

    It is a case about incentives.

    It is a case about deterrence.

    It is a case about the price the State must pay when it violates the Constitution.

    And once one understands that, the implications become profoundly unsettling.

    THE FORGOTTEN PURPOSE OF SECTION 11(2)

    Much of the commentary surrounding Section 11(2) of the Human Rights (Enforcement) Act proceeds from a mistaken premise.

    The provision was never principally about rewarding accused persons.

    It was never principally about frustrating criminal trials.

    Nor was it intended to create technical escape routes for the guilty.

    Its purpose was institutional.

    Its purpose was preventative.

    Its purpose was deterrent.

    Every legal system creates incentives.

    A police officer deciding how to obtain evidence responds to incentives.

    An investigator deciding whether to respect constitutional safeguards responds to incentives.

    A security agency deciding whether compliance is worth the inconvenience responds to incentives.

    The genius of Section 11(2) was that it altered those incentives.

    It communicated a simple message:

    If you violate non-derogable rights, you may lose the prosecution altogether.

    That message did not exist to protect criminals.

    It existed to discipline power.

    It existed to ensure that constitutional compliance became the cheapest option available to the State.

    The Court has now substantially weakened that discipline.

    THE DOCTRINAL ERROR: WHEN A DETERRENT BECOMES A SUGGESTION

    The central problem with Faruku is doctrinal before it is political.

    Section 11(2) was not merely a remedy available to an accused person after a violation had occurred.

    It was a prophylactic rule.

    A constitutional deterrent.

    A bright-line consequence designed to influence institutional behaviour before violations occurred.

    The provision did not merely compensate victims.

    It regulated power.

    By emphasizing alternative remedies such as compensation, civil suits, administrative sanctions and criminal proceedings against offending officers, the Court transformed a deterrent into a suggestion.

    That distinction matters.

    A deterrent commands compliance.

    A suggestion invites balancing.

    A deterrent changes behaviour.

    A suggestion merely expresses disapproval.

    The practical consequence is that the constitutional cost of violating non-derogable rights has been reduced.

    Rights rarely disappear overnight.

    More often, they remain on paper while their practical force is quietly diminished.

    That is why Faruku is so significant.

    The issue is not whether rights still exist.

    The issue is whether violating them has become cheaper.

    ARTICLE 44 WAS WRITTEN IN BLOOD, NOT THEORY

    Perhaps the most troubling feature of the judgment is its apparent detachment from the constitutional history that produced Article 44 itself.

    Article 44 did not emerge from academic theory.

    It did not emerge from abstract constitutional philosophy.

    It emerged from Uganda’s encounter with arbitrary power.

    It emerged from detention without trial.

    It emerged from torture.

    It emerged from disappearances.

    It emerged from constitutional crises that taught painful lessons about what happens when power operates without meaningful restraint.

    The framers of the 1995 Constitution understood something simple:

    Power rarely restrains itself.

    That understanding explains why certain rights were elevated beyond ordinary balancing exercises.

    The Constitution does not merely describe freedom from torture as important.

    It describes it as non-derogable.

    That distinction is critical.

    A right that may be balanced against competing interests is fundamentally different from a right that may not.

    The Court repeatedly invokes society’s interest in prosecution.

    But Article 44 itself represents a balancing exercise already undertaken by the framers.

    They considered the demands of security.

    They considered public order.

    They considered law enforcement.

    They nevertheless chose to place certain rights beyond derogation.

    The question therefore is not whether courts should rebalance those interests today.

    The question is whether courts are free to rebalance what the Constitution has already balanced.

    That question deserves far greater attention than it has thus far received.

    LEGAL CULTURE: A PERSONAL OBSERVATION

    Years ago, I appeared before a Chief Magistrate in a criminal matter that had stagnated for nearly three years.

    I argued that the accused person’s constitutional right to a fair and speedy trial had been violated.

    The Magistrate looked at me and asked:

    “Are you sure the Constitution says the hearing must be speedy?”

    I answered in the affirmative.

    A copy of the Constitution was produced.

    The word was found.

    The Magistrate then asked:

    “But Counsel, why are you over-lawyering?, I thought you are in a hurry and have other things to do? Me I want to adjourn my matters today and travel for the weekend”

    Many younger lawyers would find that exchange difficult to believe.

    That is precisely the point.

    For the last two decades Uganda’s legal culture has been evolving.

    Slowly.

    Imperfectly.

    Painfully.

    But undeniably.

    Rights increasingly ceased to be aspirations.

    They increasingly became enforceable commands.

    Lawyers became bolder.

    Judges became more receptive.

    Constitutional litigation became more meaningful.

    Decisions such as Uganda Law Society v Attorney General, Uganda vs Ssekabira Robert and 11 others, and others collectively contributed to that transformation.

    The cases were not identical.

    The rights involved were not identical.

    But together they built something larger than individual precedents.

    They built a culture.

    A culture in which State actors increasingly understood that constitutional violations carry consequences.

    Faruku teaches a different lesson.

    THE COURT’S BALANCING EXERCISE

    To criticize the judgment honestly, one must first acknowledge its strongest argument.

    Society possesses a legitimate interest in the prosecution of crime.

    Victims possess rights.

    Public safety matters.

    Few reasonable people would celebrate a system in which serious offenders automatically escape accountability because constitutional violations occurred during investigation.

    That concern deserves respect.

    I do not pretend the question is easy.

    There are undoubtedly hard cases at the margins.

    But the answer to a difficult question is not to abandon deterrence altogether.

    The Court’s solution effectively transfers the cost of constitutional violations away from the State and onto the victim of those violations.

    The Court assures us that alternative remedies remain available.

    Compensation.

    Civil litigation.

    Administrative sanctions.

    Criminal prosecution of offending officers.

    In theory, this appears balanced.

    In practice, it appears detached from reality.

    How many torture survivors successfully litigate compensation claims after years of detention, trial, imprisonment, poverty and trauma?

    How many possess the resources necessary to commence fresh proceedings against the very institutions that violated their rights?

    The remedy exists on paper.

    Life exists in reality.

    The two are not always the same.

    THE REALITY PROBLEM

    Constitutional theory cannot be divorced from constitutional reality.

    Uganda is not debating torture in a vacuum.

    Uganda is not debating arbitrary detention in a vacuum.

    Uganda is not debating abuse of power in a vacuum.

    We are debating these issues within a society where allegations of torture remain common, where unlawful detention continues to generate public controversy and where citizens routinely question whether constitutional safeguards are sufficient to restrain State power.

    Perhaps the most chilling symbol of this reality is linguistic.

    Ugandans now speak of “drones” not as aircraft but as a particular form of feared encounter with power.

    Think about that.

    Think about how much constitutional failure must occur before a society casually incorporates the language of disappearance into everyday conversation.

    That normalization did not happen by accident.

    It happened because constitutional safeguards increasingly appeared uncertain.

    The question is whether Faruku strengthens those safeguards or weakens them.

    I fear it does the latter.

    FROM BROWN TO PLESSY

    The analogy may appear provocative.

    It is intended to be.

    In 1896, the United States Supreme Court decided Plessy v Ferguson.

    The Court did not abolish equality.

    It merely reinterpreted it in a manner that dramatically reduced its practical force.

    Rights remained on paper.

    Their effectiveness diminished in reality.

    Fifty-eight years later, Brown v Board of Education repudiated that approach.

    The lesson is not about race.

    The lesson is about constitutional trajectories.

    Constitutional progress is not inevitable.

    Rights expand.

    Rights contract.

    Courts advance liberty.

    Courts retreat from it.

    Faruku does not abolish Article 44.

    It does something more subtle.

    And therefore potentially more consequential.

    It preserves the right while reducing the consequences of violating it.

    That is the structural similarity.

    In neither case was the constitutional right formally erased.

    Instead, the practical cost of ignoring it became negotiable.

    That is how constitutional regressions often occur.

    Not through dramatic declarations.

    Not through open hostility to rights.

    But through incremental reductions in consequence.

    History teaches that constitutional decline rarely begins when courts announce that rights no longer matter.

    It begins when courts assure us that rights still matter while simultaneously reducing the cost of violating them.

    CONCLUSION

    The Supreme Court may reverse Faruku.

    It may not.

    That question will be answered in due course.

    The more profound question concerns constitutional culture.

    For two decades Uganda appeared to be moving toward a constitutional order in which rights carried consequences and power carried limits.

    Faruku signals movement in the opposite direction.

    Whether that signal becomes a turning point or merely a temporary detour remains unknown.

    History will answer that question.

    The rest of us must live through it.

    If future generations inherit a stronger constitutional culture, Faruku will be remembered as a wrong turn that was eventually corrected.

    If they inherit a weaker one, where torture remains illegal but increasingly inexpensive for the State, they may remember it differently.

    Not as the day constitutional rights disappeared.

    But as the day violating them became cheaper.

    Not as the day the Constitution died.

    But as the day it was asked to whisper where once it could roar.

    DISCLAIMER:

    The contents of this Blog are not intended to be used as a substitute for legal advice. The author shall not accept liability for use of the contents of this Blog as legal advice. Readers are encuraged to consult qualified advocates for real life situations for legal advice.

    JOIN THE UNDERGROUND AND FUEL THE MOVEMENT

    We have created a dedicated fans WhatsApp Channel. Don’t miss the latest updates, get early bird access to our latest blog posts and more, so much more. Click the following link to follow the Channel: https://whatsapp.com/channel/0029Vb9BQqw5a246bWVsLl3j

    Independent institutional critique and advocacy for a radical overhaul of legal culture require time, deep research, and uncompromised independence. If these narratives bring value to your legal journey or challenge your perspective, please visit our HOME PAGE to see how you can support this platform directly and keep the critique fierce and relentless.

    Enen Ambrose. Advocate

    Member, Judiciary Affairs Committee,

    Uganda Law Society

    & Founder–Enen Legal World

  • Chronicles of His Worship Mulyanyama — Episode 4

    Chronicles of His Worship Mulyanyama — Episode 4

    When the Accused Becomes an Ornament

    A procedure that turns courts into shrines of injustice, where freedom is a fairy tale and land is lost

    Author’s Note: The Chronicles of His Worship Mulyanyama is a serialized literary commentary designed to constructively critique the institutional and structural implications of the Magistrates Courts (Amendment) Act, No. 6 of 2026. This work is a creative exploration of the human infrastructure behind public service and is not intended to ridicule, embarrass, or undermine the integrity of the Judiciary.

    The stack of criminal files had not moved in eight years.

    One hundred of them.
    One hundred human beings.
    One hundred stories of land, hunger, and a law that refused to die.

    His Worship Mulyanyama picked the top two files.

    File No. 67 – Yokoyadi Okello. Charge: Aggravated Robbery.
    File No. 68 – Emmanuel Odongo. Charge: Murder.

    The State had never filed committal bundles. The accused had been on remand since before the last census. Neither could be granted bail – not by Mulyanyama. Only the High Court could do that. And the High Court had done nothing.

    Yokoyadi’s Hoe – Eight Years

    Yokoyadi was the elder brother of Ocen Okello – the bean supplier who had been chasing a school’s debt for four years. When their parents died during the LRA insurgency, Yokoyadi dropped out of school. He worked as a porter, a brickmaker, a night guard. He never went to court. He only wanted to protect the three acres their grandfather had cleared with a machete.

    Then Majutu arrived. An urban elite. A man who bought land after the war and spoke of “development.” Majutu wanted Yokoyadi’s plot. He offered a pittance. Yokoyadi refused.

    One morning, Majutu’s workers came to mark the boundary. Yokoyadi ran out with his hoe. He did not swing it at anyone. He struck the ground between them. He shouted: “Either you kill me first, or I die on this land. It will not leave my family.”

