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Category: Legal Practice

  • A Paperless Judiciary: Why Aren’t We Ready?

    A Paperless Judiciary: Why Aren’t We Ready?

    A speech I presentd at the 18th RNB Live on 4th June, 2026 at ULS House, Kampala

    Paperless Judiciary: Why Aren’t We Ready?

    A speech presented by Enen Ambrose, blogger at www.enenlegalworld.com at the 18th RNB Live on 4th June, 2026 at ULS House, Kampala

    The President of the Uganda Law Society, Isaac K. Ssemakadde SC, the Most Perpendicular Vice President, Anthony Asiimwe, my Northern Uganda Representative to the ULS Governing Council, Egaru Emmanuel Omiat, who I believe is following this discussion online,the General Secretary Salim Babu, together with fellow members of the ULS RNB Governing Council — whom I prefer to call the ULS RNB High Command — the highly distinguished members of the medical fraternity present with us today, colleagues, fellow officers of the court, distinguished guests, and fellow citizens both here in the hall and watching us online:

    I was invited to speak in my capacity as a blogger at www.enenlegalworld.com on the theme: A Fully Paperless Judiciary — Why Aren’t We Ready?

    I stand before you today with deep humility and sincere concern. As a technology enthusiast who believes that technology must facilitate access to justice rather than impede it, I have witnessed firsthand the challenges that arise when we rush into a fully paperless system without adequately preparing the people it is meant to serve.

    What I have observed is not mere technical inconvenience. It is something far more serious — a subtle but damaging form of harm which I prefer to call “the quiet violence of procedure” being done to the very people we are sworn to serve.

     Part I: The Quiet Crisis

    This is not the violence of guns or angry mobs. It is the quiet, daily violence of a system that pretends everything is working when it clearly isn’t.

    Just three days ago, on 1st June 2026, the Judiciary’s deadline for crossing into full paperless operations came and went. Yet the Judiciary’s ICT Director confirmed that the system will only be rolled out to 49 courts — just 20% of the total.

    Imagine a magistrate who cannot access a bail application because the network has failed. The system coldly declares “the file is not before court.” Yet the accused — whether a poor market vendor, a struggling farmer, or a respected professional — stands right there in the dock.

    When this recently happened to an advocate, that person was remanded to Luzira Prison.

    We have always been told that justice delayed is justice denied. But what do we call justice that has simply disappeared from the screen?

    We are rushing into a paperless judiciary while many citizens, and even many lawyers, still cannot navigate it. If a poor person cannot understand their case without a single sheet of paper, have we really advanced, or have we simply replaced one barrier with a more expensive, more frustrating one?

     Part II: The Evidence on the Ground

    My concerns are not theoretical. A recent survey by the PM Digital Law Hub revealed worrying numbers:

    – 87% of judicial officers and advocates have experienced frequent system disruptions. 

    – 78% say technical support is unreliable. 

    – 67% were not confident we would be ready for the June 1st deadline. 

    – 59% have received no formal training at all.

    Let me give you a picture of what these numbers mean. My firm once sent a bright, confident legal assistant to the Gulu branch of the Uganda Registration Services Bureau. His task was to certify company records we needed as evidence in court. He knew the registry. He knew the clerk. He was polished and fully prepared.

    But when he arrived, the physical counter was still there — yet the records had already moved online. The staff of URSB turned him back empty-handed. That day, we had no choice but to force ourselves to adapt to the new technology.

    That, colleagues, is exactly where many of us are today with ECCMIS. We are still walking the old path, trusting the old counters, while the world has moved on.

    Let me tell you another story — one that has not happened yet, but will happen if we are not careful. I want you to meet a lawyer. She is experienced. She has practised for fifteen years. One afternoon, she receives an urgent call. A client is about to be evicted. A temporary injunction must be filed before 5:00 p.m. She knows the High Court Registry well. She has done this a hundred times. But when she arrives, the counters are gone. The clerks point to a sign: “All filings electronic. Use ECCMIS. No paper accepted.” She does not have her laptop. The courthouse Wi‑Fi is down. Her phone battery is low. She tries to log in — she has forgotten her password. She calls her clerk. No answer. The clock shows 4:47 p.m. Her client will be evicted tomorrow. And there is nothing she can do. Colleagues, come July 2026, if the paperless mandate is fully enforced without the changes we are demanding, this will happen. I guarantee it. Our lady lawyer will stand in that registry, fully unarmed and disempowered. In that moment, like our legal assistant at URSB, she will learn the hard way: how she was trained for the profession is no longer relevant. She must upgrade her digital skills — or risk being rendered irrelevant.

