It’s on life support. Plugged into a system designed to kill it slowly.
Judges on Acting Terms. Courts on Probation. Justice on the Brink.
Here’s what they’ve done:
Invented a system where new judges are appointed on in an acting capacity, with the duration determined at the whims of the appointing authority—yes, like interns at a mobile money kiosk.
Given the President the power to recycle retired judges, no questions asked. No medical. No mental. No morals.
Created performance evaluations for judges like they’re applying for a promotion at a law firm.
That’s right, you’re not day dreaming, the system was rigged. In 2022, the Constitutional Court damned this shrewd “sharp practice” and threw it in our Constitutional History by declaring it unconstitutional in Dr. Busingye Kabumba and Karamagi vs Attorney General.
Good judgment, right? Damn, the government rigged it. It instead created a legal loophole which enabled it to pass these damned Regulations.
Firstly, it appealed against. Secondly the government obtained what is in effect a suspension of the independence of the Judiciary as the Supreme Court delays to decide the Government’s Appeal .
A copy of the decision which suspended the independence of High Court Judges as the government waits for a decision in its own appeal from the above case can be accessed from here:
Okay, let’s dive into the evil in the Regulations. Reg. 29–33 and 31 are the smoking guns. And what they shoot is judicial independence—straight between the eyes.
And Then There’s 2026…
Uganda’s next elections are not just around the corner—they’re rumbling like thunder.
And we know the script:
Mass arrests.
Disappearances.
Violent suppression.
Habeas corpus applications flying like confetti.
Human rights cases lined up like a firing squad.
It will take judges to hear them all.
But what kind of judges?
Not fearless ones. Not permanent ones. Not independent ones.
The Regulations guarantee this:
When the state comes for you, the judge before you may still be “acting,” “probationary,” or “awaiting confirmation.”
You don’t need a judge praying for job security.
You need a judge with balls forged from titanium alloy, ready to grab the State by its ball sac and say:
“Back off. The Constitution says this citizen walks free.”
These Regulations can’t produce that judge. They produce whispering cowards in robes.
But Wait, There’s a Recruitment Cartel Too
They didn’t just kill judicial independence at the appointment level.
They also built a Search and Recruitment Committee—and a Sub-Committee—with a quorum of TWO people.
Let that sink in: Two people can now shortlist Uganda’s judges.
Who are these people?
The Attorney General—yes, the government’s own lawyer.
The Chairperson of the JSC—currently Justice Singiza, who was once branded a “Nazi Judge” by opposition supporters for adjourning Besigye’s habeas corpus case instead of hearing it urgently.
And guess who they kicked out of this process?
The two (2) representatives of the Uganda Law Society.
The very people the Constitution says should be part of the Judicial Service Commission.
It Was Planned. Timed. Executed.
These Regulations were passed while the Uganda Law Society is in court, fighting to elect its representatives.
The plan is clear: Keep them out. Lock the process down. Staff the courts with friendly judges. Control the law from the inside out.
This isn’t just bad law.
It’s a judicial cartel in robes.
And You Think It Doesn’t Affect You?
Wait until your land is taken. Wait until your protest turns into a prison sentence. Wait until your loved one disappears. Wait until the courtroom is the only place left to cry out.
Then you’ll pray that your judge isn’t still auditioning for a contract renewal.
Here’s the Message:
Uganda’s justice system is being rebuilt—not to protect you, but to survive you.
It is no longer about law. It’s about control. It’s about loyalty. It’s about silencing justice before you can even plead for it.
This is the war. This is the moment. This is the alarm.
If you have eyes you better see, and if you have ears you better listen.
Photocredit: Team of Advocate Paul Mukiibi with their Brand: Chain breakers in the campaign to represent the Uganda Law Society at the Judicial Service Commission.
It started like a flicker—a tiny spark of defiance that should’ve ignited a roaring wildfire of rage and justice. Instead, it was smothered by the gargantuan, self-righteous boots of censorship, as if the admins of the Northern Bar-Bench Forum were playing the role of divine gatekeepers to the underworld of logic, reason, and free speech. It was the perfect storm waiting to brew, and here we were, caught in the vortex of unrelenting madness.
Imagine this: a friend—let’s call them Advocate C—dared to share a link to an article so scorching that the digital air itself trembled. The scandal? The Honorable Chief Justice, in a move so brazen it could only be conceived in the dankest corners of the power-obsessed universe, allegedly schemed to extend the retirement age for Supreme Court Justices. Why? To keep his gnarled hands on the throne, forever and ever. He also decided to appoint an Acting Principal Judge without so much as a whiff of the President’s blessing, like a schoolyard bully claiming the lunchroom as his own personal fiefdom. The legal streets of the Forum exploded in righteous fury, an inferno of truth and justice clamoring for attention.
And then… the admins. Oh, the admins. The self-crowned, self-important emperors of silence—oh yes, those power-hungry weasels. They descended like locusts, their ban-hammers blazing. Link? Gone. Criticism? Erased. “Don’t post things that make other members uncomfortable,” they decreed, as if comfort was the holy grail of democracy. What’s uncomfortable, you ask? The CJ’s alleged power grab that should’ve made every Ugandan’s blood boil? That’s what should’ve made us all “uncomfortable.” But no, not in their world. The admins had a higher calling: the suppression of truth, under the guise of “unity” and “comfort.” What a joke.
That night, at 8:43 PM, the world shook. I—Ambrose Enen—I was done. I had had enough of their charade. With the force of a thousand furious lions, I stormed into the admins’ fortress of lies. I sent them a question that cracked their gilded masks and made their self-satisfied jaws clench like desperate prey:
“Why are you strangling debates about the Hon. Chief Justice, you cowardly sycophants?”