    That evening, Majutu called a police officer he knew. He reported aggravated robbery. He claimed Yokoyadi had threatened him with a deadly weapon – the hoe – and attempted to steal his mobile phone. There were no witnesses except Majutu’s own workers.

    Yokoyadi was arrested. Remanded. The State never filed proper committal papers. The case did not move.

    Eight years later.
    Majutu had erected a fence. He had built a guest house. He had planted eucalyptus where Yokoyadi’s father was buried.

    Yokoyadi had not seen a judge in five years. The file sat on Mulyanyama’s desk – a monument to a hoe that had become a life sentence.

    The Pastor’s Form – Eight Years

    Micaki was a widow. She could not read or write. She trusted people in uniforms – including Pastor Solomon, who ran a Pentecostal church in the trading centre.

    One afternoon, Pastor Ayak visited Micaki. He told her the government was giving free money to elderly vulnerable persons. He had a form. He just needed her thumbprint. She was grateful. She dipped her thumb in the stamp pad.

    Just as she was about to press it on the paper, her son Emmanuel walked in. He had returned from Lira for a visit. He saw the form. He yanked it from the pastor’s hand. He read it. It was not a government grant. It was a gift inter vivos – a transfer of ten acres to the pastor’s church foundation entirely for free!

    Emmanuel shouted. He demanded that the pastor leave. He chased him out of the compound. He did not touch him. He did not threaten his life. He simply raised his voice and pointed to the road.

    Two weeks later, a vagrant was found dead near the pastor’s church – a man known to drink at the local bar. Pastor Ayak went to the police. He told them Emmanuel had threatened him, that Emmanuel was violent, that Emmanuel must have killed the vagrant in a robbery.

    There was no evidence. No witness placed Emmanuel near the body. But the pastor was influential. His church had friends in the district. Emmanuel was arrested. Charged with murder. Capital offence. No bail.

    Eight years later.
    Pastor Ayak had built a primary school and a church on Micaki’s land. A banner read: “New Hope Pentecostal School – Transforming Lives.”

    Micaki sat on the roadside, watching children play where her cassava used to grow.

    Emmanuel had never been tried. The State had no witnesses. The file would not die.

    The Attempt

    Mulyanyama could not grant bail. He could not dismiss the charges. The law said he could only communicate the charges and call up the file for mention – to track the status of police inquiries or investigations. He could not provide any effective remedy for freedom – even though the law said every suspect was innocent until proven guilty or until conviction.

    He was not a magistrate. He was a warehouse for human beings.

    So he bundled the 100 files. He wrote a cover letter to the Resident Judge of the High Court Circuit. He asked for supervisory intervention. He personally drove the files to the High Court registry.

    A week later, his phone rang. He did not recognise the number. He answered.

    “Worship Mulyanyama.”

    The voice was tired. Not cruel. Tired.

    “This is the Resident Judge.”

    Mulyanyama straightened. “Good afternoon, my Lord.”

    “I am looking at your letter. The one about the committal files.”

    “Yes, my Lord. The accused have been on remand for eight years. The State has not filed commital papers. I cannot grant bail. I cannot dismiss the charges. I was hoping your Lordship could exercise supervisory –”

    The Judge cut him off.

    “I have murder sessions across four districts. I have bail applications from two prisons. I have a donor‑funded SGBV session starting next week. I do not have time for one hundred twenty one files that should have been dealt with at your level.”

    Mulyanyama: “With respect, my Lord, the law does not permit me to –”

    “Then the law is an ass.”

    Silence.

    “Listen to me, Worship. I am not your appeal court. I am not your clerk. Those files are your problem. Deal with them.”

    The line went dead.

    Mulyanyama stared at his phone. He understood now: the Judge was not cruel. He was simply drowning. And the 100 files were the first to sink.

    The Interns

    One afternoon, a group of internship students from Gulu University arrived at Omwonyo‑le. They were bright, eager, and armed with notebooks. Their supervisor had assigned them to sensitise remand inmates about their rights – the right to be presumed innocent, the right to legal representation, the right to a speedy trial.

    Mulyanyama allowed it. He had no power to refuse. He also had no power to help.

    The students sat with Yokoyadi. They explained Article 28 of the Constitution. They spoke of bail, of committal, of the State’s duty to file papers.

    Yokoyadi listened. Then he asked: “If all that is true, why have I been here eight years?” ,”Is there anything you can do to assist me?“

    The students had no answer. They were not qualified advocates. The law did not permit them to file anything, to apply for anything, to demand anything. They could only teach rights – not enforce them.

    They visited Emmanuel. He did not speak. He stared at the wall. One student tried to hold his hand. He pulled away.

    That evening, the students sat outside the court, silent. Their supervisor told them: “You have seen the gap between the law on paper and the law in practice. Now you must decide if you still want to be lawyers.”

    Mulyanyama watched them leave. He thought of the innocence of these brilliant Bachelor of Laws Degree students and what the future of Law and Legal practice probably held in store for these “emiti emito”– Luganda, his mother tongue’s proverbial expression of “children”. He thought of the 100 accused persons who had appeared before him for periods ranging between 7 to 8 years.

    He did not write in his diary that night. There was nothing left to say.

    Before you ask why justice delays… ask these questions:

    How many Yokoyadis are waiting in your local prison – eight years, ten years, twelve? How many Emmanuels are on remand because a wealthy, influential, highly connected and malicious complainant whispered a lie? And why does the law still force a magistrate to hold a hearing that serves no purpose?

    Eight years is not a delay.
    Eight years is a sentence – served without conviction.

    Enen Ambrose. Advocate. Member: Judiciary Affairs Committee of Uganda Law Society.

    If you missed the start of this journey, you can catch up on the systemic breakdown of the Magistrates Courts in Chronicles of His Worship Mulyanyama — Episode 3

    Legal Disclaimer Fiction & Non-Defamation Notice:

    This post is a pure work of fiction and creative literature. The characters, dialogue, specific incidents, and settings—including the character of His Worship Mulyanyama and the location of Omwonyo-le Magistrates Court—are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance or exact matches to actual persons, living or dead, real-life judicial officers, or specific ongoing cases is entirely coincidental. This text is created solely for the purpose of systemic legislative critique and systemic advocacy; it is not maliciously constructed, nor should it be interpreted as an attempt to defame, misrepresent, or malign any living individual or public office holder.

    The legal references in this Series is for information purposes only and is not intended to be used as a substitute for legal advice. The author does not assume responsibility or admit liability arising from the use of the contents of this blog as legal advice.

    The author strongly encourages readers to consult a licensed attorney for specific context related legal advice.

    JOIN THE UNDERGROUND AND FUEL THE MOVEMENT

    We have created a WhatsApp Channel. Don’t miss the latest updates, get early bird access to our latest episodes and more, so much more. Click the following link to follow the Channel: https://whatsapp.com/channel/0029Vb9BQqw5a246bWVsLl3j

    Independent institutional critique and advocacy for a radical overhaul of legal culture require time, deep research, and uncompromised independence. If these narratives bring value to your legal journey or challenge your perspective, please visit our HOME PAGE to see how you can support this platform directly and keep the critique fierce and relentless.

    Enen Ambrose. Advocate & Founder–Enen Legal World

  • Chronicles of His Worship Mulyanyama — Episode 3

    Chronicles of His Worship Mulyanyama — Episode 3

    When “Just Cause” Entered the Registry

    Author’s Note: The Chronicles of His Worship Mulyanyama is a serialized literary commentary designed to constructively critique the institutional and structural implications of the Magistrates Courts (Amendment) Act, No. 6 of 2026. This work is a creative exploration of the human infrastructure behind public service and is not intended to ridicule, embarrass, or undermine the integrity of the Judiciary.

    The brown envelope had not lied.

    TRANSFER OF FILES – FOR JUST CAUSE.
    No explanation. No appeal. Just a signature from the Chief Magistrate and a list of file numbers.

    Among them: File No. 43. The twins fighting over cassava. Imat Nekolina’s envelope. Ocen Okello’s breach of contract case for the supply of beans to Kec Primary School.

    All of them, transferred. To whom? For what reason? The envelope did not say.

    Mulyanyama set the letter down. He did not call the Chief Magistrate. He simply stared at his phone.

    Counsel Ogwang Adede woke before sunrise.

    He had spent 200,000 shillings on fuel the previous evening – a calculated investment. Today, he would drive from Lira to Omwonyo‑le for Ocen Okello’s case. Four years of beans. Four years of adjournments. Today, he would close the defence under Order 17 Rule 4.

    He checked his phone.

    A message from the headmaster: “Fees balance remains. Your son cannot sit exams.”

    He silenced it. First, court. Then fees.

    Then he opened the Lira High Court WhatsApp group.

    NOTICE: The Honourable Judge will not sit this week. He has been deployed to Omwonyo‑le for a donor‑funded SGBV session. All matters stand adjourned.

    He refreshed. The Omwonyo‑le Magistrates Court group had a new notice:

    NOTICE: His Worship Mulyanyama has been designated Registrar for the forthcoming SGBV session. Additionally, a donor‑funded plea bargaining session will run for two weeks. No judicial officer will be at Omwonyo‑le during this period.

    He scrolled further.

    UPDATE: All other magistrates and the Registrar have travelled for a Judiciary conference. Only those excused for donor conditionalities remain in session.

    Counsel Ogwang Adede stared at the screen.

    In Lira – no Judge.
    In Omwonyo‑le – no Mulyanyama.
    No Magistrate. No Registrar. No court.
    Two weeks.

    He had spent 200,000 shillings on fuel. But that was not the worst of it.

    That morning, he had been expecting a deposit of 30,000,000 shillings in taxed costs from a judgment debtor – Okullo Aram. The matter was coming up for Notice to Show Cause before the Registrar of the High Court in Lira. Okullo had called last evening, panicking, begging not to be thrown into civil prison. He was prepared to deposit the money in front of the Registrar.

    Then Okullo sent a message: a photo of a notice from the Registrar’s chambers. The Registrar had travelled to Kampala overnight – for a donor‑funded workshop on case management.

    After sending the notice, Okullo’s phone went silent.

    Counsel Ogwang Adede called back. Twice. Three times. Nothing.

    Later, he learned that Okullo Aram had five children in university and three in secondary school. The money that was meant for taxed costs had been redirected – to tuition fees, to accommodation, to books.

    The debtor had not fled. He had simply reprioritised. And the law could not touch him – because the Registrar was not there to hear the Notice to Show Cause.

    His clerk’s salary would wait.
    His legal assistant’s salary would wait.
    The headmaster’s message about his son’s exams would not wait.

    Then his firm WhatsApp group buzzed.

    A calling letter. From His Worship Munyakuzi, Chief Magistrate of Oneka Iden – the Chief Magisterial area under which Omwonyo‑le fell.

    TRANSFER OF FILE – FOR JUST CAUSE.
    On the court’s own motion, Ocen Okello’s case is transferred to my court for hearing.

    No application from any party. No consent. No explanation.
    Just just cause.

    Counsel read it twice. His hands did not shake. They had done this before.

    Mulyanyama had also seen the letter.

    He picked up his phone and called Munyakuzi.

    “Sir, with respect… those are live matters. Judicial independence –”

    A pause. Then Munyakuzi laughed.

    “Worship, did you not read Section 217A of the amendment? I have powers to transfer those files to my Court.”

    The line went dead.

    Mulyanyama stared at his phone. The ground at Omwonyo‑le had swallowed an axe. Now the law was swallowing itself.

    Ocen Okello did not learn about the transfer from a noticeboard.

    He learned it from Alyek Molly.