    In 2026, we still have judicial officers reaching for the Civil Procedure Rules of 1929 to determine the validity of a summons delivered through a WhatsApp message, while the entire body of laws enacted to facilitate the digital transformation of the Judiciary gathers dust.

    Without a clear Practice Direction from the Chief Justice, and without digital competence forming part of performance evaluation, even this limited rollout to only 49 courts risks a spectacular failure.

     Part III: The Human Cost

    The Nocturnal Lawyer

    Our advocates are now working at 2:00 a.m. not because they are dedicated, but because the system is too slow and congested during the day. We have, in effect, outsourced government server problems to the sleep and mental health of lawyers.

    This is not digital transformation. It is like constructing a magnificent house without laying a proper foundation — impressive on the surface, but unsustainable and harmful to those who must live in it.

    A new digital underclass

    As Advocate Madira Jimmy from Arua warned me, many lawyers in the North risk being reduced to “local assistants” for Kampala-based lawyers who have better internet and support.

    The same law degree, the same oath, but a completely different playing field. This is creating a dangerous hierarchy inside our own profession.

    The Vanishing File

    Under the old physical system, a file could be traced. Today, an urgent application can simply “disappear” in the ECCMIS system.

    A judicial officer who does not wish to attend to a matter no longer needs to hide a physical file. They can simply say, “The system shows nothing.” And who can argue with a screen they cannot see?

    We recently experienced this when the Uganda Law Society filed an urgent Human Rights Application concerning the Ggaba trial. That application was effectively not attended to.

    In my humble view, this incident points not only to a potential case of misconduct against the concerned judicial officers, but more importantly, to a deeper and disturbing lack of accountability in our digital justice system.

    If this can be done to the Uganda Law Society itself, one wonders: who else is suffering the same fate — ordinary citizens who have no voice and no remedy at all?

    Part IV: What We Must Do

    I am not here to condemn the Bar or the Bench, nor am I here as a doomsayer. My critique is directed across the board — at all of us who have a role to play in the successful adoption of digital transformation in the administration of justice.

    1. Mandate Offline Functionality — Every court computer must be able to pre-cache daily files and work when the network fails. Our banking, email apps, file backup systems like Google Drive already do this.
    1. Mandatory Training — No more “learning on the job.” Every judicial officer, clerk, and advocate must undergo verifiable digital training.
    1. Recognise Modern Communication — Issue a Practice Direction accepting service via WhatsApp and SMS to verified numbers. The court can always set aside service where injustice is shown.
    1. True Hybrid System — Do not treat paper as the enemy. A genuine hybrid approach beyond the current 20% rollout is wisdom, not weakness.
    1. Citizen-Centred Design — The system must work for the widow in Amudat who has never opened a PDF.
    1. Cultivate a Transformed Legal Culture — Digital transformation without a corresponding culture of accountability and citizen-centred justice is merely digitising the old bad manners. We must deliberately build a new legal culture where technology serves justice rather than concealing injustice.
    2. Embrace Technology at Individual and Institutional Level — We must consciously cultivate a new culture of embracing technology at both personal and institutional levels. A lawyer who boasts that they never read their emails or deliberately switches off their WhatsApp blue ticks is no different from a judicial officer who conveniently claims “the system shows nothing.” True digital transformation demands personal responsibility from all of us.

     Part V: A Call to Action

    To my fellow advocates: We must continue having honest and regular conversations about digital transformation and the development of a new digital legal culture. Our shared goal is to ensure that technology truly enhances access to justice for all. Let us speak up constructively, with one voice, for the good of our clients and the future of our profession.

    To judicial officers: My clarion call to you today is this — many of you are working under very difficult conditions. Let us join hands and fight together for better tools, better infrastructure, and better support.

    As the ancient proverb teaches us — and I have merely adapted it here — “the roots of accountability are bitter, but the fruits are sweet.” (A variation of Aristotle’s famous saying on education). Let us therefore courageously cultivate, at both personal and institutional levels, a new legal culture of accountability and genuine digital transformation.

    To the people of Uganda: Walk with us. The widow in Amudat — who has never opened a PDF — the accused in Luzira, whose bail application vanished from a screen, and the nocturnal lawyer, awake at 2am fighting a congested server — they need us to get this right.

