Tag: Judicial Service Commission

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 3: WHILE THE PETITION SLEPT

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If you are joining us for the first time: In Episode 1, we met Mzee Zakayo, who never built a granary but ate from the labor of others. His son Okello Anyapo inherited his appetite but not his cattle, and emptied his uncle Owera’s granary because he was given access without rules. In Episode 2, we lifted our eyes to Uganda’s constitutional granary, built in 1995, and watched Parliament abandon its duty to build walls around it. We saw the seven famines: the Shs 763 billion justice tax, the incompetence shield, the two-man cartel, the executive pocket veto, the criminalization of transparency, the ghost tier of unaccountable actors, and the commission that judges itself.

THIS IS THE SOIL FROM WHICH ULS CONSTITUTIONAL PETITION NO. 12 OF 2025: UGANDA LAW SOCIETY VS ATTORNEY GENERAL ROSE

The petition was filed. The Application for a temporary injunction to halt Judicial appointments pending disposal of the main petition; The arguments were made. The rot was laid bare.

And the Constitutional Court is in no hurry.

The cause list does not call it. The months pass. The granary empties further.

Every day the petition sleeps is a day Okello eats.

Every delay is a verdict delivered without judgment, a verdict that says: this urgency is not our urgency.

The villagers are watching the courthouse door, just as they watch the granary door.

And the door does not open.

WHILE THE PETITION SLEPT

An urgent Constitutional Application, Application No. 11 of 2025, was filed alongside the main petition. It asked the court to halt all judicial appointments pending the determination of the substantive petition.

Among the grounds: the Judicial Service Commission was unlawfully constituted, missing the two nominees the Constitution requires from the Uganda Law Society.

The Constitutional Court did not cause-list that application.

So the appointments proceeded.

The new Chief Justice, the Hon. Fr. Flavian Zeija, was sworn in.
The new Principal Judge, the Hon. Judge Jane Francis Abodo, was sworn in.

Before his elevation, the Hon. Dr. Justice Zeija was the Deputy Chief Justice. In that capacity, he presided over the very Constitutional Court that received Application No. 11 of 2025, the application asking the court to pause appointments, including his own.

The court did not list the application. No reasons were given. The appointments proceeded.

In Abongodero, the elders would say: when the man guarding the granary door benefits from what passes through it, the door stays open.

These are facts. Draw your own conclusions.

THE POWER TO STOP ALL THIS LIES IN YOUR HANDS AS A CITIZEN AND AJURI CONSTITUENCY IS PROOF OF CONCEPT.

The Honorable Hamson Obua did not lose by accident.

He rehearsed monarchy in public. He crowned himself Holy Trinity, God the Father, Honorable Member of Parliament, Ajuri Constituency, God the Son, Government Chief and God the Holy Spirit, Vice National Chairperson of the National Resistance Movement for Northern Uganda of political titles. He spoke succession like family inheritance: Museveni, then Muhoozi, then Muhoozi’s children.

Ajuri listened.

They watched soldiers. They watched a disputed poll. They watched power glare at them from armored vehicles.

And they voted again.

Twice in under one month.

History does not always move slowly. Sometimes it slaps.

Enter Badman Jalameso.

Teacher. Organizer. Refusal embodied. Not a dynasty. Not a surname throne. Just a man carried by exhaustion with entitlement.

Badman Jalameso is not a saint. He is a signal.

The signal is this: voters will rise when the granary stays empty. They will require answers and when the answers are not forthcoming, The leader who fails to answer appropriately will be sent back home.

—

**[End of Episode 3]**

March 20, 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
The Philosophy of Insults: When Truth Becomes Fire and Tests Legitimacy”Enen’s Letter to the Radical New Bar and Every Citizen Who Still Dares to Speak

Logo: Enen Legal World

🪶 The Fable

Deep within the Mambo Forest, the animal kingdom lived in awe of a single, dazzling truth: their ruler, Twon Gweno the cock, wore a crown of living fire. His comb was a legend, a crest of such vibrant crimson that the elders swore it was a fragment of the first sun. His morning crow was a decree:

“Bow to my glory, and you will be spared my flame.”

And so, the animals bowed. Fear made them pious; fear made the cock sovereign with unquestioned loyalty, respect and cooperation from the rest of the animal kingdom in that forest. It was a classic case of natural-born legitimacy; never really earned.