I threw down the gauntlet, demanding they justify their pathetic, trembling submission to the powers that be, to shield His Lordship from the fire of scrutiny. The CJ had once bellowed like a lion, declaring, “If you’re not criticized, it means you’re doing nothing and the people just choose to ignore you!” And here they were, trying to shield him from even the faintest whiff of criticism. Hypocrisy? Monumental. So, I unsheathed Article 29 of the Constitution like a blazing sword and sliced through their pitiful, sanctimonious excuses with the fury of an avenging god. I invoked the speech of the Chief Justice himself when he delivered his own lead Judgment in Kabaziguruka case, where the Supreme Court put a grinding halt on the trial of civilians in the Court martial. The Chief Justice was referring to President Isaac Ssemakade’s work method, weekly public press engagements dubbed the “RNB Live” in which fireballs were hurled at the Justices of the Supreme Court for delaying to deliver that very judgment. The very Supreme Court had in an earlier judgment in the case of Charles Onyango Obbo and Andrew Mujuni Mwenda had crowned free speech as an untouchable deity, immune to the fragile egos of all public officials from the President to the Military.
I screamed at them, demanding they answer me: Had they erased the CJ’s own edict—that criticism is the lifeblood of action? Or had they buried the people’s right to challenge power under a mountain of self-inflicted fear?
I didn’t stop there. I summoned the name of the great Isaac Ssemakadde, a volcano of legal brilliance who melts the hearts of tyrants and leaves them quaking in their boots. His name sent ripples of panic through their ranks, like a shark’s fin slicing through calm waters. And I laughed—loudly—at their terrified whimpering.
The admins’ response? Hilarious. They pulled out the same tired, sanctimonious rhetoric, claiming the Forum, created in 2019 by the then “mighty” Conrad Oroya, was meant to unite “advocates” and “judicial officers” from the greater North. They paraded their so-called patrons, from the CJ down to the lowliest Magistrates, and tried to paint themselves as paragons of unity and reason. But wait—oh wait—they accused the Radical New Bar (RNB) of destroying the Forum, branding us as “scourges of the legal profession.” Apparently, our “scathing attacks” were too much for their fragile egos, too sharp for their delicate sensibilities. They shrieked that we’d turned their sacred Forum into a warzone. And that—that was their best excuse for censorship.
But, my friends, that wasn’t enough. They threatened to boot us out, to banish us from their “pious” space where only their carefully curated lies were welcome. Oh, how I laughed. I thought of Maxime Rovere’s words in his book, How to Deal with Idiots and not be one yourself: “Idiots infest every cesspool, even the loftiest halls of government.” But this wasn’t a government cesspool, oh no. This was a digital one, run by clowns in armor of “civility” and “comfort.” I held back my laughter only because it was a laugh of pure, unadulterated rage.
The admins couldn’t take the heat, and then, boom. A revolution. It didn’t come in the form of an army, no. It came in the form of words. Words sharper than a thousand blades.
A Grade 1 Magistrate—yes, a Grade 1 Magistrate—came for them, tearing through their lies like a wildfire through dry grass. “Article 29 doesn’t grovel before judicial comfort,” they roared. “You’re strangling debate about the CJ, and in doing so, you’re ripping the soul from the legal profession itself.”
Then, like a chorus of angels singing the hymn of truth, came another Magistrate. It came with fire in their belly and venom in their words. “Your fear of the Radical New Bar only exposes your cowardice,” they snarled. “You’re terrified of a few questions—questions!—about the CJ’s power plays. What kind of admins are you?”
Then came Advocate A—oh yes, Advocate A—with a fire so hot it could melt the very walls of their sanctimonious den. They came at the admins like a raging storm, laughing at their pathetic attempts to shield the CJ from the rightful fire of criticism. They mocked them for their “bootlicking” and told the admins to lick the dust. They didn’t just fight—they laughed in their faces. And their message? “You’ve earned this defeat, you glorious cowards.”
But that’s when the real rebellion began. Just after my banishment, Advocate B—yes, Advocate B—launched a tidal wave of resistance. “See you in Gulu Learned Friends,” they sneered. “But first, post that message which was deleted here!”
The forum’s demise wasn’t my banishment. Oh no. It died when it sold its soul, when it chose silence over truth, when it cowered before power. And here’s the thing—the admins? They didn’t even see it coming.
But then came the words of Isaac Ssemakadde—oh, those words, those molten words that seared their way into my soul. “Impunity’s greatest weakness is the craving it has for respectability, legitimacy, and sycophancy. Deny it one of those lubricants, and you will begin to see ‘how the mighty fall.’ So fast.” And then he said the words that would light the fuse of my rebellion for good: “Principle is always vulnerable in the face of power; especially in spaces of long-term subjugation where the legal culture is manipulative & unapologetic in defence of power. Only a revolution, grounded in principle, can reverse things now.”
I heard it. The call. The revolution, forged in fire and principle, was now in my blood. And so, like a storm that cannot be stalled, I went to battle. Unbanned. Unbowed. Unafraid.
Because here’s the truth: The Northern Bar-Bench Forum was supposed to be a crucible of ideas, a place where Uganda’s brightest minds clashed, burned away the dross, and emerged better. Instead, it became a cesspool, a sanctuary for the most dangerous thing of all: fear. Fear of truth. Fear of scrutiny. Fear of Article 29.
And in that fear, they forgot. They forgot what a forum was meant to be. They forgot that power, unchecked and unchallenged, is the very thing that devours empires.
So here’s to the outcasts, the truth-tellers, the Ssemakaddes who set the world ablaze with righteous fury! Here’s to Advocate A, Advocate B, and every single renegade who refused to bow before the gods of comfort. Here’s to Article 29 and the indomitable, damn-near-holy faith that free speech isn’t a gift from admins or judges—it’s our birthright, you small little intern Honorable WhatsApp administrator dictators!
They told us Lady Justice was blind. Yet no soul foretold us that she could be gagged, chained by red tape, or forced to perform a scripted dirge for the state—while the true conduct of justice withers in her silent grasp.
This is the tragedy of our times: On one fateful day, under the looming shadow of executive power, the Judiciary refused bail to Dr. Kizza Besigye—not because the law demanded it but because the long finger of the Executive had darkened the halls of justice. The gavel itself seemed to quiver in fear.
In a nation where the very concept of “public interest” is weaponized, such a ruling is not just injustice—it’s a full-throated political press release performed by a bench too timid to uphold the Constitution. Uganda does not merely serve up injustice; we marinate it in irony, wrap it in drama, and serve it with a side of bitter satire.