    The spirit is willing. Let us now strengthen the flesh of this system.

    Thank you.

    I remain Enen Ambrose of Enen Legal World, a legal literacy blog which you can find at www.enenlegalworld.com and I say this for God and My Country.

    ENEN AMBROSE

    www.enenlegalworld.com

    A copy of the speech can be found here:

    20260604_A_PAPERLESS_JUDICIARY_WHY_AREN’T_WE_READY_A_SPEECH_BY_ENEN_AMBROSE_SIGNEDDownload

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    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

  • When the Constitution Loses Its Teeth: A Lament After Faruku

    When the Constitution Loses Its Teeth: A Lament After Faruku

    Imagine your son leaves home to go to the farm.

    He never returns.

    Days become weeks.

    Weeks become months.

    You move from police station to police station looking for him.

    Nobody tells you where he is.

    Nobody tells you what he has done.

    Nobody tells you when he will come home.

    Then one morning, somebody calls.

    “He is being produced in court.”

    You rush there.

    He arrives limping.

    His mother begins to cry.

    Even before he speaks, everybody in court can see that something happened.

    The State says he is a criminal.

    He says he was tortured.

    The Court agrees that his rights were violated.

    But the trial continues anyway.

    That is why the Constitutional Court’s decision in Faruku Muhamed and 2 others v Attorney General matters. A copy of the judgment can be accessed here

    Many Ugandans will never read the judgment.

    Many will never understand the legal arguments.

    But every Ugandan should understand what is at stake.

    Because this case is not really about criminals.

    It is about power.

    For nearly twenty years , in cases like those of Uganda Law Society and the famous Kayunga riots Uganda’s courts had been slowly teaching the State a simple lesson:

    There are some lines you do not cross.

    Some rights are so important that violating them comes at a heavy price.

    That principle was not created to protect criminals.

    It was created to protect citizens.

    It was created because Uganda knows what happens when people in power stop fearing the Constitution.

    Our Constitution was not written in paradise.

    It was written after years of arbitrary arrests.

    Years of torture.

    Years of disappearances.

    Years of constitutional crises.

    Years in which the ordinary citizen stood almost naked before the power of the State.

    The framers understood something simple.

    A government should never be allowed to break the law in order to enforce the law.

    That is why some rights were declared non-derogable.

    Untouchable.

    Non-negotiable.

    Beyond convenience.

    Beyond politics.

    Beyond excuses.

    The Faruku decision changes that conversation.

    The Court has not legalized torture.

    The Court has not abolished constitutional rights.

    The Court has done something more subtle.

    It has reduced the cost of violating them.

    And history teaches us that constitutional decline rarely begins when rights are abolished.

    It begins when violating them becomes cheaper.

    Supporters of the decision ask a fair question.

    Should a murderer walk free because he was tortured?

    Should a terrorist escape punishment because his rights were violated?

    Those questions sound persuasive.

    Until we ask another.

    If the State already had enough evidence to convict, why was torture necessary in the first place?

    Why break the ribs?

    Why remove the fingernails?

    Why apply electric wires?

    Why violate the Constitution at all?

    That is the question Uganda should be asking.

    Instead, we are being encouraged to focus on what happens after the violation.

    Sue for damages.

    File another case.

    Seek compensation.

    But every Ugandan knows the reality.

    The person who emerges from years of detention, trial, imprisonment, poverty and trauma rarely possesses the energy, resources or influence required to start another legal battle.

    The remedy exists on paper.

    Life exists in reality.

    And those two things are not always the same.

    Perhaps the most frightening symbol of this reality is a single word.

    “Drones.”

    There was a time when a drone was something that flew in the sky.

    Today, many Ugandans hear that word and think of something else entirely.

    Think about how abnormal that is.

    Think about how much had to happen before an entire country accepted that vocabulary.

    Think about how many stories are hidden inside that single word.

    The abnormal has become normal.

    The shocking has become routine.

    The unacceptable has become familiar.

    And when that happens, constitutional erosion is already underway.

    Some people will say these concerns are exaggerated.

    They will say rights still exist.

    They will say courts remain independent.

    Perhaps.

    But constitutional history is filled with societies that discovered too late that rights on paper are not the same thing as rights in practice.

    A Constitution is not tested when it protects the popular.

    It is tested when it protects the unpopular.

    It is not tested when it restrains the weak.