One evening, a crisis struck. Ichuli, the fox, the sole specialist in lighting the communal fire, was away. The wood was piled, but the spark was missing. The night, cold and predatory, loomed.

Odyek Odyek, the hyena, a friend to truth and enemy of pretence, stepped forward.

“The solution is simple,” she said. “We bow to Ladit Twon Gweno’s crown of fire. I will sprint to his home and borrow a spark.”

She took a tuft of the driest spear grass, the Obia and went to the cock’s compound. She found him in a deep, unconscious slumber. Without waking him, she gently pressed the grass to his legendary crown, waiting for the catch, the sizzle, the proof.

The grass rested on the crown, as inert as if it had been placed on a cool stone. The legendary fire was a phantom.

Odyek Odyek, the hyena returned to the gathering and dropped the cold, unburnt grass in the centre of the circle. No words were needed. The lie they had bowed to for generations unravelled in that silent moment.

Power, and unearned but coerced legitimacy unmasked, bled its authority into the silent night.

⚖️ The Lesson

Borrowed fire must warm the hearts of the people. When it no longer does, the borrower is called to account.

So it is with the courts. The robe, the gavel, the summons, and the warrant are instruments loaned by the people. Article 126(1) of the Constitution does not sing an ornament; it issues a command:

Judicial power is derived from the people and shall be exercised by the Courts in their name and in accordance with the law and their values, norms, and aspirations.

🧱 The Three Pillars of Legitimacy

Legitimacy; the respect of the people and their cooperation with the courts, is the covenant at the heart of that loan. It demands three sacramental elements:

Reflection: Judicial power must reflect the values and aspirations of the people; not the insatiable appetite of a sophisticated elite for luxury or high life.

Truth: Courts must administer justice in accordance with law and truth, not convenience or midnight deals.

The Judicial Oath: The solemn undertaking before God to do justice to all manner of people without fear, favour, ill will or affection is no actor’s prayer; it is a chain of duty.

Strip away any of these, and what remains is a gowned pretender, eloquent and majestic, perhaps, but hollow: a cock whose crown no longer burns.

The Evidence of Decay

For those who have seen:

• Appeal files missing thirty-eight pages.

• A High Court hearing conducted not in a public courtroom but secretly in a posh hotel in which 15 minutes out of those proceedings were conducted in the absence of the opposite party and the whole process bashed by the Court of Appeal for want of a fair hearing and lack of judicial accountability and transparency and thereby further exacerbating the already slim public trust in the Court system entirely

• A lower bench judicial officer bashed; “I don’t want to see this rubbish here, take it back where it came from” when they had sought guidance over files of thousands of remand detainees who had clocked mandatory bail, over 5 years where the Office of the Director of Public Prosecution state attorneys appeared neither willing nor ready to commit them for trial in the High Court.

• The poorest peasants completely blocked from accessing justice because the lower courts have received directives not to register and dispose of customary land disputes unless a surveyor had first rendered a preliminary survey report; peasants who have never heard of, met heard about or hired the services of a professional called a surveyor. They have to sell a chunk of land to afford a surveyor to conduct a preliminary survey and get their case registered.

• A National Bar Association President’s liberty preserving Application for stay of execution of a manifestly void Contempt of Court ruling take close to 9 months without disposal.

These are not footnotes; they are flesh-and-blood indictments.
The 1995 Constitution’s promise of a speedy and fair hearing has become hot air—Kikwangala, Kichupuli, Kawani.

🗣️ The Test — The Philosophy of Insults. Withdrawing legitimacy and requiring that it be earned back by fidelity to its 3 pillars.

“To insult without malice but with evidence is to perform constitutional maintenance and maintain pure legitimacy.”

Hence the philosophy of insults. This is not the petty malice of a tavern quarrel. It is a civic stress-test, a pressure gauge for legitimacy.

It is the public’s cry:

“GIVE US WHAT YOU OWE US.”

We lent you power; we demand accountability in return.

A people that cannot insult and mock power has already lost moral authority. The right to insult and offend the powerful is not a luxury, it is the citizen’s tool for testing whether the borrowed flame is real.

📜 The Proof — The Jurisprudence of Defiance

“Leaders should grow hard skins to bear.”
“Power must endure insult to remain clean.”