    He had not even reached the bank. His Boxer motorcycle was still coughing dust somewhere between Abako and Oneka Iden when his phone vibrated.

    He smiled when he saw the name. Alyek Molly – Registry. He answered immediately.

    “My daughter… how is today?”

    For a second, Alyek said nothing. Then her voice came – soft, tired, almost apologetic.

    “Mzee… don’t come to court.”

    Silence.

    “I have already told your lawyer.”

    Ocen slowed the motorcycle. “What now?”

    Alyek looked through the registry window before answering. “His Worship has two critical assignments.” She lowered her voice. “He has been designated Registrar for the SGBV session… and after that… another plea bargain project. Two hundred files. Fifteen days.”

    Ocen said nothing.

    Alyek swallowed. “Mzee… save your fuel.”

    The line went dead.

    Forty minutes later, Ocen Okello sat inside the office of the loan officer.

    Tie. Ledger. Calculator. No smile.

    The file marked MORTGAGE RECOVERY – FINAL NOTICE lay open on the desk.

    Ocen removed his cap. Held it in both hands. And began pleading.

    “Sir… please do not sell my house.”

    He swallowed. “The case is very near judgment, I promise.”

    The loan officer said nothing. So Ocen continued.

    “My lawyer says… no more than one month.”

    He pointed weakly toward Omwonyo‑le. “The court has some delays… delays I do not fully understand… delays I cannot even explain properly…”

    Just then – his phone vibrated again.

    This time, Counsel Ogwang Adede.

    He opened the message.

    Brown envelope. Three words.

    TRANSFERRED FOR JUST CAUSE.

    Ocen read it once. Read it twice. Then slowly looked back at the loan officer… and for the first time in four years… did not know which debt was more dangerous – the one inside the bank, or the one inside the court.

    By lunchtime, Omwonyo‑le was already whispering.

    The new Chairperson of the School Management Committee of Kec Primary School – the same school that had eaten Ocen Okello’s beans – was an old boy of Chief Magistrate Munyakuzi.

    In Omwonyo‑le, rumours travelled faster than judgments.
    And this rumour had teeth.

    “He is willing to vouch for his old buddy,” Alyek Molly heard from a clerk in Oneka Iden. “To save the school from an old crippling debt.”

    Alyek said nothing. She was still calculating her mother’s medication. Friday’s tuition. The per diem that would now not come.

    That evening, Mulyanyama sat in his rented room above the pharmacy in Oneka Iden.

    The brown envelope still lay on the table.
    Open. Unfolded. Unanswered.

    The names stared back at him.
    Imat Nekolina. Ocen Okello.
    Four years. Red ribbons. Borrowed fuel. Dead witnesses.
    Transferred. For just cause.

    His phone vibrated.
    Counsel Ogwang Adede.

    Mulyanyama stared at the screen for two rings. Then answered.

    No greetings. Just breathing.

    Then Counsel spoke.

    “Worship… what is going on?”

    Silence.

    “What happened?”

    Another silence. Then the question that hit harder than any objection ever raised in court:

    “Who complained?”

    Mulyanyama looked again at the brown envelope. Then at the ceiling. Then finally spoke. Quietly. Almost apologetically.

    “Counsel… I honestly have no idea.”

    A pause. Then –

    “Just orders from above.”

    Neither man spoke again. For a few seconds, all that remained between lawyer and magistrate was breathing.

    Then the line went dead.

    And for the first time since the amendment, His Worship Mulyanyama realised something far more dangerous than corruption:

    Sometimes a file is not stolen. Sometimes… it is simply called upward.

    Before you blame a magistrate for “delayed justice”… ask two questions:

    Who funded the last special session in your court? And how many times has a file been transferred – without your consent – “for just cause”?

    The system is not broken.
    The system is fully booked.

    Enen Ambrose

    Advocate

    Member: Judiciary Affairs Committee

    Uganda Law Society,

    For feedback or comments: enen@enenlegalworld.com

    If you missed the start of this journey, you can catch up on the systemic breakdown of the Magistrates Courts in Chronicles of His Worship Mulyanyama — Episode 2

    Legal Disclaimer Fiction & Non-Defamation Notice:

    This post is a pure work of fiction and creative literature. The characters, dialogue, specific incidents, and settings—including the character of His Worship Mulyanyama and the location of Omwonyo-le Magistrates Court—are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance or exact matches to actual persons, living or dead, real-life judicial officers, or specific ongoing cases is entirely coincidental. This text is created solely for the purpose of systemic legislative critique and systemic advocacy; it is not maliciously constructed, nor should it be interpreted as an attempt to defame, misrepresent, or malign any living individual or public office holder.

    The legal references in this Series is for information purposes only and is not intended to be used as a substitute for legal advice. The author does not assume responsibility or admit liability arising from the use of the contents of this blog as legal advice.

    The author strongly encourages readers to consult a licensed attorney for specific context related legal advice.

    FUEL THE MOVEMENT

    Independent institutional critique and advocacy for a radical overhaul of legal culture require time, deep research, and uncompromised independence. If these narratives bring value to your legal journey or challenge your perspective, please visit our HOME PAGE to see how you can support this platform directly and keep the critique fierce and relentless.

    Enen Ambrose. Advocate & Founder–Enen Legal World

  • Chronicles of His Worship Mulyanyama — Episode I

    Chronicles of His Worship Mulyanyama — Episode I

    The Magistrate Who Never Carried Lunch

    Enen Legal World Logo

    Author’s Note: The Chronicles of His Worship Mulyanyama is a serialized literary commentary designed to constructively critique the institutional and structural implications of the Magistrates Courts (Amendment) Act, No. 6 of 2026. This work is a creative exploration of the human infrastructure behind public service and is not intended to ridicule, embarrass, or undermine the integrity of the Judiciary.

    At 7:45am, His Worship Mulyanyama was nowhere near court.

    He sat inside a parked Judiciary double‑cabin pickup, forty kilometres from Omwonyo‑le Magistrates Court. Engine off. Air dead. Phone in hand.

    Battery: 19%.

    Bank balance: not enough.

    Fuel gauge: hovering just above E – the dangerous place where public service stops being transport… and becomes theology.

    On his screen: Mo‑kash. Wewole. ManguCash. Ka‑Sente.

    Four lenders. Four rejections. One salary.

    He had not yet started the engine. Because before justice could move, fuel had to move first.

    So he made another call. Not to a litigant. Not to a lawyer. To a friend.

    His Worship Mulyanyama making calls to top up his fuel before setting off for work.

    By 10:06am, the double‑cabin rolled into Omwonyo‑le.

    The benches were already full.

    Imat Nekolina had walked three kilometres from her village, a faded manila envelope pressed against her chest. Inside: a death certificate, two handwritten land agreements, and a photograph of six goats – the only things her late husband had left behind. She had been coming to court since 2022. This morning, she left cassava unharvested. Again.

    Ocen Okello had kicked his Boxer motorcycle until it coughed to life. Four years earlier, he supplied beans to a government primary school. Class One children had become Class Five. Two headteachers transferred. One bursar retired. The beans had long been eaten – but Ocen had never been paid.

    Yesterday, after every friend with a smartphone suddenly became “busy”, and every relative promised to “call back”, Ocen borrowed his advocate’s transport facilitation from Bolicap – because his lawyer was driving from Lira on the day of the case. This morning, he still had no money of his own. So before sunrise, he crossed the trading centre, placed his extra tablet on the wooden counter of Okello Ajing. Okello Ajing looked at it twice, then pushed a few folded notes across. Just enough for fuel – to follow a file that had forgotten his name.

    Ocen Okello and Imat Nekolina at the waiting lobby.

    Mulyanyama stepped out of the pickup. He did not apologise for the delay. He simply walked to his chambers, put on his robe, and inked his stamp.

    The robe covered the sweat. The stamp covered the hunger. The silence covered the missed calls.

    Court No. 2 had eighty‑three matters cause‑listed before lunch.

    He signed bail forms. Stamped adjournments. Called absent lawyers. Listened to excuses. Listened to tears. Listened to lies. Listened to truth.

    Stamped. Signed. Stamped. Signed. Stamped. Signed.

    By 10:56am, he could no longer remember whether File No. 43 was cattle theft, trespass, or twins fighting over their father’s cassava garden. Only that all of them wanted justice – and all of them wanted it today.

    At 11:02am, his phone vibrated again.

    “Daddy, school says no exam without fees.”

    He read the message. Locked the screen. Then proceeded to deny bail in a case involving twenty thousand shillings. The accused had no transport to return for trial. Mulyanyama explained the law – the risk of absconding, the need for sureties, the presumption of innocence.

    His voice was steady. His reasoning was sound. But between his words, the message sat: No exam without fees.

    By noon, he had not eaten.

    Court No. 1 had computers. Three of them. All bearing the Judiciary crest. All covered in dust. Outside, a solar mast stood proudly beside the flagpole – as if justice here ran on sunlight.

    And on good weeks… it did. When the batteries cooperated. When the switch‑over panel remembered its job. When Umeme remembered Omwonyo‑le existed. Which was usually one morning in five – sometimes between six and ten.

    After that, the screens went black. And when judgments had to be written, when reports had to be filed, when legal research had to be done – Mulyanyama would remove his robe, start the government pickup, and drive twenty kilometres to the nearest trading centre… to borrow electricity.

    That was the unwritten rule of Omwonyo‑le: You do not complain. You endure.

    Omwonyo Magistrates Court Compound

    A litigant approached his desk. Not with a bribe. With a roasted goat leg wrapped in old newspaper. Steam rose. The man said nothing. He simply bowed and left.

    Mulyanyama looked at the meat. He looked at the phone. He looked at Imat Nekolina. He hesitated. Then he ate.

    This was his first meal of the day.

    And somewhere in Kampala, Parliament had quietly decided that His Worship Mulyanyama was ready for more – more files, more value, more pressure – under the newly enacted Magistrates Courts (Amendment) Act, No. 6 of 2026.

    No one asked about his clerk.
    No one asked about his fuel.
    No one asked what he had eaten.
    No one asked about the missed calls.
    No one asked about the solar mast, or the twenty‑kilometre drive to borrow electricity.

    They simply raised his jurisdiction – and left his stomach empty.

    Before His Worship Mulyanyama could deliver justice… he first had to finance it.

    The ground at Omwonyo‑le had swallowed an axe.
    Now it was swallowing him.

    Before you judge His Worship Mulyanyama… visit your nearest court. Stand there for one morning. Count the files. Count the faces. Then ask one question:

    What is missing here?

    You may not like the answer.

    And in Omwonyo‑le… hunger was only the beginning.
    Because one week later… a white Land Cruiser entered the court compound.

    Some systems do not collapse.
    They simply teach good people how to survive inside broken ones.

    Enen Ambrose,

    Advocate.

    Member: Judiciary Affairs Committee

    Uganda Law Society

    Legal World. enen@enenlegalworld.com

    Legal Disclaimer
    Fiction & Non-Defamation Notice:

    This post is a pure work of fiction and creative literature. The characters, dialogue, specific incidents, and settings—including the character of His Worship Mulyanyama and the location of Omwonyo-le Magistrates Court—are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance or exact matches to actual persons, living or dead, real-life judicial officers, or specific ongoing cases is entirely coincidental. This text is created solely for the purpose of systemic legislative critique and systemic advocacy; it is not maliciously constructed, nor should it be interpreted as an attempt to defame, misrepresent, or malign any living individual or public office holder.