Then enters the spectacle of The Ssegirinya Case. Hon. Muhammad Ssegirinya—a brave legislator whose voice once roared in opposition—died at a hospital right here in Uganda and was laid to rest in Masaka amid national mourning. Parliament wept. The Electoral Commission hustled. A by-election crowned Counsel Nalukoola as the Honorable Member of Parliament for Kawempe North Constituency. The new MP elect was gazetted and subsequently took the oath of a member of Parliament and yet, the Judiciary clung to absurdity: “We need a death certificate to terminate the criminal case against him.”
Imagine: while Parliament already acknowledged his passing, the Chief Magistrate’s Court demand forensic proof—as if they were guarding against a zombie revival in the halls of justice. Some things, Your Worships, don’t need official state records like a death certificate; they require judicial notice. Ssegirinya is gone. No amount of legal formality can reverse that truth. To be slightly more cheeky and dramatic about it, will the Court issue criminal summons or an arrest warrant to produce the fallen legislator before Court? Yes, that is the absurdity we are talking about.
Meanwhile, within the oppressive corridors of power, a lone rebel rises. President Isaac Ssemakadde—a man both radical and resolute—was denied a podium at New Year Law Day, yet he found a way to become the voice for those silenced. Standing on a cold step outside the hallowed courtroom, he declared:
“The Uganda Law Society doesn’t exist to soothe the egos of the Judiciary but to protect it from Executive Overreach.”
That proclamation was not mere rhetoric—it was a rallying cry. No applause met his words, yet the Constitution itself, dusty and long-forgotten on a shelf, clapped with the thunder of truth.
Adding a surreal twist to this saga, the ruling that doomed Besigye’s bail came on the heels of the anniversary of President Idi Amin’s regime collapse—the day Uganda first broke free from dictatorship. And as if the fates conspired further, on that very day, Justice Gadenya granted a stay of execution for the arrest warrant against President Ssemakadde. A copy of the Ruling by His Lordship Paul W Gadenya can be found here
History, it seems, is writing its own epic: The ancient echoes of liberation mingle with our modern struggles, and even the ancestors of this Republic refuse to sleep.
In the midst of this theatrical legal circus, one voice from the depths of exasperation cut through the clamor:
“The law ceased being an ass. It’s now a pussy.”
Unfiltered, incendiary, and laughably raw—this isn’t a mere quip but a savage indictment. When courts purr in the laps of power rather than bite down on injustice, we can’t pretend neutrality. We must call the rule of law what it is: law taking orders instead of serving justice.
As we stand at the crossroads of history, our hearts burn with the hope for a future where truth rings louder than decree. Like the fabled moment when Pontius Pilate (in his own conflicted way) declared, “I find no guilt in this man,” yet allowed the crowd to dictate a cruel verdict, the Ruling of the Hon. Lady Justice Comfort denying Besigye’s bail Application even after finding that he had satisfied all the requirements reveals to all those who care to see that executive Overreach influenced the outcome of the decision. A copy of the ruling can be accessed here:
So here we are—writing not for mere record but for revolution. This is no ordinary blog post. It’s a legal thriller, a national mirror, a soaring cry that condemns mediocrity and demands accountability.
Justice, if you’re still alive—send us a signal. We’re here.
And for the record—this blog is not an attack on the personal integrity or competence of the judicial officers concerned. It is a constitutional critique—bold, unfiltered, and fully protected as free expression under Article 29 of Uganda’s Constitution. We aim not to tear down but to build a Judiciary worthy of public confidence, not executive approval.
Image: President Isaac Kimaze Ssemakade. Image Credit: Isaac Ssemakade’s X(formerly Twitter post)
Uganda’s judiciary just went full-on nuclear—and there’s no holding back. On New Law Year day, the very system that’s supposed to be the bastion of justice turned into a circus. The ULS President got stonewalled, the Chief Justice practically demanded an apology, and then came the blow—Justice Ssekana slammed down a two-year sentence on Ssemakadde for contempt of court. It wasn’t just a ruling; it was a middle finger to anyone who dared question the establishment.
And if that wasn’t enough, the entire scandal is being dragged into the international arena. The Judiciary, in a move that can only be described as a self-inflicted public relations massacre, has tried to weaponize an Interpol Red Notice for an offense as laughably flimsy and culturally controversial as “insulting the modesty of a woman.” Yes, you read that right. While Interpol is busy chasing down genuine threats, war Lords, Drug cartels, Uganda’s courts are out here acting like they’re in a personal vendetta—pursuing a man for throwing sharp words at the system.
The madness deepens: the whole legal shambles that produced the warrant is under revision in the High Court, completely unattended, like a sinking ship left to rot. And guess what? Ssemakadde isn’t going down without a fight. He’s vowed, through his legal team, to challenge any Red Notice that dares to be issued against him—an audacious promise that practically screams “bring it on!”
Meanwhile, the Executive and Parliament, both seasoned in navigating international diplomacy, stand in stark contrast to the Judiciary’s response. Having faced sanctions, blacklisting, and travel bans in the past, they are well-versed in managing the complex web of international scrutiny, asset freezes, and the like. Who doesn’t recall the free Bobi Wine protests that rocked global capitals. Who doesn’t recall a foreign affairs minister who was on global travel sanctions. Have we very quickly forgotten the backlash from Western states when the Uganda’s Anti-Homosexuality Act was passed into Law and upheld by the Constitutional Court. Experts and negotiators from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs burnt the midnight oil and the Ugandan state is still here to stay. The Judiciary, however, is primarily trained in upholding decorum, judicial conduct, and domestic legal frameworks. It is ill-equipped to handle the nuances of foreign policy, international relations, and diplomacy. So, the real question is: if the international community begins to ask hard-hitting questions about accountability and the rule of law—questions that go beyond the courtroom—will the Attorney General and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs step in to shield the Judiciary from the fallout? Or will they be left to fend for themselves, with their lack of expertise in international relations becoming glaringly apparent?
Yes, development partners like the European Union, funders of the SUPREME project, Pepperdine University behind the plea bargain project, IDLO, Amnesty International, the Democratic Governance Facility (who knows they may come back) will have key questions about transparency, accountability and Rule of Law, directly addressed to our third estate about where their Millions of Aid is going. They will not be amused if they think their resources are being deployed to fight what appears to be petty fights.
