Tag: Human Rights

EPISODE 5: THE KENYAN MIRROR

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

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

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

I. THE FOREIGN SEED

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

By work ethic he was almost useless.

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

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

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

II. THE COMMISSION OF THE INCOMPETENT

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

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

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

Miller exploded:

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

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

The mission succeeded. Njonjo was politically crushed.

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

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

The ancestors were already laughing.

III. THE HABEAS CORPUS THAT MILLER STRANGLED

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IV. THE JUDGE WHO FIRED A JUDGE

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

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

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

O’Connor defied it.

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

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

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

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

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

V. THE PARKING LOT

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

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

The policemen called the Commissioner of Police.

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

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

He placed one shoe on his head.

And he marched again.

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

“Nyayo! Nyayo!”

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

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

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

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

The real cause was the ancestors’ audit.

VI. THE ANCESTORS’ AUDIT

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

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

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

But the ancestors had their way.

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

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

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

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

VII. HOW THEN SHALL WE LIVE?

So we return to the question.

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

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

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

But we also live knowing this:

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

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

So how shall we live?

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

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

And we leave the rest to them.

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

Episode 6 drops tomorrow. 5 PM.

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

#TheUnbuiltGranary #KenyanMirror #AskIt #OjedeCii

—

[End of Episode 5]

March 22, 2026
EPISODE 4: HOW THEN SHALL WE LIVE? Owera Apur’s supplication to ancestral justice.

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

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

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

Now we arrive at the question no constitution can answer.

Of invocations, supplication to the ancestors!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Episode 5 drops tomorrow. 5 PM.

[End of Episode 4]

March 21, 2026
EPISODE 2: CHRONICLES OF ABONGODERO VILLAGE, THE CONSTITUTIONAL GRANARY.

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

NOW LIFT YOUR EYES FROM THE VILLAGE.

In 1995, Uganda built a granary.

It was called the Constitution. The Constituent Assembly, our Owera, sweated over it. They filled it with grains, cereals and legumes: independence, fairness, accountability, public trust. They stored enough justice to last generations.

Then they handed the keys to Parliament and said:

“Guard this. Build walls around it. Regulate who enters, who eats, who guards. Pass laws to guide the President and the Judicial Service Commission in appointing, disciplining, and removing judicial officers.“

That was the command. Clear. Deliberate. Unambiguous, store the nation’s granary of justice to feed generations and posterity.

For thirty years, Parliament has done what the villagers of Abongodero did.

They admired the granary.

They walked around it. They named committees after it. They photocopied the Constitution into the Judicial Service Commission Act, sprinkled it with procedure, some insidous confidentiality and went home. They called that a good day’s job and pocketed fat salaries for dereliction of duty.

They left the rest to the Commission.

And what is this Commission?

A body composed largely of insiders. Judges. Judicial actors. The Attorney General, the government’s chief defender, seated comfortably in a structure that decides the fate of judges who sometimes rule against his own client.

It is as if Owera had not only handed Anyapo the keys, but appointed Anyapo’s hungriest siblings as the oversight committee to stop him from collecting excessive grains from the granary.

Friends regulating friends.

Parliament granted access. Parliament abandoned responsibility.

And Okello entered.

BEHOLD THE SEVEN FAMINES

1. The Shs 763 Billion “Justice Tax”

The Inspectorate of Government’s 2021 “Cost of Corruption” report estimated that Ugandan court users paid Shs 763 billion in bribes—43% of the 2019 justice sector budget.

Why?

Because Parliament never built the walls. The 2025 Regulations ensure that bribery does not lead to a judicial officer’s automatic removal. It whispers. It negotiates. It retires quietly with benefits.

At any judiciary function, you will hear rhetorical sloganeering about zero tolerance to corruption. The truth is the leadership and the whole institution preaches water and drinks wine. The structure of the Judicial Service Regulations, 2025 creates elite favors for the Judge, Registrars and the Magistrates.

We hunt “small thieves” in the civil service while the gatekeepers negotiate their exit through cabalist legislation.

2. The Incompetence Shield

A High Court judge can be removed for incompetence.

But for magistrates, the men and women deciding the everyday fate of boda riders, widows, and shopkeepers, incompetence does not lead to automatic removal. Parliament has allowed a regime where the “big fish” are fired for failing, but the “small sharks” are legally protected and recycled.