Uganda: When the Constitution Answered Back

This philosophy is not just wisdom; it is the settled weight of law. Consider Andrew Mwenda, whose words rattled the Republic:

This philosophy is not just wisdom; it is the settled weight of law. Consider Andrew Mwenda, whose words rattled the Republic:
“You see these African Presidents. This man went to University, why can’t he
behave like an educated person? Why does he behave like a villager?’

Museveni can never intimidate me. He can only intimidate himself ……… the
President is becoming more of a coward and every day importing cars that are
armor plated and bullet proof and you know moving in tanks and mambas, you
know hiding with a mountain of soldiers surrounding him, he thinks that, that
is security. That is not security. That is cowardice”

Actually Museveni’s days are numbered if he goes on a collision course with
me.”

You mismanaged Garang’s Security. Are you saying it is Monitor that caused
the death of Garang or it is your own mismanagement? Garang’s security was
put in danger by our own Government putting him first of all on a junk
helicopter, second at night, third passing through Imatong Hills where Kony
is ?……Are you aware that your Government killed Garang?”

I can never withdraw it. Police call them, I would say the Government of
Uganda, out of incompetence led to or caused the death of Garang”

When the state reached for iron law and charged him with sedition, the Constitutional Court answered with freedom, declaring that people from all backgrounds enjoy equal rights of expression, polite or not.

“……Our people express their thoughts differently depending on the environment of their birth, upbringing and education.

While a child brought up in an elite and God fearing society may know how to address an elder or leader politely, his counterpart brought up in a slum environment may make annoying and impolite comments, honestly believing that, that is how to express him/herself.

All these different categories of people in our society enjoy equal rights under the Constitution and the law. And they have equal political power of one vote each.Then came the killer line that buried sedition:

“……During elections voters make very annoying and character assassinating remarks and yet in most cases false, and yet no prosecutions are preferred against them. The reason is because they have a right to criticize their leaders rightly or wrongly. The Court concluded “Leaders should grow hard skins to bear.”
A copy of the judgment can be found here:

Mwenda and Another v Attorney General 2010 UGCC 9 (25 August 2010)Download

Burkina Faso: The Continental Echo

In Burkina Faso, journalist Issa Konaté was jailed for calling a prosecutor “a criminal in a robe.” In his Words:

“…….The Prosecutor of Faso is the godfather of bandits. He is the sponsor, the organizer, the leader of a vast network of counterfeiters and traffickers that he protects with his power and status.”
This is a prosecutor who does not prosecute crime, he commands it. He is not a guardian of order but a godfather of disorder
While honest citizens sleep in fear, the chief lawman of our nation sits in his office, dividing the spoils of crime with police officers and bankers
He is not a magistrate; he is a criminal in a robe. A saboteur of justice…….”

The African Court answered with thunder and reason. Custodial sentences for speech are a bludgeon against Democracy:
“The Court is of the view that the violations of laws of freedom of speech and the press cannot be sanctioned by custodial sentences, without going contrary to the provisions of Articles 9 and 19 of the Charter”

The Court pronounced itself on the role of public figures under scrutiny.

“There is no doubt that a prosecutor is a public figure; as such he is more exposed than an ordinary individual and is subject to many and more severe criticisms. Given that, a higher degree of tolerance is expected of him”

A copy of the judgment can be found here:

Konate vs Bukina Faso Download

From this we learn that “Power must endure insult to remain clean.”

🪶 The Heritage; The Lango Grammar of Reproof

This civic logic is not foreign to us. In Lango, the sharp tongue has long done the work of reform.

• “Ole yin ibedo dako dako”; “…..you man, you behave womanly…”. It is not cruelty. It is shock therapy for duty and clarion call for the family patriarch to “man up” and live up to his responsibilities to his family, to lead firmly, provide for it and protect it.

• “Lango mito alek”; “…..Lango deserves a pestle…” A reminder that discipline is coming unless reform comes first and that it intact comes usually after enforced discipline.

• “Kwany Ka Point” The Gen Z’s and Millenials have similarly curved their own wisdom, “pick only the point”: As plain and simple as that. Pick only the point, filter it from the insult.

• “Ikok Ugali idogi.” “…..You will cry with Ugali in your mouth. …”

In the old rite of passage, a young man’s two upper incisors were pulled, and boiling herbal Ugali was placed in his mouth to ease the agony. He cried through the very remedy meant to heal. Reform rarely feels like mercy.