And what more, individual partner states with a long tradition of democracy may refuse to hand over President Ssemakade on grounds that the Red Notice is politically motivated and targeting free speech and dissent. Dramatically enough, interpol itself may refuse to put out the Red Notice, why? It goes against the Interpol Constitution. The offense leading up to the warrant isn’t listed as one of those for which a Red Notice can be put out and enforced.
This isn’t your everyday legal drama; it’s a blood-soaked, high-stakes showdown where the very soul of Uganda’s justice system is on trial. Ssemakadde, with the cunning of a renegade professor from Money Heist, baited the Judiciary into a carefully crafted trap. Just like the Professor orchestrated the heists with meticulous precision, Ssemakadde pulled off a legal masterstroke, using the Judiciary’s own flaws against it. His provocation wasn’t a reckless act of defiance; it was a radical surgery planned to expose the raw, festering wounds of Uganda’s ailing legal system. The Judiciary walked straight into his trap, and now the courts stand naked and vulnerable on the global stage.
So here we are, witnessing a system that once prided itself on upholding justice now doing a complete 180 into chaos. The Judiciary has thrown down the gauntlet, and if the international community decides to respond, it won’t be a pretty sight. The madness is palpable, the stakes are astronomical, and the fallout could reshape Uganda’s legal landscape forever.
At this point, there’s only one entity that can pull Uganda’s judiciary back from the brink of absolute disaster: the relevant High Court Judge. The request for a Red Notice is a ticking time bomb, and if it’s not halted right here, within the Judiciary itself, the fallout will be catastrophic. The international community is already watching, and Uganda’s fragile legal system is on the verge of being exposed in the harshest possible light. This isn’t just about one man; this is about the future of Uganda’s justice system and its credibility on the world stage.
But amid the chaos, there’s still hope. There are still clean judges, magistrates, and lawyers who believe in the integrity of the law and the values of justice. This system is not beyond redemption, but it’s going to take those who truly care about upholding the rule of law to stand up, speak out, and fight for a better, fairer future. This moment—this unprecedented crisis—can be the turning point for Uganda’s legal system if the right people step forward.
The Judiciary stands at a crossroads. If swift, decisive action isn’t taken now, Uganda’s courts will find themselves at the heart of a global scandal—a bloodbath of embarrassment from which there may be no recovery. This is the moment of truth. The question is: will the Judiciary rise to the occasion, or will it collapse under the weight of its own mistakes?
The clock is ticking, and the time for action is now. The relevant High Court Judge holds the key—let them make the right call before it’s too late.
DISCLAIMER: This Blog is not made to attack the institution of the Judiciary but to spark conversations and discourse on vital reforms.
More about the author on the about page for feedback and comments.
Uganda’s legal system has long been a fortress of impunity. For decades, it has survived every attempt at reform—not by improving, but by dismantling anyone who dares to fix it.
Enter Isaac Ssemakadde, Uganda Law Society (ULS) President.
His mission? To drag the legal profession out of the mud, rebuild public trust, and hold the entire system accountable.
His first strike? Kicking the Attorney General off the ULS Governing Council. Why? Because how does a government’s top lawyer sit in the governing body of an institution meant to be an independent watchdog? It was a classic case of conflict of interest, and Ssemakadde terminated it.
Image: Isaac K Ssemakade. Photo Credit: Insight Post Uganda
His second move? Recalling all unelected ULS representatives to the Judicial Service Commission (JSC)—a body meant to discipline errant judges. For too long, these positions had been filled by handpicked placeholders who were cozy with the very Judiciary they were supposed to regulate.
Then, the nuclear option—a ULS-led Public Commission of Inquiry into the entire Bench.
That was the moment the Judiciary declared war.
A full-scale investigation into judicial corruption, impunity, and accountability? The Judiciary saw what was coming—a public trial of the very system that has shielded the powerful for decades.
And so, they struck first.
A High Court Judge—who, it has been reported, was allegedly involved in sexual harassment allegations—injuncted the entire process and had Ssemakadde convicted of contempt of court with a two-year jail sentence.
Yes, you read that right.
A judge in a case where he was allegedly the victim, presiding over a trial that could expose him, convicted the man leading the movement for reform.
The Judiciary had gone into full-blown self-preservation mode.
And while Uganda’s legal system was busy eating its own, something very different was unfolding in the UK.
A Ugandan judge—Justice Lydia Mugambe—was convicted.
And suddenly, Uganda got a front-row seat to what real judicial accountability looks like.
No judicial gymnastics. No vanishing case files. No presidential interference.
Just a judge facing the law like any other citizen.
And here’s the real kicker—the UK wasn’t just convicting a judge.
They were sending a message.
Uganda’s human rights record had rotted beyond acceptable limits.
Opposition National Unity Platform (NUP) supporters were reportedly tortured, arbitrarily detained, and held without trial. The UK had already slapped sanctions on key Ugandan officials. And now, Uganda’s backdoor diplomatic channels in London were reportedly frozen.
Word on the street? NUP had played quiet but strategic backdoor diplomacy, exposing Uganda’s entrenched impunity to the UK foreign office—and the UK listened.
This wasn’t just about Mugambe.
It was Uganda being held accountable—one way or another.
Because in Uganda, justice serves the powerful. In the UK, it serves the law.
And so, as Judge Mugambe awaits sentencing on May 2nd, 2025, we extend our best wishes.
Not because of what she did or didn’t do, but because this entire mess is a reflection of a broken system back home.
The Hon. Lady Justice Lydia Mugambe. Photo Credit: Daily monitor
To all who still believe in the Rule of Law—even as the system crushes them—we see you.
To the ULS candidates still battling for election to represent ULS to the JSC—who have outspent resources in what was supposed to be a simple election, but turned into a never-ending war—hold strong.
The Judiciary stalled the election, an appeal halted the process, and yet—hope refuses to die.
Because one day, impunity will fall.
And when it does, it won’t be because of backroom deals.
It will be because of the fearless ones—those who refused to let injustice win.
And when that day comes, we won’t just be telling the story. We will be living it.