    It is tested when it restrains the powerful.

    The true measure of constitutionalism is not how the State treats those it likes.

    It is how the State treats those it fears, suspects, opposes or despises.

    That is why this moment matters.

    Not because a criminal might benefit.

    But because power always expands into spaces where consequences disappear.

    Today it may be a suspected criminal.

    Tomorrow it may be a journalist.

    The next day it may be a businessman.

    The day after that it may be an opposition supporter.

    One day it may be your son.

    Or your daughter.

    Or you.

    The Supreme Court may yet reverse this decision.

    History may yet correct it.

    But the real answer will not be found in law reports.

    It will be found in what follows.

    If State agencies become more respectful of constitutional rights, perhaps the Court’s faith in alternative remedies will be vindicated.

    If they do not, future generations may look back upon Faruku as the moment Uganda’s Constitution was not destroyed—

    but the moment it was asked to stand aside while power carried on with business as usual.

    Our Constitution was meant to be a fence around the citizen.

    A fence is only as strong as the dog that guards it.

    If the dog can no longer bite, only the thief has reason to celebrate.

    That is why some of us are mourning today.

    Not because the Constitution is dead.

    But because it has been 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

  • THE DIGITAL JUSTICE CROSSROADS: REFLECTIONS FROM THE ECCMIS SYMPOSIUM

    THE DIGITAL JUSTICE CROSSROADS: REFLECTIONS FROM THE ECCMIS SYMPOSIUM

    Dear Colleagues,

    A court file can disappear.

    A server can crash.

    A network cable can be cut.

    Yet justice must still move.

    That, in many ways, was the question hanging over the inaugural ECCMIS Symposium that I recently attended as a member of the Judiciary Affairs Committee of the Uganda Law Society, a technology enthusiast, and perhaps most importantly, a practising advocate who has experienced firsthand both the promise and frustrations of Uganda’s digital transition.

    This newsletter is a continuation of my earlier reflections on the necessity of technological adoption within our profession. Then, I argued that lawyers must embrace technology or risk being left behind. Today, however, I wish to discuss a different concern: how we ensure that digital transformation does not leave people behind.

    The Bar Speaks

    Our ULS leadership—President Isaac Ssemakadde, SC, and VP Anthony Asiimwe—were clear: while the Bar supports modernization, we must prioritize accountability and interoperability. As Vice President Asiimwe noted, deadlines continue to run even when the system fails, creating a dangerous procedural environment for advocates. The leadership emphasized that a digital system that cannot guarantee the safety of our filings is, for all practical purposes, a liability to the Rule of Law.

    Beyond the Headlines

    Much has already been said about ECCMIS, the Judiciary’s flagship case management system. The symposium brought together judicial officers, ICT specialists, researchers, and members of the Bar to discuss the realities of implementation. What emerged was neither a story of triumph nor failure, but one of transition.

    Mr. David Sunday Kikabi, Director of ICT at the Judiciary, clarified that the transition remains phased, operating in 49 court stations, representing roughly twenty percent of the Judiciary’s footprint. Hon. Justice Christopher Madrama reminded participants that meaningful criticism must appreciate the operational realities of implementing a national digital infrastructure. Lady Justice Immaculate Busingye offered a historical reminder that ECCMIS was born from the Bar’s outcry over missing court files and administrative inefficiencies.

    The Day Technology Sent Me Home

    Several years ago, I dispatched my legal assistant to certify specific company records for use as evidence. The process had migrated to digital URSB portals, and the traditional method was no longer available.

    Looking back, the issue was not the technology itself, but the lack of preparedness and notice. We arrived at a destination only to discover the road had been moved.

    The Walk of Shame

    This experience mirrors a reality we have lived or heard of: a lawyer travels with a client, fully prepared, to file court a client’s case, including an urgent application for an interim injunction, a high stakes life and death-last minute filing where the plan is to secure an urgent exparte interim relief, only to be guided that manual filing is nolonger being accepted, rather that everything is being filed online and worst of all, the system is itself down!. The “walk of shame” of the lawyer and his client back to chambers to figure out what to do next undermines the dignity of our profession and erodes trust.

    The Namukasa Test

    Perhaps the most profound contribution came from Lady Justice Monica Mugyenyi, who asked: Can Namukasa use it? If our justice system is technologically sophisticated but socially inaccessible, it has merely transformed the appearance of the problem, not solved it.