So when the citizen mocks the powerful, the intention is not cruelty; it is Ugali in the mouth of power: a necessary sting, a painful antidote.

The insult becomes a civic anaesthetic; searing, brutally humiliating, but designed to cleanse and restore legitimacy

Reform rarely feels like mercy.
So when the citizen insults and mocks the powerful, the intention is not cruelty. It is Ugali in the mouth of power: a necessary sting, a painful antidote.

🔥 The Repair — The Calculus of Force

Public outrage, properly aimed, creates four fields of pressure that make corruption intolerable:

1. Professional Ostracization: When integrity collapses, the social scaffolding of a career falls with it.

2. Erosion of Authority: A judge who loses public confidence loses jurisdictional muscle and may in fact receive fewer to zero allocations of files to handle or minimal chances to be chosen to sit on a panel in the case of hearings in courts that are manned by more than one Judicial Officer.

3. Legal and Institutional Siege: Scandal catalyses petitions, litigation, and oversight that eat at illegitimacy.

4. Political Abandonment: The appointing power prefers a scapegoat to a scandal, forcing a “voluntary” exit.

From this, we learn that insults are not instruments of mob rule; they are the social physics of accountability.Yet outrage alone is not reform. The sting must translate into architecture: cooling-off periods for judges, transparent appointments, and independent oversight with teeth. Shame, the direct consequence of insult, reveals the rot; law must excise it.

⚔️ The Awakening — The Price of Truth

“The hyena who taught the village to see.”

For too long, the Uganda Law Society was a sleeping giant while the temple burned. But the dry grass is now burning in Masaka.
When the President of the Bar , the hyena who taught the village to see, lives in exile for refusing to apologise for truth, his banishment becomes the ultimate test.

Isaac K Ssemakadde (SC) President of Uganda Law Society. Credit: Uganda Law Society Website.

📜 The Counsel; A Call to the Bench and the People

This is not an invitation to vulgarity for its own sake.
Insult as a civic weapon must be wielded with evidence, not rumour; with satire steeped in fact, not malice.

To the Judges:

Grow the hard skins the Constitutional Court commanded you to have. Wear patience as armour, not menace. Treat insult as a thermometer, not as treason or contempt.

When a citizen insults, ask: does this insult point to truth? If yes, answer in reason, remedy the wrong, and let the nation watch you Act. If not, let the insult fall like a pebble. The dignity and legitimacy of the bench is earned by magnanimity and the stoic creed of the 3 pillars of legitimacy namely Reflection (of law, values, norms and aspirations); Truth and by abiding by the Judicial Oath. It is not enforced by fury, bullying or jaling dissent.

This doctrine requires courage from all sides. The Bar must be relentlessly courageous and fearless in its insult and ridicule while exacting in its ethics.

The public must be loud and literate, hurl insults but bring evidence. Lawyers must translate courage into petitions, not merely WhatsApp gossip and tweets. The Legislature must codify protections for speech against disproportionate criminal sanction and the Judiciary must redicscover the humility of the oath, the most important leg of judicial legitimacy; to do justice without fear, favour, ill will or affection.

To

the citizens: Wield the pen. Make the insult precise devastatingly; threads that link to missing pages, memes that reveal truth.

🌞 The Benediction & Epilogue

Lock and Roseau taught and we learnt from the social contract doctrine that all power, judicial power inclusive, like the communal bull, is never owned. It is loaned to serve, not to feast upon. Judicial officers are, therefore, commissioners, agents of the people, not monarchs. The people are the principal. When the agent betrays, the principal must insult loudly in true reprimand.

If those entrusted with it betray the trust, the people must remind them, sometimes with satire, sometimes with searing words, that borrowed fire must warm, not burn.

This is neither an incitement to violence nor a call for insurrection. It is a call to civil carnage against corruption, ritualised, and peaceful.

Let the insults be sharp, witty, and relentless, and let them dismantle rotten cartels of impunity.
Turn every courtroom cover into a public syllabus: transparent reasons, readable judgments, accountability writ in footnotes and public records.
Make the institutions bleed truth, not people.

To end illiteracy in justice, let every citizen wield the pen.

Let the hyenas come. Let the baraza be noisy.