Disclaimer: The views expressed in this blog are based on publicly available reports and sources. Allegations mentioned are unverified and are referred to as they have been reported. This post is an opinion piece aimed at encouraging dialogue and reflection on the issues discussed. The cases mentioned are subject to ongoing legal processes and investigations, and the information presented is intended for general awareness rather than legal conclusions.
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Judicial power in Uganda is not a divine right handed down to judges in solemn robes. It is borrowed authority from the people, and when borrowed power is abused, the lenders have every right to demand accountability. That is what happened when Ugandans erupted in fury over Justice Douglas Singiza’s decision to adjourn a habeas corpus application, effectively prolonging an already illegal detention.
This was not an internet tantrum—it was a constitutional defense mission, executed in real-time by citizens who understand their rights better than some of the people wearing wigs in courtrooms. Article 126(1) of the Constitution is clear:
Judicial power is derived from the people and shall be exercised in conformity with the law and with values, norms, and aspirations of the people.”
So, when the people declare that a ruling has spat on their constitutional values, they are not just complaining—they are executing their duty to keep judicial power in check.
This is not the first time Singiza has found himself at the center of a human rights disaster. When Kakwenza Rukirabashaija, a novelist and torture victim, applied to retrieve his passport for urgent medical treatment abroad, it was Singiza—then Chief Magistrate at Buganda Road Court—who denied him. His reasoning?
👉 “Ugandan hospitals can handle his condition.”
Imagine suffering broken ribs, festering wounds, and open scars from state torture, only for a judge to declare that a hospital in Wandegeya is sufficient to handle what should be a war crimes case. This is the same judge who, three years later, sends Besigye and Lutale back to illegal detention while he thinks about their habeas corpus plea.
The pattern is now too clear to ignore—delayed justice when it benefits the state, procedural gymnastics when fundamental rights are at stake, and then a full-blown judicial meltdown when the public calls it out.
And how did Singiza react to the backlash? Like a true 21st-century authoritarian—he made the ruling about himself. Instead of addressing the constitutional chaos he created, he spent his precious obiter dicta crying about online criticism.
What’s next? Should Ugandans start seeking judicial permission before commenting on court decisions? Must all legal critiques now be submitted in triplicate, with an affidavit from a Senior Advocate?
This is a dangerous trend—a creeping attempt to criminalize judicial criticism and insulate courts from the same public scrutiny that every other arm of government faces.
The executive is insulted daily. The legislature is mocked in real-time. The military is dragged through the mud.
But the judiciary wants to be untouchable?
In Onyango Obbo & Andrew Mwenda v. Attorney General, the Supreme Court made it clear that public officials—including judges—must tolerate criticism. Free speech does not require politeness, and it is not invalidated because it offends the recipient.
Yet, here we are, watching judges compose emotional victim statements in court rulings instead of defending the Constitution.
This is not judicial independence—this is judicial fragility.
Uganda has reached a crossroads: either the judiciary remembers that it serves the people, or the people will remind it in ways it will never forget. Judicial power, like all borrowed authority, can be reclaimed when misused.
This is not a warning. This is a constitutional reminder.
DISCLAIMER: This blog is not intended to mock or attack the person of the Hon. Justice Douglas Ssingiza. It is commentary on the interesting obiter dicta in the Habeas Corpus Application of Dr. Kizza Besigye and Obeid Lutale vs. Attorney General. The Ruling in that case can be found here:
The New Law Year was supposed to be ceremonial—a chance for the Bench and the Bar to sip tea and pretend they liked each other. Instead, it became a crime scene.
Chief Justice Alfonse Owiny-Dollo, tired of the Uganda Law Society’s relentless attacks, came out swinging. He stood before the nation, fists metaphorically clenched, voice dripping with fury.
At first, he played innocent. Pretended he wasn’t the one who had gagged Isaac Ssemakadde. Then, unable to hold back, he let the truth slip.
“I am the one who ordered that the President of the Uganda Law Society should not speak.”
And then, like a man who had been waiting to explode, he thundered:
“Only a fool, and I really mean it, it is only a fool who abuses you, insults you, dehumanizes you and thinks it will be business as usual. It cannot be business as usual unless you make amends.”
Boom. There it was.
The Judiciary was officially in its feelings.
The message was clear: Bend the knee, apologize, or face consequences.
But here’s the thing—Ssemakadde doesn’t kneel. The Radical New Bar doesn’t beg. And the Uganda Law Society doesn’t send apology cards.
Ssemakadde’s response was swift, brutal, and final:
“The Uganda Law Society doesn’t exist to soothe the Judiciary or assuage its egos. The Uganda Law Society’s role is to protect the Judiciary from Executive Overreach and to ensure public trust in the Judiciary.”
Translation? Cry if you want. The Bar owes you nothing.
THE BUILD-UP TO WAR: THE JUDICIARY’S NEVER-ENDING BLEEDING
This wasn’t just an outburst. This was months of pent-up fury.
The Judiciary had been bleeding out ever since the Radical New Bar declared war on its comfort zone.
Executive Order No. 1 threw the Attorney General and Solicitor General out of the ULS Council.
Executive Order No. 2 announced a Radical Surgery on the Judiciary—no anesthesia, just raw scalpel to the bone.
Executive Order No. 3 didn’t just boycott Justice Musa Ssekana—it excommunicated him from the legal faith.
Justice Ssekana, famous for delivering controversial and contradictory rulings had crossed a dangerous line.
He had blocked ULS elections for its representative to the Judicial Service Commission. Many saw it as blatant Judicial Overreach—the Bench trying to control the Bar.
The Radical New Bar did not take it lightly.
A total boycott of Justice Ssekana’s courtroom. His rulings became legal noise—heard but never taken seriously.
The ULS plaque that once honored him? REVOKED. PUBLICLY DISOWNED. SYMBOLICALLY BURNT.
A whistleblower campaign launched, calling for evidence to have him removed for Judicial Misconduct.
Ssekana was supposed to be finished.
But Uganda’s Judiciary is like a bad magic trick—the more incompetent you are, the higher you rise.
Instead of accountability, Ssekana is now pending vetting for the Court of Appeal.
A man under public investigation for judicial misconduct is being lined up for a promotion.