    What the Research Revealed

    Research presented during the symposium identified recurring concerns, including bandwidth limitations, intermittent outages, server congestion, and user-experience challenges. In some instances, courts equipped for ECCMIS have reverted to manual processes due to operational interruptions. These findings should not be viewed as evidence of failure. Rather, they remind us that digital transformation is a process of continuous refinement.

    A copy of the report can be found here:

    Report on Paperless Judicary Effective 1 July 2026 FinalDownload

    Building Two Bridges

    Waiting for perfection is not a strategy; building bridges is.

    1. Bridge One: Training the Profession. I am championing a volunteer-led Trainer-of-Trainers programme to bring practical ECCMIS training to regional bars. I invite the Judiciary’s ICT Directorate to collaborate in developing a standardised framework to equip advocates with the skills to navigate the digital environment confidently.
    2. Bridge Two: Interoperable Solutions. During the symposium, Riyale Tech Solutions showcased the Riyale Legal Suite, an ECCMIS-integrated practice management platform that helps law firms manage and track ECCMIS updates, court cases, hearing dates, documents, clients, billing and invoicing, court schedules, and day-to-day operations. By streamlining legal workflows and digitizing firm operations, Riyale Legal Suite supports the transition to a paperless practice and improves efficiency across the firm. Paperless courts need paperless law firms, and Riyale Legal Suite bridges the gap. Having reviewed the platform, I believe it offers practical solutions for many of the challenges currently facing firms during the transition to digital practice. If you missed symposiom, Access the Riyale Tech Presentation here. Advocates interested in exploring the platform further may contact me for demonstrations, implementation support, and licensing arrangements.

    The Road Ahead

    The future of justice will undoubtedly be digital. The question is whether it will also remain accessible.

    If Namukasa can navigate the system with confidence, if advocates can serve their clients without fear of technological paralysis, and if justice can continue moving even when a server fails, then ECCMIS will have achieved something far greater than digitisation. It will have expanded access to justice. And that is a future worth building.

    Now let me be equally clear. I hold no equity, ownership, employment, or decision-making role in Riyale Tech Solutions or any affiliated legal technology provider discussed in this article. Any professional introductions that may arise between practitioners and technology providers do not influence the opinions expressed here, which remain independently formed.

    Let us build the connections that matter.

    Enen Ambrose

    Advocate & Member, Judiciary Affairs Committee, Uganda Law Society

    Phone/WhatsApp: 0789856805 | Email: enen@enenlegalworld.com or ambrosenen@gmail.com

  • 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

  • Uganda’s Courts Are Going Paperless. The Only Question Left Is… Are You?

    Uganda’s Courts Are Going Paperless. The Only Question Left Is… Are You?

    Enen Legal World Logo


    In a matter of days, somewhere in Kampala, an advocate will walk into chambers carrying a file.
    A real file.
    Bound in cardboard.
    Stuffed with pleadings.
    Scarred by coffee stains.
    Held together by registry stamps, handwritten notes, and the quiet traditions that have shaped Uganda’s legal profession for generations.
    He will place it on his desk.
    He will call his clerk.
    He will ask about the service.
    He will ask whether the registry finally responded.
    He will ask whether the ruling was uploaded.
    He will ask if tomorrow’s matter still appears on the court list.
    And without fully realizing it…
    He may already be practising history.

    Because on 17 February 2026, Uganda’s Chief Justice signed an administrative circular that quietly accelerated what many had long assumed was still years away.

    And on 1 June 2026, every advocate practising before courts integrated into ECCMIS will begin to feel the reality of it.
    Paper files, as we know them, begin to lose their dominance.
    Not theoretically.
    Not academically.
    Not someday.
    This June.

    Suddenly, a question that once sounded futuristic now feels deeply personal:
    Is the Ugandan legal profession actually prepared for digitally operational courts?
    Not on conference banners.
    Not in panel discussions.
    Not on LinkedIn posts celebrating innovation.
    In chambers.
    In active files.
    In client communication.
    In deadlines.
    In operational reality.
    And if we are being honest, this conversation did not begin with me.

    The Judiciary has moved.
    ECCMIS has moved.
    The Uganda Law Society has moved.
    Developers have moved.
    Institutions have moved.
    The only chambers left to convince… may now be our own.
    Because if we are being painfully honest, many firms are still operating through fragmented systems held together largely by human effort.
    Some clerks still physically chase court lists.