Let society test the crown every morning until the judges can point, with open hands and clear reasons, and say:

“Here is the flame.”

Until then, press the grass. Let the crown be tried in daylight.
Let the fire prove itself true.

✍️ Dedication

This blog is dedicated to all prisoners, present and past, of conscience, self-expression, and free speech: Male Mabirizi Kiwanuka, Ivan Samuel Sebadduka J, and Isaac K. Ssemakadde (SC), President of the Uganda Law Society, for executing a civic duty tragically confused with contempt of court.

Contempt must be reserved for direct obstruction of justice, not as a cudgel to discipline ridicule.
Imprisoning insult and mockery is to forget the nature and source of judicial power: the people’s consent.

May the Good Lord bless and protect you all.
And may we witness, in our lifetime, thick-skinned judicial officers who treat insults with nothing more than “a wry smile,”
as aptly put twenty-five years ago by the eminent British jurist, Lord Justice Simon Brown.

The author is a member of the inaugural Judiciary Affairs Committee of the Uganda Law Society.

DISCLAIMER: This Blog is not a call for mob justice, chaos or disorder against our beloved holders of judicial power and other public power, it is brutal and defiant reminder that illegitimate conduct leads to a withdrawal of respect from the very owners of the power and attracts criminal and administrative sanctions, some as grave as removal from office. It is also to encourage the clean and disciplined judicial officers to continue upholding the consent of the people for them to administer justice by upholding the stoic pillars of legitimacy first mentioned in this Blog, and that with or without climbing the career ladder, God, the original designer of justice will be the ultimate one to reward their efforts both now and in the afterlife.

This blog is not intended to be used as legal advice, and the author denies liability for use of the contents herein as legal advice. Readers are encouraged to consult a licensed Advocate to give them specialised advice and representation.

For feedbacks and comments: ambrosenen@gmail.com.

References.

For further reading or references. I consulted the following books.

1. Politics as a Vocation (Politik als Beruf) by Max Weber

2. Second Treatise of Government” by John Locke.

3. The Social Contract” (Du contrat social) by Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

4. Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance” by James C. Scott.

5. How to Do Things with Words” by J.L. Austin.

October 14, 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
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.

More about the author on the about Page.

Do you have stories in your community that we should Blog about, or do you have comments to help us improve on our delivery?, please feel free to reach out to us through our address which is on the about Page

March 18, 2025
NO APOLOGIES, NO SURRENDER: THE RADICAL NEW BAR TAKES THE JUDICIARY TO WAR

The Judiciary wanted a fight. Now, it has a war.

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

February 9, 2025
The Radical New Bar Revolution: Expulsions, Boycotts, and the Battle for the Soul of Uganda’s Legal Profession

Let’s not sugarcoat it: Uganda’s legal profession is in chaos. President Isaac Ssemakadde, the firebrand leader of the Uganda Law Society (ULS), has declared war—on the judiciary, on government interference, and, if necessary, on tradition itself. This isn’t your grandfather’s bar association anymore; it’s a Radical New Bar, blazing through a tired, creaking legal system with orders that feel less like bureaucratic memos and more like the opening shots of a revolution.

It began with Executive Order No. 1 of 2024, a political earthquake that saw the Attorney General and Solicitor General expelled from the ULS Council. Yes, you read that right: expelled. Not asked to step aside politely, not nudged toward the door—expelled. President Ssemakadde called their presence a colonial hangover, an outdated relic that kept the Bar shackled to government influence.

“The AG cannot serve two masters!” Ssemakadde thundered, and just like that, the most senior government lawyers were tossed out of the Council, their titles no longer recognized in what Ssemakadde calls “the House of Justice.” It was a raw, messy, unapologetic power move, the kind that made half the room cheer and the other half gasp. Love him or hate him, the man is not here to play.

The Call to Boycott: Executive Order No. 3—A Legal Bloodbath?

And now here we are, riding the shockwaves of Executive Order No. 3 of 2024, where the stakes have climbed even higher. This time, it’s not just government lawyers feeling the heat—it’s the advocates. All of them.

The ULS has called for a boycott of Judge Musa Ssekaana’s court. Advocates are being ordered—yes, ordered—to stay away. The revolution demands solidarity. The revolution demands sacrifice. But here’s the burning question twisting every lawyer’s stomach: what happens when revolution clashes with professional duty?