At this point, the Judiciary wasn’t just bleeding—it was leaking credibility like a sinking ship.
THE KABAZIGURUKA JUDGMENT—WHEN REAL POWER SPOKE, THE JUDICIARY COWERED
But let’s talk about the elephant in the room.
The Uganda Law Society forced the Supreme Court to deliver the Kabaziguruka Judgment on January 31, 2025. It was a victory for the Rule of Law—civilians could no longer be tried in military courts.
The Radical New Bar celebrated.
And then, Gen. Muhoozi Kainerugaba entered the chat.
Uganda’s Chief of Defense Forces. The President’s son. The man who commands tanks, fighter jets, and battle-hardened soldiers.
He wasn’t impressed.
He didn’t file for a review. He didn’t even bother to hide his disgust.
He called the entire Supreme Court “clowns.”
Then, he went further.
“We are coming for you.”
A direct threat. An undeniable challenge.
If any civilian had said this, contempt of court summons would have been printed, signed, and delivered in minutes.
But this was Uganda’s most powerful General.
What did the Judiciary do?
NOTHING.
No warning. No condemnation. No outrage. Just silence.
But when Ssemakadde calls out judicial incompetence? Suddenly, the Judiciary is offended. When Sebaduka criticizes the Bench? Suddenly, they have the power to throw someone in jail.
Muhoozi tells the Supreme Court “we are coming for you,” and they act like they didn’t hear a thing.
But when the Radical New Bar speaks, the Judiciary suddenly remembers how to fight.
THE FINAL SHOWDOWN: THE PUBLIC INQUIRY IS COMING
The Judiciary thought the worst was over? Not even close.
Because Isaac Ssemakadde doesn’t just fight battles—he wages wars.
Last year, he made a promise:
The Uganda Law Society would not wait for the broken, spineless, toothless Judicial Service Commission to act.
No more fake investigations. No more endless excuses. No more allowing compromised institutions to pretend they can police themselves.
The ULS would marshal a PUBLIC COMMISSION OF INQUIRY into the entire Bench.
And he gave the Judicial Service Commission a deadline—January 15, 2025—to furnish a report on its inquiry against Justice Ssekana.
The deadline came and went.
No report. No accountability. Just the same old game of protecting the powerful.
Now, the ULS Governing Council has just completed its retreat. What were they doing? COMBING THROUGH PUBLICLY GATHERED EVIDENCE AGAINST JUSTICE SSEKANA.
Evidence gathered as a result of Executive Order No. 3.
The Judiciary wanted a fight? Now, it has a full-scale public investigation coming straight for its doorstep.
And the Chief Justice still expects an apology?
The ULS will not apologize to a judge they have been investigating for potential removal.
The Judiciary wanted a war. Now, it’s getting one.
The horns are locked. The trenches are dug. The battle lines are drawn.
And if the Judiciary thought the Radical New Bar was dangerous before?
They haven’t seen anything yet.
This is no longer just a legal fight. This is institutional. This is existential. This is irreversible.
Brace yourselves. 2025 is about to be the most explosive year in Ugandan legal history.
NO APOLOGIES. NO COMPROMISES. NO MERCY.
JUSTICE WILL PREVAIL.
DISCLAIMER: This Blog is not intended to ridicule or attack the persons of the Honorable Chief Justice Alfonse Chigamoi Owiny Dollo, the Hon. Justice Musa Ssekana. It is purely public commentary on the spat that happened at the opening of the New Law Year at the Supreme Court, Kampala.
The information contained in this Blog is not intended to be used as Legal advice. The author accepts no liability for injury arising from using the information contained in the Blog as Legal Advice. Readers are advised to seek the services of a qualified attorney in their area of Jurisdiction to deal with specific scenarios.
Do you have a story that would contribute to the Rule of Law discussion that you want us to write about? Reach out to us at ambrosenen@gmail.com
The Supreme Court has spoken. The revolution has won. The military courts are finished. It took 25 years of legal battles, endless delays, and the relentless fire of Uganda’s most radical legal minds, but justice has finally arrived. And when it came, it wasn’t subtle. It came with the full force of the Constitution, a gavel so loud it could shake the foundations of every military courtroom still pretending to be a temple of justice.
This is not just a legal victory; it is a demolition job on a long-standing abuse of power. It is the final nail in the coffin for a system that has for decades terrorized civilians, dragging them before military tribunals as if they were rogue soldiers, silencing dissent under the guise of national security. And the Supreme Court? Oh, the Supreme Court delivered its judgment with flair, with humor, and with the kind of clarity that leaves no room for debate.
Chief Justice Owiny-Dollo, ever the master of courtroom theatre, laid it all bare in ways that had the entire legal fraternity both laughing and nodding in agreement. Imagine a Uganda where he, a civilian, is picked to lead a military brigade to guard the war-torn eastern border with the DRC. Imagine him, clad in combat gear, barking orders to soldiers while probably asking them which way to point a gun. Or worse—picture him in a hospital theatre, standing over an unconscious patient, scalpel in hand, completely clueless about whether he’s holding a kidney or a liver. Madness, right? Exactly. That, he said, is the absurdity of putting untrained military officers in charge of dispensing justice.
This was the point where even the most rigid courtroom observer had to chuckle. But beneath the humor was a devastating truth: military courts are tribunals run by people without the first clue about judicial procedure, yet they have spent years presiding over cases, handing down life sentences and convictions like they were distributing rations at a military mess. The Chief Justice didn’t mince his words. The Constitution was clear, and so was the Court—military justice is for military personnel, period. Civilians have no business being tried there.
And yet, as the judgment was delivered, there was another remarkable moment. Counsel Caleb Alaka, one of Uganda’s legal firebrands, stood up and did something few saw coming—he apologized. On behalf of the Uganda Law Society, he expressed regret for the extreme activism, the relentless pressure, the public letters, the weekly legal firebombs the Radical New Bar had been hurling at the Supreme Court, demanding action. The judges listened, some perhaps amused, others with the quiet satisfaction of warriors who had just emerged victorious in a long and bloody intellectual battle.