Why are judicial officers more “special” than nurses, teachers, engineers or lawyers in the civil service or private sector who are fired the moment they prove incompetent?

Because Parliament never built the walls.

3. The “Two-Man” Recruitment Cartel

Parliament’s silence allowed the Judicial Service Commission to create committees where the quorum is a mere two people, less than 50% of the committee.

The entire future of Uganda’s Bench can now be decided by two individuals in a private room, bypassing the multi-stakeholder wisdom the Constitution mandates.

Two people.

Deciding who judges you.

And Parliament watches.

4. The Executive “Pocket Veto”

Under Section 13(6) of the Act, no judge can be disciplined unless the Attorney General, the government’s own lawyer, is physically present.

By simply not showing up, the Executive holds a de facto veto over judicial accountability.

The government’s defender decides whether the judges who rule against the government face discipline.

You do not need a law degree to smell this rot.

5. Criminalizing Transparency

Instead of “open justice,” Parliament enacted Sections 17 and 23, making it a criminal offense to disclose Judicial Service Commission records without permission.

They didn’t just fail to build the granary.

They made it a crime to look inside and see what is being stolen.

6. The “Non-Accountable” Ghost Tier

By failing to define “Judicial Officer” properly, the law creates a phantom tier of Registrars, Deputy Registrars, Assistant Registrars, Chief Magistrates and Tribunal actors who exercise power over citizens but are legally insulated from oversight.

They have the power of a judge.

They have the accountability of a ghost.

7. The Commission That Judges Itself

The Judicial Service Commission receives complaints. Investigates them. Prosecutes them. Hears them. Decides them.

Investigator. Prosecutor. Judge. Jury.

All in one hut.

We are warned about such concentration of power. But warnings without legislative correction are like a quarrel of drunkards at the village square.

Parliament heard the warning.

Parliament did nothing.

AND WHEN THE VILLAGERS COMPLAINED…

When the Uganda Law Society, noisy, stubborn, unapologetic and unyielding, attempted to intervene?

Injunctions.
Uncause-listed petitions.
Elections stalled.
Appointments to the Judiciary proceeded like wedding ceremonies that will not wait for objections.

The granary was gutted politely.

“SHUT UP! YOU ARE GIVING US TRAUMA”

At the 2026 New Law Year, Chief Justice Flavian Zeija warned that social media attacks on judges would not be tolerated. Online criticism, he said, causes trauma and will be crushed.

Trauma from tweets?

Try the trauma of five years on remand while your case gathers dust.
Try the trauma of losing ancestral land because you cannot afford a surveyor.
Try the trauma of watching a bribe walk free while your child rots in detention.

The Uganda Law Society replied, correctly, that scrutiny is constitutional oxygen.

But the Chief Justice’s instinct was not an accident.

It was Okello Anyapo protesting demands for answers when Uncle Apur required answers for the granary that was depleted because he gave access without regulation. He permitted Anyapo to eat without brakes.

Because the elders of Abongodero reminded Apur that the roots of accountability are bitter but the fruits are sweet!.

[End of Episode 2]

March 19, 2026
EPISODE 1: THE LEGEND OF ABONGODERO

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There is a village called Abongodero. Abongodero means without a granary.

The villagers named it after Mzee Zakayo’s ingenuity.

Zakayo was clever. He never built a granary of his own. Instead, he raised cattle, fat bulls, glossy heifers. When hunger season approached, he would walk to a farmer whose granaries groaned with millet and offer a bull in exchange for rights to a certain number of storehouses. Enough to feed his household. Enough to impress the neighbors.

The arrangement was sealed with a handshake. Everyone knew Zakayo’s cattle. Everyone knew he paid.

The villagers admired him.

“..Look at Zakayo!..”they whispered around evening fires. “He eats from granaries he never built!“

They admired him so much that they named the village after his ingenuity.

Abongodero.

A photo of a granary. Credit. Uganda Today: from article: A testament to tradition: the art of grain in Uganda’s homesteads by Chris Kato.

But abundance has a wicked sense of humor.

Zakayo’s children grew up knowing which families owed them food, which granaries bore their father’s mark. They inherited cattle, but not discipline. They inherited the right to eat, but not the wisdom to plant.

One of them was Okello Anyapo.