    If you loved this Episode 1 and would love to continue enjoying it, Please acccess Episode 2 from here:

    Chronicles of His Worship Mulyanyama The Mobile Court That Ate the Diary— Episode II

    FUEL THE MOVEMENT Independent institutional critique and advocacy for a radical overhaul of legal culture require time, deep research, and uncompromised independence. If these narratives bring value to your legal journey or challenge your perspective, please visit our HOME PAGE to see how you can support this platform directly and keep the critique fierce and relentless.

    — Enen Ambrose. Advocate & Founder–Enen Legal World

  • THE QUIET VIOLENCE OF PROCEDURE II: When Courts Resist Communication in the Age of E-Justice, A Reflection on Bakampa Brian Baryaguma v Bbaaka Property Consultants (U) Ltd

    THE QUIET VIOLENCE OF PROCEDURE II: When Courts Resist Communication in the Age of E-Justice, A Reflection on Bakampa Brian Baryaguma v Bbaaka Property Consultants (U) Ltd

    Enen Legal World Logo


    There is another kind of quiet violence in procedure.

    Not when the law assumes communication where none exists.
    But when communication eventually occurs, and the law still struggles to recognise its procedural legitimacy because it arrived through unfamiliar technological form.

    Days ago, in my earlier critique, The Quiet Violence of Procedure: When Digital Service Serves No One, I warned against a growing procedural danger within Uganda’s evolving E‑Justice architecture. I argued that a notice uploaded into ECCMIS is not necessarily a notice received; that “deemed service” is not always effective service; and that digital systems may satisfy procedural form while silently excluding the very litigants whose rights stand at risk.

    The concern then was technological presumption.

    This time, the concern is technological distrust.


    The Case and Its Difficulties

    In Bakampa Brian Baryaguma v Bbaaka Property Consultants (U) Ltd (Misc. Cause No. 0033 of 2023, 22 May 2026), the High Court held that service through WhatsApp, without prior leave for substituted service, was improper. The Applicant, self‑represented, sent the application to the Respondent company director’s WhatsApp number on 24 February 2023. The director only saw the message weeks later, on 4 April 2023, before instructing counsel who filed a response on behalf of the company.

    The Court struck out the affidavit of service, holding that the Applicant was not authorised to effect service under Order 5 rule 7 of the Civil Procedure Rules and had not first obtained leave for substituted service. The Court further struck out the Applicant’s supporting affidavit for being argumentative and containing matters of law (contrary to Order 19 rule 3 CPR), and dismissed the application with costs.

    A copy of the decision can be downloaded below:

    Bakampa Brian Baryaguma v Bbaaka Property Consultants (U) Ltd 2026 UGHCCD 154 (22 May 2026)Download


    I do not defend every aspect of the Applicant’s filings. The supporting affidavit may well have been defective under Order 19. The Applicant also admittedly did not first attempt conventional corporate service under Order 29 rule 2 CPR, nor did he obtain prior leave before resorting to WhatsApp. Those are genuine procedural weaknesses.

    But this reflection is not about the affidavit ruling. It is about the service holding – and the deeper jurisprudential questions it raises for Uganda’s digital transformation. I earlier posed the question “Uganda’s Courts are going paperless, the only question left is…are you?“

    I raised a critical concern about the preparedness of lawyers for paperless transition come June 2026. This blog inverses that question back to the courts themselves. With a ruling which effectively rolls back all the gains in the courts’ E-justice and digital transformation journey, I equally ask, “are our courts really ready for a fair, meaningful and realistic digital transformation?“


    The Conceptual Problem

    The real issue is not whether procedural safeguards around electronic service should exist.
    The question is: should courts continue treating direct electronic communication as inherently inferior to conventional physical service, even where actual notice is eventually achieved and no prejudice is demonstrated?

    Historically, substituted service existed because direct communication with a litigant had become impossible, impracticable, or evasive. Newspaper advertisements, affixing summons to premises, or leaving documents with third parties were indirect approximations designed to create the possibility of awareness where direct access could not be achieved.

    WhatsApp communication to a litigant’s verified personal number occupies a very different space.

    It is direct. It is individualised. It is traceable. And in many modern contexts, it may be more personal than conventional physical service itself.

    Traditionally, courts have accepted service where documents are left with receptionists, secretaries, guards, clerks, or relatives – all based on the assumption that the communication will eventually reach the intended recipient. A WhatsApp message arrives directly on the litigant’s personal handset, often with timestamps, delivery indicators, and sometimes read receipts.

    Ironically, historically accepted physical substituted service may sometimes be less direct than modern electronic communication.

    That forces an uncomfortable question:
    In the smartphone era, why should communication sent directly to a litigant’s verified personal number automatically be treated as procedurally inferior to leaving papers with a receptionist, such that prior leave for substituted service is required?”

    The Delay Problem – And Why It Is Not Decisive

    Of course, the facts of this case reveal an important caution. The Respondent director did not see the message immediately. Weeks passed before the communication came to his attention. That delay cannot simply be ignored.

    But the existence of delay does not necessarily establish that the medium itself was defective.

    Physical summons may equally sit unread on office desks for weeks. Letters may remain unopened. Receptionists may misplace documents. The proper procedural inquiry cannot merely be whether awareness occurred instantly, but whether the chosen method was reasonably calculated to bring the proceedings to the attention of the affected party.

    Here, the communication eventually did exactly that.
    The Respondent became aware. Counsel was instructed. An affidavit in reply was filed. Participation followed.

    Which raises another important constitutional question: What actual prejudice was ultimately suffered?

    That question becomes particularly pressing under Article 126(2)(e) of the Constitution, which requires courts to administer substantive justice without undue regard to technicalities – especially where the litigant is self‑represented and navigating complex procedural terrain without legal assistance.

    Even if the Court was correct that service was technically defective, one may still ask whether striking out the affidavit of service, striking out the supporting affidavit, and dismissing the entire application with costs was proportionate. Could the Court instead have directed proper service and allowed rectification, particularly in a human rights enforcement application?

    Uganda’s Own Jurisprudence Already Points Forward

    Long before this dispute arose, Uganda had already begun integrating technology into adjudication. The Constitution (Integration of ICT into the Adjudication Processes for Courts of Judicature) (Practice) Directions, 2019 encouraged the use of technology to improve efficiency and expedition. The Judiciary’s ongoing embrace of ECCMIS, electronic filing, virtual hearings, and paperless procedure reflects an unmistakable institutional movement toward digitally facilitated justice.

    More importantly, Ugandan jurisprudence has already recognised technologically facilitated service itself.

    In Male H Mabirizi K. Kiwanuka v Attorney General, Justice Ssekaana Musa expressly acknowledged that service through “email or facebook or whatsApp or any other technologically advanced means” are methods calculated at bringing proceedings to the attention of parties. The Court further recognised that personal service is required only “wherever practicable” before concluding that service was effective because participation followed.

    A copy of that decision can be accessed below:

    Male Mabilizi v Attorney General (Miscellaneous Application No 918 of 2021) 2022 UGHCCD 50 (27 January 2022)Download


    That reasoning shifts procedural legitimacy away from ceremonial delivery and toward communicative effectiveness.

    And that is where the Bakampa ruling becomes difficult to reconcile with the Judiciary’s broader digital trajectory.

    A Concrete Way Forward

    What is needed is not a revolution, but a practice direction.

    The Chief Justice should issue guidance clarifying that electronic service via WhatsApp, SMS, or similar direct messaging platforms – when sent to a verified number and followed by reasonable confirmation (such as a follow‑up call or text) – may be recognised as valid service without prior leave, provided that:

    · The sender proves actual notice (e.g., delivery receipt, screenshot, or acknowledgment);
    · No prejudice is caused to the recipient (e.g., sufficient time to respond);
    · The court retains power to set aside service if injustice is shown.

    This would bring Uganda’s procedural law into alignment with its own constitutional commitment to substantive justice and its declared embrace of digital transformation.


    Conclusion

    Uganda’s courts now stand between two procedural imaginations. One remains rooted in paper legitimacy and inherited analog assumptions. The other recognises that constitutional fairness depends not on the medium, but on whether proceedings actually come to the attention of the affected party.

    That tension is no longer merely technological. It is jurisprudential.

    In Geoffrey Gatete & Another v William Kyobe, the Supreme Court distinguished between “deemed service” and “effective service,” warning that procedural law may presume notice without proving actual awareness. The Bakampa difficulty inverts that concern: awareness eventually existed, participation followed, yet the communication remained procedurally suspect because it arrived through a medium still viewed with doctrinal caution.

    This is not an argument against procedural safeguards.
    It is an argument for procedural realism in the age of digital justice.

    Because justice does not only fail when communication never reaches.
    Sometimes, it also falters when the law hesitates to recognise communication after it has already arrived.

    DISCLAIMERS:

    This blog is not an attack on the Learned Judge in the Bakampa decision.  It is fair commentary intended to foster a discussion and self reflection on the Judiciary’s forthcoming paperless transition to fully digital courts, for E-justice and digital transformation must serve justice rather than suffocate or truncate it.

    This blog is not intended to be used as a substitute for legal advice. The author accepts no liability or responsibility for any losses that arise from use of information as legal advice. Readers are encouraged to consult a licensed attorney of their choice for situation specific  legal advice.

    Enen Ambrose
    Member, Judiciary Affairs Committee, Uganda Law Society.

    For comments or feedback, write to: enen@enenlegalworld.com 

  • When Courts Confuse Asymmetry with Injustice: Kenya’s AI Ruling and the Fear of the Machine

    When Courts Confuse Asymmetry with Injustice: Kenya’s AI Ruling and the Fear of the Machine

    A comparative East African reflection on artificial intelligence, procedural fairness, and the future of legal drafting

    Enen Legal World Logo.


    A self-represented litigant in Nairobi used artificial intelligence to draft his pleadings. He reviewed, edited, and adopted every word. He swore no fabricated cases, no false citations. He acted transparently, disclosing his use of AI tools.

    Then the High Court of Kenya at Milimani set aside his judgment, called his conduct an abuse of process, and barred him from ever filing any “machine‑generated” pleading in any Kenyan court – unless Parliament first passes a law explicitly allowing AI‑assisted drafting.

    That is not judicial caution. It is judicial anxiety in the face of technological disruption.

    The Ruling in Brief

    In Republic of Kenya, High Court at Nairobi County, Milimani High Court, HCJRMISC/E120/2025 (ruling delivered 16 April 2026), Justice J. Chigiti (SC) considered whether it is legal to draft pleadings using artificial intelligence tools. The respondent/ex parte applicant admitted using what he described as ordinary digital tools, including legal research tools, to assist in writing. He maintained that he had personally reviewed, edited, and adopted every document and remained personally responsible for all factual statements on oath and legal citations. He argued that his pleadings contained no fabricated cases, false citations, or invented quotations, and that, being self‑represented, he had used lawful tools to participate effectively in court.

    The Court disagreed. It held that:

    · The use of personalised drafting tools, structures and methodologies not provided for under the rules of drafting was “deplorable”.
    · Allowing such departures would create a “litigation disaster” leaving judges with no guiding beacons.
    · Generating pleadings through unknown tools or AI gives an unfair advantage to the user, amounting to an affront to access to justice under Article 48 of the Constitution.
    · The fact the applicant admitted using such tools amounted to an abuse of court.
    · The applicant could not “vouch for or verify for the court the truthfulness or accuracy” of AI‑generated pleadings, because that would mean he acted as a judge in his own case, violating natural justice.

    On that basis, the Court barred the applicant from filing any other pleadings in any court that are machine‑generated, unless a law is passed in Kenya allowing or providing for drafting using artificial intelligence tools.

    The Court did observe that technology is a powerful socio‑economic growth tool when harnessed within a legal framework, and invited the Rules Committee to consider amending the Civil Procedure Rules through public participation to embrace technology and AI drafting rules. But the prohibition stands.