The apology was sincere, but let’s be honest—this war was necessary. The Radical New Bar, under the fearless and uncompromising leadership of Isaac K. Ssemakadde, fought like hell to make this ruling happen. The legal establishment had long grown too comfortable, too resigned to waiting indefinitely for judgments while civilians continued to be dragged before military tribunals. The RNB was having none of it. Weekly press conferences, legal activism so sharp it cut through the silence, direct challenges to judicial inertia—this was lawfare at its finest. And in the end, the pressure worked.
The judgment is now out, and the message is clear: no more military courts for civilians. No more kangaroo justice. No more legal intimidation. If the army wants to try someone, that person better be wearing a uniform. Otherwise, they belong in the courts of law established by the Constitution. And for those still clinging to the old ways, still hoping that military justice can be used as a tool of fear and suppression? Pack up your case files. Your era is over.
For the Uganda People’s Defence Forces, the ruling leaves no room for negotiation. Civilians currently facing trial in military courts must be released. Every ongoing case must be dropped. Any attempt to defy this ruling will not just be illegal—it will be suicidal. The ULS and the RNB are watching. The Supreme Court is watching. And the Ugandan people, tired of impunity, will not tolerate another second of this nonsense.
Parliament? Time to clean house. The UPDF Act needs to be amended—immediately. Those loopholes that allowed military courts to overstep their jurisdiction must be sealed permanently. No more ambiguity, no more exploitation of civilians through legal gymnastics. This ruling has set the standard, now it’s up to lawmakers to ensure the law reflects it. And the Executive? The President, the Attorney General, the Director of Public Prosecutions—they need to act. Not tomorrow, not next week. Now.
For those who still think this is just another ruling, another judgment to be ignored or manipulated—think again. This is the beginning of a new era. The days when military courts were used as tools of intimidation are gone. The days when civilians had to fear being hauled before unqualified military judges who don’t know the difference between fair trial rights and a parade drill are gone. This is what victory looks like.
Uganda’s legal profession will never be the same. The Supreme Court has reaffirmed its place in history. The Radical New Bar has cemented its reputation as the most effective force for legal accountability in modern Uganda. And the Constitution? It has won. The rule of law has won. Justice has won.
Enen Ambrose is a Rule of Law enthusiast and a supporter of the firebrand president of the Uganda Law Society, Isaac K Ssemakade.
Disclaimer: This write up is for informational purposes only and should not be taken as a substitute for professional legal advice. Readers are advised to seek the services of a qualified attorney in their area of Jurisdiction for situation specific legal advice and course of action.
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In the dead of night, in the shadow of suburban homes, a quiet crisis unfolds—a crisis so pervasive, so searing, that its scars are too often ignored. It’s the story of the forgotten, the unseen: the domestic workers who scrub our floors, cook our meals, and care for our children. But behind their tireless work lies an underbelly of exploitation, a cycle of pain and resentment that breeds unimaginable cruelty.
Photo Credit: Daily Monitor, Uganda
Imagine a child, no older than a toddler, helplessly crying out as a maid—someone entrusted with their safety—lashes out in violence. It isn’t fiction. It’s the stark reality of Uganda today. Jolly Tumuhiirwe, the maid filmed mercilessly torturing a toddler in 2014, became the face of a brutal phenomenon. Her face, twisted in anger, her hands raised to strike—captured in grainy footage that would haunt us forever. It was not just the horrifying sight of a child being brutalized. It was the image of a system so broken, it allowed this cruelty to flourish in the first place.
Tumuhiirwe’s vile act was far from an isolated incident. In 2017, Juliet Nanyonjo, another maid, was caught on camera strangling a six-month-old infant she was hired to look after. The infant’s desperate gasps for air were a harrowing cry for help from a child unable to protect themselves from the violence of someone whose very job was to nurture and care. This was not an isolated act of brutality; this was the outcry of a broken system, where the emotional toll on domestic workers pushed them to lash out at the most vulnerable—children who had no voice, no power.
But why do these workers, often women themselves, turn to such extremes? Why is it that some—just a few—feel the need to vent their anger and frustration on children? To truly understand this, we must peel back the layers of systemic failure that lead to these horrors.
A System That Breeds Violence: How Abuse is Manufactured
At the core of this problem lies a system that has long neglected the rights and humanity of domestic workers. These women—many of them mothers, daughters, and sisters—are tasked with the most sensitive of duties: caring for our families. Yet, their labor is often undervalued, their working conditions unbearable, and their voices silenced.
Imagine working 12 to 16 hours a day, with no set break, no proper compensation, and no respect. Picture living in overcrowded, unkempt quarters, with no privacy or dignity. And for those who dare speak out, the threat of being replaced by another desperate soul looms large. This is the grim reality for many domestic workers. They are often invisible—seen only as tools to be used and discarded at will.
And when their bodies and spirits are worn thin by exhaustion and mistreatment, it is the children who bear the brunt of their anger. Those innocent beings, who trust in the adults around them, become the objects of misplaced rage. When a maid tortures a child, it is not just an individual act of cruelty—it is the product of years of exploitation, neglect, and emotional trauma. Workers who are constantly under pressure, constantly treated as subhuman, inevitably break. The violence is not a reflection of their inherent nature but a symptom of a broken system that has pushed them to the edge.
The Minimum Wage Debate: A Dead End for Reform
The absence of a minimum wage in Uganda is more than just a legal issue—it’s a crisis in human dignity. Domestic workers are paid a pittance for the backbreaking work they perform. Often, they receive far less than a living wage, and their hours are unregulated. This leaves them vulnerable not only to economic exploitation but also to psychological and emotional abuse. With little hope of earning a decent living, many domestic workers are forced to stay in situations that drain them of their energy, their spirit, and their will to continue.
The Employment Bill, which was meant to address this issue, has been languishing in Parliament for years. Despite proposals for minimum wages, regulated working hours, and better working conditions, the bill has failed to pass into law. This failure is not just a legislative oversight; it is a moral failure—a failure to protect the most vulnerable members of our society.
Without a legal framework that guarantees fair wages and basic protections, domestic workers are left at the mercy of their employers. And when an employer turns a blind eye to their well-being, or worse, exploits them for financial gain, the worker becomes a ticking time bomb—her anger and frustration building to a breaking point. The result is often tragic.