Anyapo. The lazy one.

Okello inherited land so fertile it blushed when rain touched it. Black soil. Generous soil. Soil that would have yielded harvests his grandfather never imagined.

But his hoe remained smooth. His fields grew weeds tall enough to vote.

When hunger came, Okello blamed the sun for burning too bright. He blamed the rain for falling too hard. He blamed the ancestors for not speaking loudly enough. He blamed everyone except his idle hands.

Across the stream lived Owera Apur.

Apur the Farmer.

He did not give speeches about productivity. He simply woke before the rooster finished its gossip. He dug. He planted. He weeded. He waited. His granary stood behind his hut like a quiet monument to repetition.

He had no cattle to trade. He had only his back, his hands, and his patience.

His granary stood full.

Proof that the land was never the problem.

Then hunger came like a leopard.

The families who once owed Zakayo’s children had rebuilt their stores. They no longer needed cattle. They needed their millet for themselves.

Okello’s inheritance could not be traded for what no one would sell.

Hunger clawed him thin.

He crossed the stream.

“Uncle,” he said. “We are blood. Remember Father Zakayo? The village bears witness to his name.”

In Lango, dignity comes before shame. Owera sighed. He looked at his granary—full from seasons of sweat.

He opened the door.

“Enter,”he said. “Take what you need.”

Not ownership. Not supervision. Not rules.

Just access.

Okello entered empty and emerged round.

He returned the next day. And the next. Soon he stopped pretending to farm at all.

Why sweat when sacks yawn open?
Why ration when no one counts?
Why plant when the granary door never closes?

By planting season, Owera opened his store to prepare for the rains.

It echoed like a drum.

Empty.

When confronted, Okello adjusted his waistband and smiled.

“You allowed me.“
“There were no rules.“
“I merely accessed.”

And that is how Abongodero learned what their ancestors should have known:

You never send a starving man to the granary.

[End of Episode 1]

Stay tuned and on the look out for Episode 2 of the legend of Abongodero.

March 18, 2026
LET MY LAWYERS GO!, the National Legal Education Center Bill and the Independence Journey of Uganda’s Legal Profession.

In Pharaoh’s Uganda, dreams bleed at the Law Development Centre’s gates. In 2024 alone, over 1,500 aspiring lawyers were barred from the Bar Course—a tenth plague, slaughtering futures.

“The state’s iron whip chains. lawyers to bake bricks for tyranny rather than wield shields for the people.”

To the village Barraza, this is no mere law school tale. It is a war for justice: bills rise, warriors roar. Will the National Legal Examinations Centre Bill 2025 free Uganda’s advocates—or forge fresh shackles?

The Brickyard of Colonial Chains

Before independence, the British Pharaoh feared lawyers. In the 1940s, Apollo Milton Obote’s law scholarship was blocked; The British did not want him or someone from Lango to study law at the time. He later championed the struggle for Uganda’s independence alongside other nationalists like I.K Musaazi and Jolly Joe Kiwanuka, among others. The political Independence came in 1962, but lawyers remained baking bricks, facilitating dictatorship rather than defending rights.

Image: Dr. Apollo Milton Obote. Former Primer Minister and first Executive President of Uganda.

The 1956 Uganda Law Society, Act, Cap 305, chained lawyers in Pharaoh’s brick yard, crushing their independence and autonomy by imposing state law officers, the Attorney General and Solicitor their governing council. This effectively led to state capture, aligning the legal profession with the colonial power’s interests instead of advancing the rights of the colonized peoples. The 1970 Advocates Act, Cap 295 further entrenched the chains: the Law Council, chaired by a judge who is appointed by the Attorney General after consultation with the Chief Justice. Other state law officers, the Solicitor General, a Chief Magistrate and only 3 lawyers, their president, and 2 others elected by them, a token of independence. Yet this substantially unelected group of powerful officials controlled eligibility, Bar exams, and disciplinary powers.

The initial denial of Martha Karua a temporary license by the Ugandan Law Council and the reasons which it gave should tell you my dear reader everything else you need to know about the state of the independence of Uganda’s Legal Profession.

Read more about it here.

Reflections of the Uganda Law Council’s Refusal to License Martha Karua by Enen Ambrose at Enen Legal World.

“Independence and autonomy for the lawyers remained but only a cruel mirage.”