    The Flaws in the Judgment

    Respectfully, the ruling cannot withstand serious scrutiny. I identify four fundamental errors.

    1. The “Procedural Integrity” Error

    The Court reasoned that because the Civil Procedure Rules do not mention AI, using AI is unlawful. But the Civil Procedure Rules do not mention laptops, either. They do not mention word processors, grammar‑check software, the delete key, or the backspace button. No judge has ever struck a pleading for being typed rather than handwritten.

    Silence in the rules is not a prohibition. It is a gap that the rules themselves empower courts to fill – reasonably, proportionately, and with an eye to justice, not to ritual.

    2. The “Unfair Advantage” Error – This One Is Fatal

    The Court held that a litigant using AI has an unfair advantage over one who does not, and that this violates equality of arms.

    Let us apply that logic consistently.

    · Google vs. Law Reports – A lawyer with a smartphone and an internet connection can find authorities in seconds. Another, relying on a dusty shelf of hardbound law reports, takes hours. Is that unfair? No judge has ever said so.
    · AfricanLii / KenyaLii – These digital databases make case law searchable, cross‑referenced, and instantly accessible. A litigant without them is at a disadvantage. Has any court called that an affront to Article 48? On the contrary, the Judiciary itself promotes these tools.
    · Ulii (Uganda Legal Information Institute) – It now uses AI to summarise judgments. No judge in Uganda has condemned it. No advocate has been barred for citing an AI‑generated summary. The tool is public, free, and welcomed.
    · Modern medicine – A patient in a Nairobi teaching hospital has access to MRI scans, robotic surgery, and AI‑assisted diagnostics. A patient in a remote clinic does not. That inequality is real. But no court has banned MRI machines because not everyone can afford them. The answer is to spread the technology, not to ban it.

    The Court confused asymmetry with injustice. An asymmetry is unjust only when it is arbitrary (only one side gets the tool), hidden (use is not disclosed), or undermines a core right (such as the ability to test evidence). None of those conditions applied here. The litigant disclosed his AI use. The tools are widely available. And the core right – to present a truthful, coherent pleading – was enhanced, not undermined.

    If the Court’s logic were applied consistently, we would still be filing pleadings in quill and ink. The unfair advantage is not in the tool. It is in the refusal to adapt.

    3. The “Judicial Capacity” Error

    The Court said it cannot “verify” AI‑generated content, so the safer course is to ban it entirely.

    But courts never “verify” how a human wrote a pleading. They do not audit pen strokes, interview secretaries, or review dictation logs. They look at the final document. If it contains lies, fake cases, or false citations, they sanction the filer. That same framework works perfectly well for AI.

    The Court could have required disclosure, a personal verification oath, and a statement that no fabricated content is included. That is governance, not prohibition. Instead, it chose the nuclear option.

    4. The “Parliament’s Prerogative” Error

    The Court held that only Parliament, not the courts, can authorise AI use in legal process.

    Artificial intelligence is not a controlled substance. It is a tool. Courts do not need a statute to permit the use of search engines, word processors, or online databases. They do not need an Act of Parliament to allow a lawyer to take a typing class.

    Mandating a legislative framework for basic productivity software is not judicial restraint. It is jurisdictional abdication.

    —

    A Constitutional Mirror: Article 159 of the Kenya Constitution

    The ruling’s approach sits uneasily with Kenya’s own constitutional framework. Article 159(2)(d) of the Kenya Constitution 2010 commands that “justice shall be administered without undue regard to procedural technicalities.”

    Procedure exists to serve justice – not to imprison it. A prohibition on an entire category of drafting tools, without any evidence of misuse, elevates form over substance. That is precisely what Article 159 warns against.

    If a self‑represented litigant files a pleading that is truthful, coherent, and personally verified, does the mere fact that an AI assisted in its composition make it less worthy of consideration? The Constitution suggests the answer is no.

    —

    What the Court Could Have Done – And What Others Are Doing

    A more thoughtful, proportionate approach is not only possible; it is already being implemented elsewhere.

    In Kenya itself, Justice Bahati Mwamuye recently struck out an AI‑assisted filing – but for procedural defects (missing notice statements, non‑compliant affidavits), not for AI use itself. He gave the litigant leave to refile. That is proportionate. (See AllAfrica, 11 March 2026)

    Internationally, Singapore’s State Courts have issued a detailed Guide on the Use of Generative Artificial Intelligence Tools by Court Users (effective 1 October 2024). Lawyers may use AI but remain fully responsible for all content; must fact‑check; must not fabricate evidence; violations may lead to sanctions. No prohibition. Just governance. (Registrar’s Circular No. 9, State Courts of Singapore)

    In Estonia, small contract disputes below €7,000 can be decided by an AI judge that proposes a decision; a human judge then reviews and may modify or set it aside. That system has reduced backlog without sacrificing due process. (Law Society Journal, Australia, August 2024)

    Even Kenya’s own Chief Justice, Martha Koome, announced in August 2025 that the Judiciary is developing an AI Adoption Policy Framework to guide integration of AI tools while safeguarding judicial independence, data privacy and due process. (Judiciary of Kenya official website, 11 August 2025)

    The Chigiti ruling is swimming against the tide of its own institution’s planning.

    The correct path is clear:

    · Disclosure – A litigant or lawyer using AI to draft pleadings should disclose that fact.
    · Verification – The filer must personally review and adopt all content, swearing to its truthfulness.
    · Accountability – False citations, fabricated cases, or misleading content remain sanctionable, whether written by a human or generated by a machine.
    · No prohibition – The tool itself is not the offence. Misuse is.

    The Legal Profession Responds

    Prominent Kenyan lawyers have reacted with dismay.

    Ahmednasir Abdullahi, SC, one of Kenya’s most respected advocates, wrote on X: “What an absurd decision. Does it matter whether one drafts pleadings using AI tools or uses a typewriter? It is none of the court’s business.” (Nairobi Law Monthly, 21 April 2026)

    Steve Biko Wafula, senior counsel, published a detailed critique: “This ruling reads less like modern jurisprudence and more like a judicial panic attack in the face of technological change… The court had a first‑rate jurisprudential problem in its hands and squandered it, trying instead to drag the administration of justice back into the pre‑digital age.” (Soko Directory, 21 April 2026)

    These are not fringe voices. They are the heart of the Kenyan bar.

    A Word to My Ugandan Colleagues – And to Our Judges

    I write from Uganda, where we have not (yet) seen a ruling of this kind. Our judges have quietly tolerated – perhaps even welcomed – the steady digitisation of practice. We use e‑filing, and we cite Ulii’s AI‑generated summaries without panic.

    But the same instinct that produced the Chigiti ruling lives everywhere: the fear that the machine will replace the judge, that the algorithm will swallow the advocate, that technology will dissolve the profession’s hard‑won exclusivity.

    That fear is misplaced.

    AI does not abolish judgment. It does not abolish ethics. It does not abolish the court’s ultimate authority. What AI abolishes is inefficiency – hours spent searching for authorities that software can locate in seconds, repetitive drafting, and the false prestige built around scarcity of technical knowledge.

    And perhaps that is what truly frightens some corners of the profession. When information becomes democratised, gatekeepers begin to sweat.

    But justice does not belong to the gatekeepers. It belongs to the public. And the public does not care whether a pleading was drafted by candlelight, typewriter, Microsoft Word, or artificial intelligence. The public cares whether justice is accessible, affordable, timely, intelligible, and fair.

    If AI helps achieve that mission, then resisting it is not conservatism. It is obstruction. And obstruction disguised as professionalism remains obstruction.

    Conclusion: The Future Cannot Be Injuncted

    History is littered with institutions that initially resisted the printing press, telephones, computers and the internet – only to later embrace them as essential tools.

    Did the world wait for a complete legal framework before embracing mobile money? Did banks issue a constitutional petition before M‑Pesa rewired African commerce? Did Western Union obtain an injunction against digital wallets because “money transfers” had traditionally been their sacred territory? Of course not.

    Technology arrived. Society adapted. Regulators followed. That is how civilisation has always moved.

    The same will happen with AI in the legal profession. The only remaining question is: will courts lead this transformation – or become footnotes in it?

    To our Kenyan brothers and sisters: this ruling is a warning for all of us. Not because Kenya is wrong, but because the same instinct – to fear the machine, to reach for a prohibition when a guideline would suffice – lives in every jurisdiction, including ours. The question is not whether Uganda will face this debate. The question is whether we will face it more wisely.

    And to any judge reading this: thank you for your service. But please, do not ban the future. Regulate it, guide it, human‑oversight it – but do not pretend that a tool becomes an abuse simply because it is new.

    This time, let us not make the same mistake.

    ― END ―

    Disclaimer: This blog is a critique of a judicial ruling and a contribution to the conversation on technology and legal practice. It is not intended as legal advice, nor as an attack on any judicial officer or institution. The author remains committed to the rule of law, judicial independence, and the responsible integration of technology into the administration of justice.

    Enen Ambrose.  (File photo)


    Enen Ambrose

    Member: Judiciary Affairs Committee

    Uganda Law Society

    For feedback or questions, write to: enen@enenlegalworld.com

  • The Quiet Violence of Procedure: When Digital Service Serves No One

    The Quiet Violence of Procedure: When Digital Service Serves No One

    Enen Legal World Logo.


    There is a quiet violence in procedure. It does not shout. It does not argue. It simply assumes; and in that assumption, rights collapse without anyone noticing. This is exactly what happened in two recent High Court decisions: Visare Uganda Ltd vs Festus Katerega T/A Quickway Auctioneers and 3 others. A copy of it can be accessed here:

    Visare Uganda Limited v Katerega Others (Miscellaneous Application 2855 of 2023) 2024 UGCommC 38 (19 February 2024) 2Download

    and: Western Cable Company Limited vs. Juliet Namuli Asiya and 7 others. A copy of the rulinf can be accessed here:

    Ruling MA 2289 of 2025 Western Cables(1)Download



    A case is filed. A hearing date is fixed. Somewhere deep within a digital system, a notice is uploaded. The law nods in satisfaction: service has been effected. The machinery moves. The courtroom sits. The judge writes. And somewhere else, perhaps across the city, perhaps across a fragile internet connection, a litigant knows nothing.

    We call this progress.

    We call this efficiency.

    We even call it justice.

    In the recent ruling of the High Court of Uganda in Misc. Application No. 2289 of 2025, the court took the position that once a hearing notice is posted onto ECCMIS, service is complete. It held that it is not mandatory for a party to actually receive an email or SMS notification, so long as the system reflects that service was effected.

    The implication is stark: the burden shifts entirely to the litigant or counsel to constantly monitor the system. Failure to do so is fatal. A case may be dismissed. Rights may evaporate. And yet, in the eyes of the law, nothing has gone wrong.

    But open justice demands something far more stubborn, far more human. It demands not that proceedings merely exist in public form, but that those whose rights are at stake are actually present; or at the very least, actually aware. The old wisdom insisted that justice must be seen to be done. It did not imagine a world where justice could be technically visible yet practically invisible; where a notice exists, but never reaches; where a hearing occurs, but never touches the party it condemns.

    And this is not an abstract concern. It is a doctrinal one.

    The Supreme Court of Uganda, in Geoffrey Gatete & Another v William Kyobe, confronted a similar question under the language of “deemed good service.” The Court drew a careful and deliberate distinction; one that modern digital procedure now risks erasing.

    It held that “deemed service” is a legal fiction, a procedural convenience that allows courts to proceed even where actual notice may not be proven. But it went further to warn that such service does not necessarily amount to “effective service.” For service to be effective, it must achieve its intended purpose: to bring the proceedings to the attention of the party.