How Other Jurisdictions Have Tackled the Issue
The abuse of domestic workers is not a problem unique to Uganda. Countries around the world have struggled with similar issues, but many have taken significant steps to address the systemic exploitation of domestic workers. And while no system is perfect, these reforms serve as a reminder that change is not only possible—it is necessary.
1. The Philippines: As one of the largest exporters of domestic labor, the Philippines has long grappled with issues of abuse against domestic workers. In response, the country passed Republic Act No. 10361 (the Domestic Workers Act), which provides protections for workers, including fair wages, regulated working hours, and the right to safe working conditions. This law also mandates that workers receive at least one day off per week, paid holidays, and protection from abuse.
2. United Arab Emirates (UAE): The UAE has a significant population of migrant domestic workers, many from Southeast Asia and Africa. In 2017, the UAE introduced the Domestic Workers Law, which provides workers with a minimum wage, regulated hours, and protections against physical and verbal abuse. The law also requires that workers’ salaries be paid on time, and that they receive rest periods during their shifts.
3. South Africa: In 2013, South Africa passed the Basic Conditions of Employment Act (BCEA), which extended labor protections to domestic workers. This legislation set limits on working hours, mandated paid leave, and established a minimum wage for domestic workers. This law has been a landmark victory in the fight for labor rights, ensuring that domestic workers are no longer treated as second-class citizens.
4. Brazil: In Brazil, the Domestic Workers’ Law of 2013 was a groundbreaking reform that extended labor protections to domestic workers. This law guarantees workers the right to a minimum wage, paid leave, overtime pay, and a regulated workweek. It was a significant step forward in recognizing the rights of domestic workers and ensuring their dignity and well-being.
These examples show us that meaningful reforms are not only possible—they are essential. By enacting similar laws in Uganda, we can begin to create a system that values domestic workers, protects them from abuse, and provides them with the dignity they deserve.
ILO’s Role and International Legal Framework
Uganda is a signatory to several international treaties that address the rights of domestic workers. Among these is the International Labour Organization (ILO) Convention No. 189 on Domestic Workers, adopted in 2011. This treaty sets out comprehensive labor rights for domestic workers, including the right to decent working conditions, protection from abuse, and the right to fair pay. It requires member states to implement laws that regulate working hours, establish minimum wages, and provide protections against exploitation.
Uganda, like many countries, has yet to fully integrate these protections into its national laws. While the Employment Bill has been proposed, the failure to enact it into law leaves domestic workers vulnerable to mistreatment and exploitation. The ILO Convention No. 189 calls on governments to ensure that domestic workers enjoy the same rights as other workers, and Uganda must live up to these obligations.
The Universal Declaration of Human Rights also provides a framework for protecting the dignity and rights of all workers, including domestic workers. Article 23 of the declaration states that everyone has the right to work in favorable conditions, receive equal pay for equal work, and enjoy the right to rest and leisure. Uganda must heed these global standards and enact reforms that protect domestic workers from abuse and ensure that their labor is properly valued.
Empathy Over Abuse: How We Can Break the Cycle
The cycle of abuse must end. But to break it, we must address the root causes. We must recognize that domestic workers are not disposable. They are not invisible. They are human beings deserving of the same rights, the same respect, and the same protections as any other worker.
To the employers of Uganda: How long will we continue to dehumanize the very individuals who care for our children, cook our meals, and clean our homes? How long will we let the vulnerability of these workers be exploited for our benefit? Empathy cannot be an afterthought. It must be the foundation of our treatment of domestic workers. They are not machines to be used and discarded. They are women, mothers, daughters, sisters. Their pain is real, their anger justified. When they lash out, it is because they have been ignored for far too long. The time for kindness, respect, and justice is now.
To Hon. Betty Amongi, the Minister of Gender, Labour and Social Development, and the Parliament of Uganda: The time to act is now. The Employment Bill must no longer be allowed to gather dust in the corridors of Parliament. We demand that this bill be passed into law, that it provide a minimum wage, regulated working hours, and comprehensive protections for domestic workers. If we continue to let these workers be exploited, we are complicit in their suffering. The stories of maids breaking down, of children tortured, of lives shattered, will not fade. They will only grow louder. **
About Author.
ENEN AMBROSE
The Author is a Rule of Law enthusiast, an Advocate of the Courts of Judicature and a believer in progressive realization of full enjoyment of social, political and economic rights by all peoples.
DISCLAIMER:
All information here is only intended to provide information and to spark public discourse on the subject. No part of this Blog Post is intended to be used as Legal Advice. The author accepts no responsibility for any loss or injury arising from the use of the information contained in this post as Legal Advice. Readers are strongly encouraged to consult with a qualified attorney in their areas of Jurisdiction for situation specific advice and appropriate course of action.
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Without the Rule of Law, chaos shall reign, A nation adrift, drowning in pain. The President speaks with pride and flair, Banning bond and bail, without a care. But hear this now, hear it loud, The law is not a weapon for the proud! Chief Justice, rise, your gavel is strong, The law must lead, not bend to wrong. Disregard the whispers, disregard the call, For justice must stand, above them all!
Kale Kayihura once ruled with fear, A terror of torture, pain, and tear. But when the law turned, his empire crumbled, The mighty fell, their lies stumbled. Now, IGP, do not cower to power, You must guard the law, every hour! The President may demand, but you know the truth— Justice, not politics, must be the proof. You hold the line, between peace and strife, Do not let tyranny consume our life.
Amama Mbabazi, the crafty man, With whispers and wires, his plans began. But the law, sharp as a blade, cut him through, Exposing his schemes, bringing him to view. Now, let this be the lesson, loud and clear, The law cannot be twisted by fear. So, let the courts rise, let justice shine, For without the law, there’s no peace, no line.
Ssemakadde has spoken, a voice so true, Corruption must fall, but human rights too! The President may ban, may shout, may roar, But the law is the shield we must restore! So lawyers, rise! Stand with boldness and grace, For in the law, we find our place. Defend the weak, defend the right, For justice is the beacon, shining bright!
The time is now, the call is clear, Stand firm, stand tall, without fear. For if we fall, the people will cry, But if we stand, justice will never die! Bail may be banned, bond cast aside, But the law—the law—must always guide!
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