The Global Commandment: Let My Lawyers Go!

In 1990, the UN Congress in Havana thundered: the Basic Principles on the Role of Lawyers, echoing Exodus 5:1 “Let my lawyers go!” Principle 24 demanded self-governing, autonomous professional associations.

The International Bar Association’s Standards echoed this, decreeing in Article 17 that lawyer associations must be independent, their councils freely chosen without state interference. Article 18 makes this crystal clear:

“The functions of the appropriate lawyers’ association in ensuring the independence of the legal profession shall be inter alia: (h) to promote a high standard of legal education as a prerequisite for entry into the profession and the continuing education of lawyers, and to educate the public regarding the role of a Lawyers’ Association.”

Again, to the village Barraza, let me break this down into what my “A” Level economics teacher, Mr. Stanley Lukera, taught us, the “grandmother’s approach”: the Uganda Law Society, whose leaders are elected by the members, the lawyers themselves, must be the body responsible for setting academic standards for entry into the legal profession. That means setting and/or advocating for high-quality law school curricula, Bar exam requirements, or other qualifications before one can serve as an advocate.

Yet Uganda’s Pharaoh only sneered. The Law Council and ULS Act stood firm, chaining lawyers to state whims. The village Barraza waited for defenders, but lawyers, bound by Pharaoh’s overseers, could not rise.

The People’s Covenant Ignored

In 1995, Uganda’s people, the ultimate consumers of justice, struck a covenant in their Constitution. National Objectives and Directive Principles of State Policy, Paragraphs II(vi) and V(ii) XX declared that non-governmental bodies like the Uganda Law Society (ULS) must retain autonomy to champion human rights, their independence guaranteed by the state. Five years after the UN and IBA commandments, the people demanded their lawyers be freed to hold power accountable, to defend Mityana widows from land grabs, Soroti youths from unjust arrests, Mbale vendors from cheating landlords.

But Pharaoh’s heart hardened, as in Exodus 8:15. The state clutched the legal profession tighter, wielding the Law Development Centre (LDC) as its slave-pit. With nearly 20 universities churning out law graduates, LDC remained the sole gatekeeper of the Post-Graduate Diploma in Legal Practice, its infrastructure crumbling under the weight. Pre-entry exams, meant to manage capacity, became another lash, while quality control at universities was a paper tiger.

Plagues of the Slave-Pit

The LDC’s tyranny rained plagues on aspiring lawyers, not the state. Failure rates soared to 90% in 2021 and several other years. Dreams shattered like stolen straw. Sex-for-marks scandals led to the expulsion of Academic Registrar Everest Turyakihayo, in 2022; a stain on justice’s robe.

Supplementary exam fees bled students, parents, guardians, spouses, boyfriends, and sugar daddies dry in millions of shillings for a second chance at Pharaoh’s mercy. Then came the tenth plague, the killing blow: in 2024, LDC barred over 1,500 qualified applicants from the Bar Course, admitting only 1,260 of 2,600, citing “limited resources”. Like the death of Egypt’s firstborn in Exodus 11:1-10, this was no mere setback; it was a massacre of futures, a cry that pierced the heavens.

Yet some struck back. In 2017, Gulu and Cavendish graduates denied exams thumpchested and invited Pharaoh to the wrestling ring in Asiimwe Alex Byaruhanga & 12 Ors v Law Council & 3 Ors. Justice Wolayo thundered:

“Law Council’s block was arbitrary and irrational.”

The court quashed the ban, imposed permanent injunctions, and awarded 20 million UGX each. This blog is dedicated to among others, these courageous lawyers who walked through Pharaoh’s furnace and are now fine practicing Advocates.

Even public figures were not spared: Kyagulanyi Robert Ssentamu Alias Bobi Wine’s Cavendish University degree faced state scrutiny pre-graduation, proof Pharaoh’s heart hardens even against the popular. The musician turned leader of the National Unity Platform (NUP), Uganda’s largest opposition political party told members of the press shortly after his graduation that “When news came out that I was set to graduate, the usual detractors got busy and made every effort to stop me,” he said. “Some people, ostensibly working for the regime and other detractors, went as far as petitioning the National Council for Higher Education.” He added “NCHE officials went to the University and demanded for every document regarding my studies… It was a very detailed and intense investigation,

Pharaoh’s Whip extends beyond Law, it bites real flesh.