    A copy of the decision in Gatete can be accessed here:

    geoffrey-gatete-and-another-v-william-kyobe-2007-ugsc-7-21-september-200 (2)Download



    This distinction is not semantic. It is foundational.

    Because once the law accepts that something may be “deemed” without being real, it must also accept the consequences; that the fiction may fail in practice. And where it fails, justice demands correction.

    Yes, there will be cases where a litigant deliberately avoids monitoring the system. But the system cannot punish the many for the bad faith of the few; especially when actual notice remains technically possible.

    Yet the modern system presses on, collapsing this distinction. ECCMIS becomes both the record and the proof, both the act and its consequence. Once a notice is uploaded, the law assumes its journey is complete.

    But a system is not a voice. A database is not a message. A record is not communication.

    And so we arrive at a troubling convergence: a digital architecture that satisfies procedural form while undermining substantive awareness.

    Context makes this even more urgent. Even in Kampala, internet access is not constant. Connectivity fluctuates. Costs are high. Power is unreliable. To build a legal system on the assumption that litigants and advocates will perpetually monitor an online platform is to design justice for an ideal world, not the real one.

    What then becomes of open justice?

    It remains, perhaps, in architecture. The courtroom doors are still open. The rulings are still written. The processes are still documented. But the litigant; the very person for whom the system exists; may never arrive, not out of defiance, but out of ignorance.

    And in that moment, something profound happens.

    Justice is no longer denied loudly. It is denied quietly.

    Not in secrecy, but in silence.

    Not by concealment, but by assumption.

    Justice does not only die in closed courtrooms. It also dies in silent systems, where notices exist, but never reach.

    This is not an argument against technology. It is an argument against unquestioned technology. Against systems that replace human communication with automated presumption. Against a jurisprudence that confuses efficiency with fairness.

    The answer is neither retreat nor resistance. It is correction.

    If ECCMIS is to be the backbone of modern judicial administration, then it must evolve beyond being a passive repository into an active communicator. It must speak, not just store. It must reach, not just record.

    External notification systems are not luxuries; they are necessities. SMS alerts. Email notifications. Web based and Android Push Notifications, Real-time prompts that move beyond the confines of the system and into the lived reality of the user. And more than that, they must not be optional embellishments. They must be integral guarantees, designed to ensure that service is not merely deemed, but actually effected.

    The Judiciary and the architects behind ECCMIS stand at a critical threshold. They have built the infrastructure. Now they must build the connection.

    Because the law may deem service to be good, but justice demands that service be real.

    A system that merely stores notices, without ensuring they reach those whose rights are at stake, does not advance justice, it endangers it. In a jurisdiction where access to digital infrastructure is uneven, to insist that litigants must constantly patrol an online platform is to replace fairness with fiction.

    Technology must serve justice, not obscure it.

    There is an old wisdom in scripture: No one lights a lamp and puts it under a bed. Instead, they set it on a stand, so that those who enter may see.

    ECCMIS is that lamp, lit, visible in theory. But when a notice sits in a database without actively reaching the litigant, we have placed it under the bed. The light exists. It just does not shine where it is needed most. (Mark 4:21)

    Let ECCMIS evolve, blending its internal efficiency with robust external communication, ensuring that every litigant is not merely assumed to know, but is given a real opportunity to know.

    For if justice is to remain open, it must also remain visible.

    Otherwise, quietly and without protest,
    justice will die in the darkness of its own systems.
    -THE END-

    Disclaimers:

    This Blog is not an attack on the Judicial officers who handed down the two decisions criticised above. It is not an attack on the institution of the Judiciary or EECMIS developers. It is intended to spark conversations to make E-Justice and the whole E-Government Digital Transformation a complete and wholesome journey and / or experience. 

    This Blog is not to be substituted for or taken for legal advice. The author does not accept responsibility or liability for damage suffered as a result of its use as legal advice. Readers are encouraged to consult a qualified and licensed attorney for situation specific legal advice.

    Enen Ambrose. (Personal Archive)

    Enen Ambrose

    Member, Judiciary Affairs Committee of

    Uganda Law Society.

    For feedback or questions, write to: enen@enenlegalworld.com

  • EPISODE 6: THE RECKONING

    EPISODE 6: THE RECKONING

    Enen Legal World Logo.


    If you are joining us for the first time: In Episode 1, we met Mzee Zakayo, who never built a granary but ate from the labor of others. His son Okello Anyapo inherited his appetite but not his cattle, and emptied his uncle Owera Apur’s granary because he was given access without rules.

    In Episode 2, we lifted our eyes to Uganda’s constitutional granary, built in 1995, and watched Parliament abandon its duty to build walls around it. We saw the seven famines: the Shs 763 billion justice tax, the incompetence shield, the two‑man cartel, the executive pocket veto, the criminalization of transparency, the ghost tier of unaccountable actors, and the commission that judges itself.

    In Episode 3, we watched while the petition slept. Application No. 11 of 2025, filed to halt judicial appointments, was never cause‑listed. The new Chief Justice and Principal Judge were sworn in while the application to pause their own appointments gathered dust in a court the Chief Justice once presided over.

    In Episode 4, we knelt under the ojede cii with Owera Apur. We heard him pour out his soul: “How long shall the wicked gloat? How long shall the guilty feast while the innocent gnash their teeth in hunger?” The leaves trembled. Something, somewhere, had heard the cry.

    In Episode 5, the ancestors answered across the border. We watched Cecil Miller, a man who never earned his seat, climb to Chief Justice, strangle habeas corpus, fire a judge with a single letter, and finally stood naked in a parking lot, shouting “Nyayo!” while cameras clicked and newspapers stayed silent. We learned that the ancestors do not file cause lists. They let the consequences ripen. And when the fruit is ready, it falls.

    Now we return to Abongodero. The leaves have stopped trembling. Owera Apur has risen from the roots. And the question that began under the tree must now be answered by the living.

    I. THE PROVERB FULFILLED

    The elders of Abongodero had a saying:

    You never send a starving man to the granary.

    But we did.

    We sent Okello Anyapo, the Judicial Service Commission, into the granary with no rules, no walls, no oversight. We watched him eat. We watched him grow fat. We watched him smile and say: “You allowed me. I merely accessed.”

    And then we blamed him for being hungry.

    But the fault was never Okello’s. The fault was Owera’s, the farmer who opened the door without building the walls. The fault was the village that admired Zakayo’s ingenuity and named itself after his emptiness.

    The fault was Parliament’s.

    For thirty years, Parliament held the keys to the granary. For thirty years, they walked past it, admired it, named committees after it, but never built the walls.

    The Constitution commanded them. The people expected them. History waited for them.

    And they did nothing.

    II. THE SEVEN FAMINES ARE STILL WITH US

    Now the famine is here.

    Not the famine of weather. Not the famine of soil. A famine of justice.

    · Shs 763 billion paid in bribes by court users, 43% of the justice sector budget.
    · Magistrates protected from removal for incompetence while Judges, Justices of Appeal and Justices of the Supreme Court face removal for incompetence.
    · Two people in a private room deciding who judges the nation.
    · The Attorney General holding a pocket veto over judicial discipline.
    · Transparency criminalized, a crime to look inside the granary and see what is stolen.
    · A ghost tier of unaccountable officers exercising power without oversight.
    · A commission that investigates, prosecutes, judges, and acquits itself.

    And when the villagers cried out?

    Injunctions. Uncause‑listed petitions. Stalled elections. Appointments proceeding like wedding ceremonies that will not wait for objections.

    And finally, at the 2026 New Law Year, the warning:

    “Social media attacks on judges will not be tolerated. Online criticism causes trauma and will be crushed.”

    Trauma from tweets?

    Try the trauma of five years on remand while your case gathers dust.
    Try the trauma of losing ancestral land because you cannot afford a surveyor.
    Try the trauma of watching a bribe walk free while your child rots in detention.
    Try the trauma of knowing that the man who now sits as Chief Justice once presided over the court that received an application to halt his own appointment, and the court never listed it.

    That is trauma.

    III. BUT THE ANCESTORS ARE NOT THE ONLY AUDITORS

    The ancestors answered Miller. They let the consequences ripen. They stood him naked in a parking lot.

    But the villagers of Kenya did not sit under a tree and wait. They organized. They spoke. They asked the questions that the powerful did not want to hear. They built institutions; the Law Society of Kenya, the human rights groups, the journalists who published what the newspapers would not, and they forced the system to answer.

    Owera Apur did not return from the ojede cii to do nothing. He returned to the village square. He returned to the burial grounds. He returned to the ballot.

    Because the ancestors do their work slowly. The living must do theirs urgently.

    IV. THE BURIAL QUESTIONS

    Across Uganda, in a thousand burials, graduations, and church introductions, your Members of Parliament are sitting on white chairs, waiting to be praised.

    They have come to eat. They have come to be photographed. They have come to say, “I feel your pain.”

    This time, you must ask them something different.

    Not: “What have you brought us?”

    But: “What have you done about what takes from us?”

    Stand at the burial. Wait for the microphone. Look at your MP, whether they are Minister, Whip, or backbencher, and ask:

    “Honourable, year in, year out:

    We cannot get bail. We rot in remand for years before seeing a judge.

    We lose our land at the High Court because the system is slow, expensive, and rigged against peasants.

    Justice is only for those who can bribe or wait.

    You are our voice in Parliament.

    What have you done, specifically, to fix the courts that inflict this suffering on us?

    Have you consulted the Uganda Law Society?

    Have you studied the reforms they propose for judicial appointments, discipline, and accountability?

    Do you even know that the Uganda Law Society exists?

    And if you know, what Bill have you tabled, seconded, or supported to build the granary our Constitution demanded thirty years ago?”

    Ask this question.

    Not on WhatsApp. Not in a private message.

    In public. On the record. Where the cameras are. Where the other mourners are listening.

    Because an MP who deflects at a burial has nowhere to hide.

    Because a question asked in the village square becomes a political fact that cannot be uncause‑listed.

    Because this is how pressure builds, not from the top down, but from the grave up.

    The Silence After the Question

    If your MP stammers, they will remember that stammer on Election Day.

    If your MP promises vaguely, record the promise. Send it to them in one year. Ask again.

    If your MP says, “I didn’t know about this,” you have just educated a legislator. Your work is done, for now.

    If your MP says, “I am already working with the Uganda Law Society,” ask for the Bill number. Ask for the Committee stage date. Ask when the granary will be built.

    Do not let them leave that chair without accountability.

    And then, do this;

    Call your area MP. Not to abuse them. To instruct them.

    “Honourable, I voted for you. Now I need you to table a Private Member’s Bill, or push the government to table one, that finally regulates the Judicial Service Commission and the President in judicial appointments and discipline.

    The Uganda Law Society has already done the homework. They have studied the models. They have drafted provisions. They are waiting for a Member of Parliament with courage enough to carry their work into the Chamber.

    Why are you not that Member?”

    One call changes nothing.

    Ten thousand calls change everything.

    V. TO THE 12TH PARLIAMENT: THE NEW GUARD

    You have been voted in. In May 2026, you will be sworn in.

    History greets you warmly, as it greets all new MPs. You hold privilege, power, and a brief season when the public still listens.

    You may fill your five years with funerals, allowances, foreign trips, Anti-Citizen legislation like the recentlt passed Sovereignty Act, 2026. You can choose to discuss mundane things like “Nyash” (like Hon. Odur Jonathan) or even fart in the august house (a video Speaker Annet Anita Among quizzing and probing which member of Parliament had visited the air is on public record). For some of you, you may merely look to rehearsals for 2031, which the media has widely reported is usually rigged. 