    Some advocates still log into ECCMIS repeatedly “to check.”
    Some clients still travel to court only to discover their matter was adjourned hours earlier.
    Some managing partners still call chambers late in the evening, asking whether rulings were uploaded.
    Some firms still lose valuable hours searching through paper trails for information that should already be accessible instantly.
    None of this reflects incompetence.
    It reflects transition.
    And in June, transition becomes unavoidable.
    Because nostalgia will not file pleadings.
    Sentiment has never uploaded a PDF.
    And operational inefficiency increasingly carries reputational consequences.

    Days ago, in my previous article, The Quiet Violence of Procedure, I argued that justice does not always fail loudly. Sometimes it fails quietly – inside missed notifications, delayed communication, inaccessible records, and systems that store information without truly delivering it to the people who need it.
    Technology alone does not solve that problem.
    Preparedness does.

    Shortly after publishing that article, I received a phone call from a Ugandan technology company, Riyale Tech Solutions. I assumed the conversation would be defensive. Instead, the invitation was remarkably simple:
    “Counsel… come and see.”
    So I went.
    And what I encountered forced me to confront an uncomfortable possibility:

    What if the profession is not facing a technology problem at all… but a preparedness problem?

    Because what I saw was not merely software in the conventional sense. It was an attempt to redesign how legal practice operationally functions in the ECCMIS era.
    Imagine chambers operating from one secure digital environment where drafting, filing, billing, scheduling, client communication, and court updates exist together rather than in disconnected fragments.

    A matter moves in ECCMIS – and the Advocate knows immediately.
    A notice is issued, and the chambers know immediately.
    More importantly, the client knows too.
    Automatically.

    Through WhatsApp.
    Through SMS.
    Through email.
    No chasing.
    No uncertainty.
    No “let me first call my clerk.”

    For years, lawyers adapted themselves to court systems.
    For the first time, platforms are beginning to adapt around lawyers.

    And perhaps most surprisingly, this is not imported software retrofitted for Uganda. It is Ugandan-built technology designed specifically around the operational realities of Ugandan legal practice.

    A client in Kampala, Gulu, Arua, Mbarara, Nairobi, London, or Dubai can securely monitor the progress of their matter in real time.
    Invoices are generated systematically.
    Records organize themselves.
    Court updates synchronize automatically.
    Internal workflows become visible.
    Communication becomes traceable.
    In that moment, a law firm stops functioning merely as a paper-dependent physical office and begins operating as a modern legal institution.

    This article is not an advertisement.
    It is an observation about where legal practice in Uganda appears to be heading.
    Because in the ECCMIS era, legal excellence may still win cases – but operational efficiency will increasingly win client confidence.
    And that reality raises difficult questions.
    Which firms will adapt fastest?
    Which firms will attract the next generation of clients?
    Which chambers will build operational resilience?
    Which firms will continue spending valuable hours managing paperwork while competitors focus on strategy, advocacy, and growth?
    Technology itself does not threaten the legal profession.
    Irrelevance does.
    Paperless courts alone do not create digital justice.
    Prepared lawyers do.
    Over the past week, conversations around legal technology have intensified – among advocates, managing partners, clerks, judicial officers, and law students alike, all asking versions of the same question:
    “What does readiness actually look like?”
    For the first time, I may now have at least one answer.
    Because on June 1st, paper may begin leaving Uganda’s courtrooms.
    But excuses may begin leaving the profession, too.

    Riyale Tech Solutions offers a comprehensive legal management system integrated with ECCMIS, designed to support law firms transitioning into Uganda’s digital court environment. It centralises case management, client records, document handling, billing, scheduling, and daily operations into a single structured system.
    Through real-time synchronisation with ECCMIS, case updates are automatically reflected without requiring repeated manual logins.
    The platform also delivers instant notifications via email and WhatsApp, ensuring that both advocates and clients remain informed as matters progress.

    Now let me be equally clear. I hold no equity, ownership, employment, or decision-making role in Riyale Tech Solutions or any affiliated legal technology provider discussed in this article.
    Any professional introductions that may arise between practitioners and technology providers do not influence the opinions expressed here, which remain independently formed.

    Enen Ambrose

    Battle hardened RNB Ethusiast; deliberately pushing #Digital Transformation, one of the 4Ds of the RNB Back on track Mantra.
    Member, Judiciary Affairs Committee
    Uganda Law Society
    For feedback or questions:
    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