Pharaoh’s tyranny isn’t just legislative—it’s flesh and blood. At the 20th #RNBLive Series, Yours truly had the lived experience of delivering the speech of the ULS President Isaac K. Ssemakadde’s speech. A copy of that speech is attached and A video of it is also attached. The modern Aaron, spoke fire:

“Advocate Abed Nasser Mudyobole… forcibly disappeared by state security. His abduction echoes the tyranny that hunted Njuba, Kayondo, Sebutozi, Ayigihugu. Lawyers who defend the Constitution, who question power, are enemies to be silenced.”

Author delivering the speech of the ULS President Isaac K. Ssemakadde on 29th May 2025 at the ULS House, Kampala.

The courts shackle ULS blocking meetings (Kirima v ULS, 2024), Halting lawyers Constitutional voices at the Judicial Service Commission with appeals arising thereform under perpetual abeyance decisions (Mugisha v ULS), sentencing ULS President Isaac Ssemakadde in February, 2025 for criticizing a judge.

Bakampa: Vision for Job-Ready Lawyers

From LDC’s ashes rose Bakampa Brian Baryaguma. His Legal Education and Training Bill 2024:

Decentralizes Bar training to universities

Infuses practical skills: drafting, moots, clerkship

Mandates one-year pupillage and national Bar exam

Repeals the LDC Act

“No more paying twice for one loaf. Lawyers ready to defend the people.”

National Legal Examinations Centre Bill 2025: Red Sea or New Shackles?

ULS President Isaac K. Ssemakadde, mirroring Moses and Aaron, long campaigned against LDC. He demanded that it be abolished way back in 2021 in his address to Law Students at Makerere University. In what appeared to be a fit of rage, LDC reacted by blocking Ssemakadde on its X handle.

When news broke out that Cabinet had drafted the National Legal Examinations Centre Bill, 2025, the Radical New Bar President asked on whether LDC will unblock him?

Image: Isaac K. Ssemakadde asked if LDC would unblock him after the bill proposing its abolition as he had suggested was made public by the Solicitor General. Credit, Isaac Ssemakadde’s X (formerly Twitter handle)

The bill proposes to free the Post Graduate Bar Diploma in Legal Practice from LDC, and shut it down completely, but Pharaoh’s hand still grips:

Attorney General, a cabinet minister and political appointee, appoints Director of the center on the recommendation of the governing council & the chairperson of the governing Council itself (Clauses 17 and 8 respectively). This erodes the corporate governance principles in Clause 19 of the Bill.

The Attorney General can remove council members, set rules, and determine fees for services of the centre

The risk of elite and exclusionary political capture remains real. The ghosts of exorbitant fees, especially supplementary Examinations which sucked all stakeholders dry, should not be allowed to lurk after abolition of LDC.

“The legal profession stands at the Red Sea. Will it walk through freely or be recaptured?”

Call to Arms: Strike the Red Sea!

To defend justice, rights, and the Rule of Law, the following MUST BE DONE NOW to prevent lawyers from being captured and tamed “young” and moulded into frightened cowards who cannot foster accountability.

1. Let the ULS Command– ULS and not a state law officer should appoint the NLEC Director & Council.

2. Skills Fuse – Bakampa’s model in university curricula: drafting, moots, clerkship. The doctors and engineers have proven that you don’t need to pay twice for the same loaf.

3. Fees Free; The Council should retain a higher autonomy to set fees and, in collaboration with ULS, set academic and examination criteria and standards

A group of lawyers trained through fear, intimidation, and heavy involvement of state law officers loses the courage to fight for the Mityana widows, Soroti youths, and Mbale vendors: lawyers must rise bravely and fearlessly. The rule of law suffers gravely, and so does the effective functioning of the justice system as a whole.

Strike the Red Sea! Free ULS! #LetMyLawyersGo

“Pharaoh may harden his heart, but justice and truth can’t be enslaved forever.”

You, dear reader, should participate heavily in freeing your rights defenders, call up the big people you know, Your area member of parliament, your Dean, faculty of Law, your ULS region’s Council member and demand that “they strike the Red Sea” and implement these recommendations so that your rights defenders, the lawyers gain full autonomy and independence.

#Strike the Red Sea!