    Or you may build. But I verily warn you; if you don’t champion

    The fixes demanded in ULS Constitutional Petition No. 12 of 2025 do not require miracles. They require sweat.

    · Legislation that regulates the regulators.
    · Discipline standards that apply equally from magistrate to Chief Justice.
    · Structures that separate friendship from accountability.
    · A Judicial Service Commission where the Attorney General does not sit in judgment over judges he has fought in court.

    The Uganda Law Society’s Judiciary Affairs Committee has done the technical work. They are not your enemies. They are your research department, waiting to be retained by democracy.

    Walk across the stream. Consult them. Then legislate. But I verily say this to you: If you don’t legislate the reforms hinted here and many others, your voters will be thrown under the bus. They will continue to pay the “justice tax” and rot in jails under the weight of case backlog. And if they listen to us, they may hold you accountable at the ballot on polling day!

    VI. TO THE CONSTITUTIONAL COURT

    The villagers are watching your door too.

    They know that the Uganda Law Society filed Application No. 11 of 2025 in July last year, an urgent application asking this court to halt all judicial appointments until the main petition could be heard. They know the application argued that the Judicial Service Commission was unlawfully constituted, missing the two nominees the Constitution requires from the Uganda Law Society.

    That application was never cause‑listed. No reasons were given.

    The appointments proceeded anyway. The new Chief Justice and Principal Judge were sworn in. And the man who now presides over this court once presided over the very court that received that application, the application to pause his own appointment.

    The villagers know these things because they are public facts, not allegations.

    Now they wait. Not for a guarantee of victory. Not for a prediction of outcome. They wait to see whether this court has the courage to list the application—to summon the Judicial Service Commission, the body that recruits judges and holds the power to initiate removal of judges, and to hear the arguments of the Uganda Law Society.

    Cause‑list the interlocutory application, My Lords.

    Let the court sit. Let the lawyers speak. Let the Judicial Service Commission, your recruiters, your employers, the body that can initiate your removal; be called to account before the very judges it helps appoint.

    It does not matter, in the end, whether the application is granted or denied. What matters is this: does the court have the courage to summon its own employer? Does it have the spine to look at the body that controls judicial careers and say: “Sit down. Answer. We will hear this case.”

    The people are not asking for a favorable outcome. They are asking for a court that is not timid. A court that does not hide behind cause lists. A court that can be a bully‑beater; that can summon the powerful and demand an accounting.

    Show us that the Judicial Service Commission is not above the law. Show us that it is not above the courts.

    Cause‑list the application. Let the world see whether this bench has balls made of titanium alloy.

    The proverb is not a verdict. It is a question. And the question hangs in the air, waiting for your answer.

    VII. TO THE CITIZEN WHO FEELS HELPLESS

    You are not powerless.

    You do not need a law degree to ask a question. You do not need a Twitter verification badge to demand accountability. You do not need to file a petition to remind your MP that they work for you.

    The granary will be built when building it costs more than neglecting it.

    Make neglect expensive.

    Ask the question at the burial. Record the answer. Share it. Remember it on Election Day.

    And when you feel the weight of the system pressing down, when you have knocked on every door and found them locked; remember Miller.

    Remember that the ancestors are patient.
    Remember that parking lots are everywhere.
    Remember that the system you build to protect yourself may one day become the cage you cannot escape.

    But also remember this: the ancestors do not act alone. They act through us. Through the questions we ask, the votes we cast, the institutions we build, the silence we refuse.

    The ancestors answered Miller. But the Law Society of Kenya, the human rights lawyers, the journalists, the citizens—they answered too. They did not wait for the parking lot. They built the walls that Miller’s allies had left empty.

    So shall we.

    VIII. THE CHOICE

    Mzee Zakayo is long dead.

    But his children are still in Parliament.
    Some of them sit on the Judicial Service Commission.
    Some of them wear robes and warn about trauma from tweets.

    And the villagers?

    They are still standing at the granary door. Still waiting. Still hungry.

    Abongodero is tired.

    Hunger remembers.

    And this time, the people are not just watching the granary door.

    They are standing at the burial, waiting for the microphone.

    They are standing at the courthouse, waiting for the cause list.

    They are standing at the ballot, waiting for 2031.

    Build the granary, Honourable.

    Cause‑list the application, My Lords.

    Ask the question, Citizen.

    Or be prepared to answer for the emptiness;

    In this life, and at the judgment.

    You never send a starving man to the granary.

    And you never send a sleeping Parliament to guard justice.

    But you also never leave the granary to the ancestors alone.
    The end!


    DISCLAIMERS

    1. On Sub Judice

    This series references ULS Constitutional Petition No. 12 of 2025 and related applications only as evidence of public grievance and legislative failure. It does not urge the Constitutional Court to grant or dismiss the petition. It does not analyze the merits of the petitioners’ arguments. It does not predict or demand any particular judicial outcome. The duty of Parliament to legislate exists independently of this or any litigation.

    All facts presented regarding judicial appointments and cause lists are matters of public record.

    2. On Intent

    This series is not a call for mob justice, disorder, or disrespect toward judicial officers. It is a call for legislative accountability, civic engagement, and institutional reform. It is written in the tradition of the village baraza; where truth is spoken plainly, proverbs carry the weight of law, and leaders are expected to listen without punishing the messenger.

    Criticism of systems is not attack on persons. Demanding accountability is not contempt.

    3. On Legal Advice

    Nothing in this series constitutes legal advice. The author is an Advocate and member of the Judiciary Affairs Committee of the Uganda Law Society, but writes here in his personal capacity. Readers with specific legal problems should consult a licensed practitioner.

    Enen Ambrose
    Advocate
    Member, Judiciary Affairs Committee
    Uganda Law Society.

  • EPISODE 5: THE KENYAN MIRROR

    EPISODE 5: THE KENYAN MIRROR

    Enen Legal World Logo


    Disclaimer: The story of Cecil Miller is drawn from historical accounts, particularly Paul Mwangi’s The Black Bar. This retelling is a synthesis for the purpose of public education and advocacy. Readers of this Blog are encouraged to purchase a copy for the full account and context of The Black Bar by Paul Mwangi (SC)


    If you are joining us for the first time: In Episode 4, Owera Apur knelt under the 160‑year‑old ojede cii tree and poured out his soul. He called on Zakayo, on the ancestors, on the spirits of the land. He asked the question no constitution can answer: How then shall we live when the council is bought and the granary is empty? The leaves trembled. Something, somewhere, had heard the cry.

    Tonight, the ancestors reply. Not with wind. With a mirror.


    I. THE FOREIGN SEED

    In the 1970s a contract judge arrived in Kenya from Guyana. His name was Cecil Henry Ethelwood Miller. By blood he was a Black Pan‑Africanist, a World War II pilot who had “dusted the Aryan race.” By reputation he should have been a hero.

    By work ethic he was almost useless.

    But President Daniel Arap Moi saw hunger in Miller’s eyes. So Moi gave him Kenyan citizenship, a constitutional tenure as a High Court judge, a large plantation, and a Mercedes‑Benz limousine. The same way Owera Apur opened his granary to his nephew Okello, Moi opened the highest doors of the judiciary to a man who had never built anything.

    Miller’s appetite only grew. He wanted to be Chief Justice. He understood the price: total, slavish loyalty to Moi. The ancestors watched the foreign seed take deep root in Kenyan soil.

    Chief Justice Emeritus of the Republic of Kenya: His Lordship Cecil Henry Ethelwood Miller. Copyright owned by Miller & Co. Advocates. Used under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license.


    II. THE COMMISSION OF THE INCOMPETENT

    In 1983 President Moi wanted to destroy his once‑powerful minister Charles Njonjo. He set up a Judicial Commission of Inquiry to investigate Njonjo for alleged abuse of office, everything from amassing firearms to plotting coups. The commission was widely seen as a kangaroo court, designed to humiliate Njonjo and drive him out of politics.

    Miller was one of three commissioners. He walked in carrying two things: a personal grudge against Njonjo (who had once passed him over for promotion) and zero judicial independence.

    The transcripts from The Black Bar are excruciating. During the hearings, lead counsel Lee Muthoga probed Njonjo about whether he had paid an MP, Amos Ng’ang’a, to resign his parliamentary seat so Njonjo could run for it. The exchange was tense. Njonjo’s lawyer, Mr. Deverell, kept interrupting with sarcastic remarks, at one point suggesting that “any other consideration” might include buying ice‑cream.

    Miller exploded:

    “You keep making your jokes, Mr. Deverell. You keep on making your jokes. In the long run you may find it is not going to accrue to your credibility and your status before this inquiry. You keep on making your jokes. You take out your cold icecream and push it into your mouth. Proceed please.”

    The outburst revealed Miller’s predetermined hostility. He was not there to inquire; he was there to convict. Deverell saw the commission for what it was: a kangaroo court designed to destroy Njonjo.

    The mission succeeded. Njonjo was politically crushed.

    And in 1986 Miller was rewarded exactly as he had schemed: he was sworn in as Chief Justice of Kenya.

    A man whose judicial temperament was summed up by an ice‑cream joke now controlled every judge in the Republic.

    The ancestors were already laughing.

    III. THE HABEAS CORPUS THAT MILLER STRANGLED

    On 6 April 1987 a man named Stephen Mbaraka Karanja kissed his wife goodbye in Limuru and left for Nairobi. He was never seen alive again.

    After seven weeks of desperate searching, his wife filed a writ of habeas corpus asking the court to order the CID Director to produce her husband.

    The case came before Justice Derek Schofield. The CID claimed Karanja had been “shot while escaping.” Schofield did not believe them. He ordered an exhumation, an independent post‑mortem, and affidavits.

    The grave was empty. No body. No records. Schofield issued a notice to the CID Director to show cause why he should not be committed for contempt.

    That was when President Moi sent Chief Justice Cecil Miller himself into Schofield’s chambers with a direct order: “Lay off the case.”

    Schofield refused. He told Miller: tell the President to keep his hands off the judiciary, or I will tell the President myself.

    Miller did not wait.
    On 11 August 1987, without any formal application, without any hearing, Miller summoned the lawyers, seized the file, and transferred the entire matter. He stood the case over “until judges return from vacation.”

    Later he moved it to a known government apologist, who ruled that once a man is dead, habeas corpus cannot issue, because “the person or body” does not mean a corpse.

    Schofield resigned in disgust and left the country.
    The Law Society hosted a farewell dinner. The only senior government officer brave enough to attend was immediately fired.

    Stephen Mbaraka Karanja’s family never got justice. The habeas corpus died in silence.

    The Chief Justice had personally executed a murder cover‑up in open court.

    IV. THE JUDGE WHO FIRED A JUDGE

    By now Miller’s interference was routine. He transferred cases at will, summoned lawyers, stood matters over, and told other judges to “lay off” sensitive files.

    One man refused to bow: Justice Patrick O’Connor.

    Miller tried everything. When nothing worked, he issued a punitive transfer order sending O’Connor to a remote station.

    O’Connor defied it.

    On 26 September 1988 Miller sat down and wrote a single letter:

    “You are hereby dismissed from the service of the Judiciary with immediate effect.”

    No hearing. No tribunal. No reasons. Just one letter from a man who had never earned the seat he sat in.

    O’Connor was gone.
    The message to every honest judge was clear: resist Miller and you die.

    One judge had said no. Miller made sure he would never say anything again.

    V. THE PARKING LOT

    By 1989 Miller had become a drunk, violent eccentric who required armed policemen standing guard outside his chambers, something no Chief Justice before or since has ever needed.

    On a September afternoon he returned from lunch heavily intoxicated. He opened the sealed box he called his “disposal orders”, instructions for how his body should be treated after death. Then he began marching around his chambers shouting drill commands to himself.