Imagine this: you’re an advocate with a client who’s been waiting months, maybe years for their day in court. They’ve sold their land, borrowed money, staked their entire future on this case. And now, because of the boycott, you’re supposed to turn to them and say: “Sorry, justice is on hold this month. We’re making a point.”

Your professional ethics scream at you to stand by your client. The Advocates Act tells you that your duty to your client is sacred, almost holy. But the ULS says otherwise. The ULS says that this fight—this boycott—is bigger than you, bigger than your client, bigger than this one case.

And if you defy the ULS? If you walk into Judge Ssekaana’s courtroom and do your job? Then what? Are you a traitor to the cause? A sellout? Will the ULS come for you next?

This is not just a professional dilemma. This is a moral crucible, a test of loyalty, a trial by fire. Will you risk your client’s future, or will you risk your career? Isaac Ssemakadde has thrown down the gauntlet, and every lawyer in Uganda must decide where they stand.

A Law Society Without Teeth? The ULS’s Fight for Power

But here’s the twist that turns this legal thriller on its head: Can the ULS actually enforce any of this?

Let’s step back for a moment. Under the Uganda Law Society Act, the ULS is tasked with upholding professional standards and improving the conduct of lawyers. But there’s a catch: the ULS can’t legally punish anyone. Not really.

Disciplinary power lies with the Law Council, a separate government-anchored body. The ULS can yell, it can shout, it can issue Executive Orders with the fire and fury of a thousand revolutions—but at the end of the day, it cannot fine you. It cannot suspend you. It cannot strip you of your right to practice law.

What it can do is drag your name through the mud, isolate you, and question your loyalty to the cause. And in a profession where reputation is everything, that’s no small threat. The ULS may not have teeth, but it has a loud voice, and right now, it’s shouting for all the world to hear.

So what happens if an advocate defies the boycott and the ULS tries to discipline them? The answer is a legal nightmare. The accused advocate would challenge the ULS’s authority in court, and—oh, the irony!—they’d find themselves stuck in the very judiciary the boycott condemns.

Justice delayed? Oh, yes. Justice delayed for years. That’s Uganda’s court system for you: clogged, slow, and sometimes deliberately obstructive. By the time the courts decide who’s right and who’s wrong, the boycott will be ancient history, and the ULS’s revolution will either be a roaring success or a long-forgotten whisper.

The Bigger Battle: A Fight for Autonomy

When Ssemakadde expelled the Attorney General and Solicitor General, he wasn’t just flexing muscle—he was making a declaration of independence. He wants the ULS to be a fully autonomous Bar, like those in Canada, South Africa, and other legal systems where the profession regulates itself, free from government influence.

Take Canada’s Law Society of Ontario. There, the Bar has real power: it disciplines lawyers, sets standards, and protects the profession’s integrity. No government official sits at their table, holding sway over decisions that affect the legal profession.

In Uganda, the presence of government lawyers on the ULS Council undermines that independence. Critics have long argued that the Attorney General and Solicitor General, as government agents, represent a conflict of interest—how can they serve both the executive and the profession simultaneously?

By kicking them out, Ssemakadde ripped off the bandage and exposed the wound. But the wound is far from healed. Until the ULS is given real disciplinary authority, until it can act without begging the Law Council for enforcement, the revolution will remain just that: a revolution, full of fire but not yet law.

The Chaos and the Choice

The ULS has lit the match. The lawyers of Uganda now face the fire.

Do they comply with Executive Order No. 3 and boycott the court, risking their clients’ cases, their livelihoods, and their professional ethics?
Or do they stand up and say no, risking isolation, humiliation, and the fury of the Radical New Bar?

This isn’t just a battle for the courts. It’s a battle for the soul of Uganda’s legal profession.

Isaac Ssemakadde has made it clear: there’s no room for compromise. You’re either with the revolution or against it. And if you’re against it, you’ll have to answer not just to the ULS but to the future of justice in Uganda.

The system is broken, yes. The courts are failing, yes. But will boycotts and expulsions fix it? Or are they just adding more chaos to the madness?

What happens next is up to Uganda’s advocates. The storm is here, and every lawyer must decide: Will you stand in the rain, or will you bring the thunder?

The revolution has begun. Where do you stand?

My about me on my other blog posts and other useful disclaimers

December 17, 2024