#Let My Lawyers Go!

This Blog is dedicated to the fearless champions of a better legal education and a better legal practice regulation in Uganda. Bakampa Brian Baryaguma, the author of the Legal Education and Training Bill who personally granted me the copyrights to quote his works extensively. His journey in the struggle has been chronicle by him on his personal Blog at https://huntedthinker.blogspot.com/https://huntedthinker.blogspot.com/?m=1. I strongly encourage readers to visit his Blog and support his rallying call for members of the Public to contribute views on his bill which is attached:

Legal Education and Training Bill, 2024 – Draft 3 Download

as well as the version presented by the cabinet, which is attached below:

THE NATIONAL LEGAL EXAMINATIONS BILL, 2025 (1)Download

President of Uganda Law Society, Isaac K. Ssemakadde for prophesying the eventual shut down of LDC, being blocked by the same institution on X (formerly twitter), expelling the Attorney General and Solicitor General from the governing council of the ULS via RNB Executive Order No. 1 of 2024 and earlier on filing a Constitutional Petition, which canvases the international law framework that has been presented and is still pending judgment by the Constitutional Court. My personal prayers are with you as you endure the pain of self exile for tackling the challenges of the legal profession from the root cause. May the good Lord protect you and touch the justices of the Constitutional Court for a just decision.

This blog is further dedicated to the lawyers who engaged the legal system in the journey to reform the legal system, namely Pius Nuwagaba, Asiimwe Alex Byaruhanga, and his 12 colleagues for challenging the Law Council head on. Your struggles curated this milestone and led the legal profession, especially intending Advocates to now arrive at the Red Sea, waiting to strike the waters to open up the sea, to cross and permanently ensure the independence and full autonomy of the Legal Profession.

Finally, each and every lawyer, member of the public who added embers to the revolutionary fire to free the legal profession, parents, Judges who rendered justice, you all stood on the right side of history, may God bless you.

Enen Ambrose, the author, is an Advocate and member of the inaugural Judicial Affairs Committee of the Uganda Law Society.

DISCLAIMERS!

This blog is intended to spark discussions around the current National Legal Education Centre Bill 2025. References to individuals and institutions are based on publicly reported developments and not meant to attack individuals or institutions mentioned directly.

Nothing in this Blog is intended for use as legal advice. Author accepts no liability for use of the contents herein as legal advice. Readers are advised to seek the services of a licensed Advocate for situation specific legal advice.

For comments and feedback, reach to us at ambrosenen@gmail.com

August 13, 2025
Alaka: ‘I Never Refused to Appear Before Byamazima’, Enen Legal World Debunks Ono Bwino’s NRM Tribunal Fabrication

At Enen Legal World, we don’t just blog legal commentary to make laws accessible to the people. We craft stories that resonate, grounded in unyielding truth. We recently stumbled upon a sensational piece by Ono Bwino’s Sengooba Alirabaki, boldly titled “Panic At NRM Elections Tribunal As Senior Lawyer Protests Appearing Before Junior Counsel Byamazima.” It claimed Senior Counsel Caleb Alaka “stormed out” of the NRM Elections Tribunal, supposedly too proud to face “junior lawyer” Joshua Byamazima over his client’s 2026 parliamentary ticket.

Our mission? To dig deep and deliver facts with impact. What we uncovered shocked us: this story wasn’t just shaky, it trampled on the sacred principles of journalism: accuracy, fairness, and transparency.

Left, Senior Advocate, Caleb Alaka: Right, Counsel Byamazima Joshua. Images from their respective X (formerly Twitter handles)

We reached out to Senior Counsel Alaka, and his response hit like a thunderbolt:

“This is an absolute lie… I have appeared before Byamazima before without any qualm. I do not undermine institutions I am obliged to serve in my professional work.”

And then came the clincher. Alaka told us:

“It is alleged that I was representing Samuel Odongo Oledo against Samuel Okwir Odwe before the tribunal. For the record, I do not know Oledo, he has never been my client, I have never talked to him, and I have never acted for him or his opponent. I have full trust in the tribunal and have no reason to protest against any member. A judicial or quasi-judicial officer is to be respected regardless of age.”

These words obliterated the article’s narrative. Diving deeper, we found zero evidence for Alaka’s alleged protest, no trace of his input sought, and a flimsy reliance on shadowy “highly placed sources” to peddle a fabricated tale of professional scorn.