    The policemen called the Commissioner of Police.

    Miller burst out, punching the air. He rushed into the High Court parking lot, in full view of journalists, lawyers, and the public.

    There, Cecil Henry Ethelwood Miller, Chief Justice of the Republic of Kenya, dropped his trousers.

    He placed one shoe on his head.

    And he marched again.

    Every few steps he stopped, raised his fist, and screamed Moi’s slogan at the top of his lungs:

    “Nyayo! Nyayo!”

    Nyayo meant “footsteps.” He was marching in the President’s footsteps, straight into naked madness.

    The Commissioner of Police and his men wrestled the naked Chief Justice into a car and drove him home.

    No newspaper published the photographs.
    No radio station broadcast the story.
    No television channel dared show the images that filled cameras that day.

    Five days later, on 5 September 1989, Miller died. The official cause was listed as septicemia.

    The real cause was the ancestors’ audit.

    VI. THE ANCESTORS’ AUDIT

    The villagers who had abandoned Miller to his gods did not celebrate. They did not dance. They did not say, “See, justice came.”

    Because justice did not come. The system that made Miller also protected him, even in madness, even in death. His family stayed in the official residence for months. Armed police guarded his widow. The government enforced his vengeance posthumously.

    No one was held accountable. No one was punished. No one even spoke.

    But the ancestors had their way.

    Not through a court. Not through a petition. Not through a judgment. Through a parking lot and a shoe on a head and a slogan shouted by a naked man.

    The ancestors do not file cause lists. They do not wait for submissions. They do not deliberate.

    They simply let the consequences ripen. And when the fruit is ready, it falls.

    Owera Apur’s invocation was answered—not by the council, not by Parliament, not by any human institution. It was answered by the slow, patient gravity of truth.

    VII. HOW THEN SHALL WE LIVE?

    So we return to the question.

    How shall we live when the granary is empty?
    How shall we live when the petition sleeps?
    How shall we live when the door does not open?

    We live like the villagers who finally understand: there is no institution coming to save us.

    We live knowing that the system may never be fixed in our lifetime.
    We live knowing that the judges who betray justice may never face a tribunal.
    We live knowing that the MPs who refuse to legislate may be re‑elected.

    But we also live knowing this:

    The ancestors are patient. The gods are not asleep. And parking lots are everywhere.

    Miller’s story is not a promise of justice. It is a warning against the illusion that power can protect you forever. It is a reminder that the system you build to shield yourself from accountability may one day become the cage you cannot escape.

    So how shall we live?

    We live with our eyes open.
    We live asking the questions at burials.
    We live recording the promises and the failures.
    We live building the granary even if we never eat from it.

    We live like people who know that the ancestors are watching.

    And we leave the rest to them.

    In the final episode: Owera Apur rises from the roots. The leaves speak one last time. The choice that cannot be postponed. We will show that while the ancestors SHALL no doubt have their day, we, their descendants still have a role to play to bring all the living “Okello Anyapos” to order, to serve with intergrity, purpose and accountability.

    Episode 6 drops tomorrow. 5 PM.

    Disclaimer: The story of Cecil Miller is drawn from historical accounts, particularly Paul Mwangi’s The Black Bar. This retelling is a synthesis for the purpose of public education and advocacy. Readers are encouraged to get a copy of the book for a full account of Kenya’s journey of Judicial Accountability as narrated by the author.

    #TheUnbuiltGranary #KenyanMirror #AskIt #OjedeCii

    —

    [End of Episode 5]

  • EPISODE 4: HOW THEN SHALL WE LIVE? Owera Apur’s supplication to ancestral justice.

    EPISODE 4: HOW THEN SHALL WE LIVE? Owera Apur’s supplication to ancestral justice.

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    If you are joining us for the first time: In Episode 1, we visited Abongodero, the village named after Mzee Zakayo’s ingenuity. Zakayo never built a granary. He traded cattle for the harvest of others. His son, Okello Anyapo, inherited land but not discipline. When hunger came, his uncle Owera Apur, the only farmer who actually built, opened his granary to him. No rules. Just access. Okello emptied it, smiled, and said: “You allowed me. I merely accessed.” The proverb echoes still: You never send a starving man to the granary.

    In Episode 2, we lifted our eyes from the village and saw Uganda’s constitutional granary, built in 1995. The Constituent Assembly, our Owera, filled it with independence, fairness, accountability, and public trust. Then they handed the keys to Parliament and commanded: build walls, regulate who enters, who eats, who guards. For thirty years, Parliament did nothing. They left the granary to the Judicial Service Commission—a body of insiders, judges, and the Attorney General. It was as if Owera had handed Okello the keys and appointed his hungriest siblings as overseers. We witnessed the seven famines: the Shs 763 billion justice tax, the incompetence shield, the two‑man recruitment cartel, the executive pocket veto, the criminalization of transparency, the ghost tier of unaccountable officials, and the commission that judges itself. When the Uganda Law Society cried out, it was met with injunctions, uncause‑listed petitions, stalled elections, and the quiet gutting of the granary.

    In Episode 3, we watched while the petition slept. ULS Constitutional Petition No. 12 of 2025 was filed, laying bare the rot. Alongside it came Application No. 11 of 2025, asking the court to halt all judicial appointments until the petition was decided. The Constitutional Court did not cause‑list that application. So the appointments proceeded. The new Chief Justice, Flavian Zeija, and the new Principal Judge, Jane Francis Abodo, were sworn in, while the man who would become Chief Justice had presided over the very court that received the application to pause his own appointment. The court did not list it. No reasons were given. In Abongodero, the elders say: when the man guarding the granary door benefits from what passes through it, the door stays open.

    Now we arrive at the question no constitution can answer.

    Of invocations, supplication to the ancestors!

    Under the ancient ojede cii tree in Abongodero, as the sun bled its last light across the horizon and the first shadows of night crept in like uninvited mourners, Owera Apur returned alone. The shea nut tree-yao, stood immovable, its 160‑year‑old trunk scarred and resolute, roots plunging deep into the fertile black earth that had swallowed generations of the departed. Its wide canopy spread like outstretched arms, ready to receive the heaviest of burdens. No one else was there. Only the wind, the rustling leaves, and the aching silence of a man whose soul had reached its limit.

    He fell to his knees at the base of the trunk, pressing his forehead against the rough bark until it bit into his skin. His hands clutched the earth, fingers digging into the soil as though he could pull the ancestors up by their very bones. Tears already streamed down his weathered face, unchecked, unashamed. And then the plea began, not as words, but as a broken wail from the depths of his spirit, echoing the desperate cries of mothers who once stood barren before the altar, begging for life where death had taken root.

    The Yao (Shea-nut) tree. Copyright owned by Marco Schimdt. Used under creative commons license


    “Ancestors of this land! You who planted the first seeds under this very ojede cii… hear me! I pour out my soul before you like water spilled on thirsty ground. My heart is poured out; my spirit is crushed. How long, O spirits of the soil and sky, how long will you stand silent while the wicked gloat over our suffering? How long shall you watch the thief laugh while the righteous weep blood?”

    He struck his chest with a closed fist, once, twice, three times, each blow a drumbeat of agony.

    “Zakayo… my brother… my blood… you who walked this earth before me, you who left us too soon, where are you in the realm of the ancestors? Come near! Stand with me under this tree that has outlived us both. I call you by name, Zakayo, as a child calls for its father in the dark. You who focused only on trade, on the markets, on the coins that flowed through your hands… why did you forget? Why did you not teach your son Okello the sacred things? The hard work that bends the back but strengthens the soul? The resilience that stands when storms come? The honesty that keeps a man’s word sharper than any spear? The endurance that tills the land until it yields, even when the rains refuse to fall?”

    Owera’s voice cracked, rising into a lament that shook the leaves above him.

    “You left him weak, Zakayo! A son who cannot till the soil, who cannot plant one seed with his own hands, who cannot endure even one dry season without complaint. Yet he feels entitled, entitled to be fed, entitled to the inheritance, entitled to the sweat of others while he sits in the shade and demands! Entitlement without accountability! A child who never learned that the earth gives only to those who bleed into it first. And now he has become the thief, the one who rigs the elders with bribes and twisted promises, the one who silences the council that should guard justice. He walks untouched, laughing, while we starve in spirit. How now shall we live, my brother? Tell me, how shall we live when the son you left behind devours what the ancestors planted for all?”

    He rose unsteadily, circling the massive trunk, palms sliding over the bark as if reading every scar of time.

    “Spirits of Abongodero, guardians who remember every oath sworn beneath this ojede cii… contend with him! Rise up against Okello as you once rose against those who betrayed the land. Let his rigged elders tremble in their sleep. Let their tongues turn bitter with the silver they swallowed. How long will you watch the wicked gloat? How long shall the guilty feast while the innocent gnash their teeth in hunger? The scales are broken. The voice of the wronged is buried under promises and lies. The family bleeds still because justice is denied. Zakayo, intercede! Ojede, our father, intercede too! Manaci our grandfather and Oluge our great great gandfather, all of you, tell the ancestors: the wound festers. Your own blood, Okello you left behind has become the shadow that blocks the sun.”

    The plea deepened, repeating like waves crashing against an unyielding shore. Owera poured libation from a calabash, water mixed with Wiri (kwete), letting it soak into the roots while his voice rose higher, raw and unrelenting.

    “Ancestors, if you yet walk among us, if blood still calls to blood… see my tears! See my brokenness! I have no more strength to carry this alone. The child you left behind, Zakayo, has grown into a man who knows only taking, never giving. He cannot plant, cannot harvest, cannot endure, yet he claims everything as his right. Entitlement without sweat! Without honesty! Without the resilience you never taught him! And now the elders dance to his tune, the council is bought unlike Ojede and Manaci, who resolved disputes between their people in Abongodero with stoic intergrity. Now we are left asking: How shall we live? Shall we teach our own children to bow to thieves? Shall we not pass on the legacies of Ojede and Manaci? Shall we swallow silence until it poisons our blood? Shall the ojede cii itself bear witness to our shame forever?”

    He fell to the ground again, prostrate, forehead in the dust, body shaking with sobs that came from a place deeper than grief.

    “How long, O ancestors? How long shall you watch the wicked prosper while we waste away? How long shall Okello’s laughter echo across the land you blessed? Intervene! Unravel the knots he has tied with silver and deceit. Expose the bribes in the full light of day. Let the rigged council fall like dry leaves in the wind. Shake this tree if you hear me! Stir the branches! Let Zakayo’s voice thunder through the canopy! Give us a sign that we are not forsaken, that justice sleeps but will awaken like a lion from its lair!”

    The night had fully claimed the sky. Owera Apur’s voice had grown hoarse, yet the lament continued pouring out, wave after wave, until the air itself felt heavy with the weight of his words. He remained there, drenched in sweat and tears, chest heaving, hands still clutching the sacred roots. The ojede cii stood silent… but the leaves began to tremble, not from wind alone. A single low murmur seemed to rise from the depths of the trunk, as though the ancestors were gathering, listening, weighing every broken syllable.

    The crescendo hung in the darkness like smoke from a sacrificial fire, thick, unrelenting, desperate. The plea had been poured out completely, soul‑bare and unfiltered, just as a barren woman once poured out her anguish before the altar, vowing everything if only life would come. Now the veil was torn wide open. The spirits hovered close. The tree itself seemed to breathe.

    And under its ancient shade, Owera Apur waited, heart laid bare, knowing that something, somewhere, had heard the cry.


    In the next episode: we shall see that ancestors have answered prayers before, elsewhere, far away from Abongodero.

    Episode 5 drops tomorrow. 5 PM.

    [End of Episode 4]