This isn’t reporting. It’s gossip draped in newsprint, a betrayal of the truth we’re sworn to uphold.

In line with our commitment to accuracy and fairness, Enen Legal World reached out to both the author of the Ono Bwino piece and Tribunal member Joshua Byamazima for their comments before going live. The author did not take our call. Mr. Byamazima declined to comment, instead referring us to a “director” without providing specifics. By the time we went live with this blog, no authorised official from the NRM Elections Tribunal had responded to our request for comment.

At Enen Legal World, where we don’t just blog legal commentary but believe in blogging with impact, and above all, with truth, we call out such failures with unrelenting clarity.

Unverified claims? They’re rumors, not stories.
No right of reply? That’s a hit piece, not journalism.
No transparency? That’s propaganda, not reporting.

Ono Bwino’s piece isn’t just flawed. It’s a masterclass in how to erode public trust.

To our fellow storytellers in the media world: chase bold narratives, but let truth be your compass. Verify with primary sources, amplify all voices, and lay your methods bare. At Enen Legal World, we believe a story’s power lies in its truth, not its flash. A blog full of concoctions attracts heavy legal consequences, namely, a suit in defamation with hefty awards in general damages and costs. It pits sector regulators like the Uganda Communications Commission against the authors. Most importantly, such reckless spewing of unverified claims does reputational harm to the individuals concerned. We call out such injustices plainly, publicly, and defiantly.

We don’t just write at Enen Legal World, we ignite conversations, champion fairness, and wield truth as our mightiest tool. If we can’t tell stories that stand firm on facts, we’ve got no business telling them at all.

Disclaimer:

The information provided here is only intended to spark conversations about responsible journalism and its legal consequences. It is not intended to be used as legal advice and should not be used as such. We accept no liability for use of information contained in this Blog as legal advice. Readers are encouraged to consult a qualified licensed attorney for situation specific legal advice.

For feedback, contact us via ambrosenen@gmail.com

August 11, 2025
Uganda Needs Judges with Balls of Titanium Alloy—Not the Shackles of the JSC Regulations, 2025: Why You Should Be Worried

Let’s not waste time.
Uganda’s judiciary has been hijacked. Quietly. Legally. Treacherously.

They didn’t need a coup d’état. They just needed Statutory Instrument No. 4 of 2025—the Judicial Service Commission Regulations—to pass unchallenged.

You can access a copy of those regulations here:

JUDICIAL SERVICE COMISSION-04152025211719_250416_194252-compressed Download

And now the Constitution isn’t bleeding.

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.

A copy of that decision can be found here:

Kabumba and Another v Attorney General (Constitutional Petition No 15 of 2022) 2022 UGCC 8 (7 December 2022)Download

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:

Attorney General v Kabumba Another (Constitutional Application 16 of 2022) 2023 UGCC 117 (6 June 2023)Download

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.

More about me and disclaimer in the about page.

May 2, 2025
Foot Soldier’s Last Stand: Inside the Madness of Sycophants, Rogue WhatsApp Admins, and the Northern Bar Bench Forum

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.

Read a copy of that Judgment here:

Charles Onyango Obbo and Anor v Attorney General 2004 UGSC 1 (10 February 2004)-1 Download

Related: read also: https://enenlegalworld.wordpress.com/2024/11/20/revisiting-free-speech-professional-ethics-and-gender-sensitivity-in-uganda-a-legal-and-social-analysis/

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!

April 29, 2025
OF CHAINS AND ROBES: When the Judiciary Surrendered Its Soul at the Altar of Power

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

Ssemakadde v Uganda (Private Prosecution by Byamazima Joshua and Tonny Tumukunde) 2025 UGHCCRD 17 (11 April 2025)Download

Read also about the international arrest warrant against President Isaac K. Ssemakade and why it was an embarrassment to the whole of Uganda’s Legal system here: https://enenlegalworld.wordpress.com/2025/03/20/red-alert-ssemakadde-and-ugandas-judiciary-in-the-international-firestorm/

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:

Dr. KB and Obeid Ruling On Bail Download

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.

April 14, 2025
Mugambe’s Fall: A Clash of Legal Systems and the Struggle Between Impunity and Accountability

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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March 18, 2025