There is a seductive danger in confusing development with institutional health.
Yes, Uganda has grown sectors. Yes, milk production rose. Yes, roads were built. Yes, factories emerged.
Let us even grant these achievements at their most generous interpretation, though many of the surrounding statistics and political narratives remain fiercely contested. The deeper question lies elsewhere.
Ancient empires also built roads.
The question is whether those roads outlasted the emperor, and in more recent history, whether the institutions managing them answered to citizens or merely to the political survival of one man.”
That is where Elison Karuhanga’s argument becomes deeply troubling.
Not because it defends industrialisation. Industrialisation is necessary.
But because it quietly asks Ugandans to romanticise concentrated power itself.
The article repeatedly frames scepticism toward entrenched political authority as elite cynicism, as though accountability were merely an inconvenience imposed by intellectual spectators standing outside history.
Yet history teaches something far less flattering.
Apartheid South Africa built one of the continent’s most sophisticated industrial economies. Gaddafi’s Libya produced impressive welfare indicators and modern infrastructure. Mobutu’s Zaire cultivated the imagery of national grandeur and developmental ambition.
Yet history eventually exposed the same weakness in each case: institutions had become subordinate to personalities, patronage, or exclusionary systems of power.
Infrastructure is not self-validating.
The real question is never whether factories, highways, dams, or industrial parks exist. The deeper question is whether the institutions beneath those projects remain independent enough to survive the men who built them.
Development without accountability does not eliminate instability.
It postpones it.
And when accountability weakens long enough, entitlement emerges. From entitlement comes impunity. And from impunity comes institutional decay.
That is precisely the warning at the heart of Mahmood Mamdani’s 2025 book, Slow Poison: Idi Amin, Yoweri Museveni, and the Making of the Ugandan State. Mamdani’s argument is not that Uganda failed because it lacked projects or economic ambition. It is that the post-independence dream was gradually dismantled through tribalised politics, institutional corrosion, political violence, and the fragmentation of citizenship itself.
A country may increase exports while weakening citizenship.
That is not transformation.
That is deferred fragility.
And perhaps nowhere is this contradiction more revealing than within the intellectual class now defending presidential mythology in the name of developmental realism.
Many of us were repeatedly lectured about the supposed “neutrality” of the Uganda Law Society whenever lawyers confronted excesses of state power. We were told institutions must remain above politics.
Yet neutrality now appears remarkably flexible when the task is constructing emotional narratives around presidential permanence and historical indispensability.
One begins to suspect that neutrality was never truly about insulating institutions from politics, but about regulating the direction in which criticism could travel.
That selective application is itself part of the institutional decay being ignored.
When institutions of accountability suspend their scepticism in order to celebrate power, they accelerate the very “slow poison” they should be resisting.
And this is why the romantic language of “stubborn men who shape history” should concern us more than inspire us.
History is full of stubborn men.
Some built nations.
Others merely built systems too personalised to survive them.
Uganda’s tragedy has never been a shortage of ambitious rulers.
It has been the absence of institutions strong enough to survive them, and disciplined enough to tell them no.
And if we are to have the rule of law rather than the rule of men with a gun, a Bible, and a pen, then a few stubborn men and women must demand that development be built on accountability, not just the romanticisation of power.
The roots of accountability are bitter, but the fruits are sweet.
This, fellow countrymen and women, is my contribution to that cause.
There is another kind of quiet violence in procedure.
Not when the law assumes communication where none exists. But when communication eventually occurs, and the law still struggles to recognise its procedural legitimacy because it arrived through unfamiliar technological form.
Days ago, in my earlier critique, The Quiet Violence of Procedure: When Digital Service Serves No One, I warned against a growing procedural danger within Uganda’s evolving E‑Justice architecture. I argued that a notice uploaded into ECCMIS is not necessarily a notice received; that “deemed service” is not always effective service; and that digital systems may satisfy procedural form while silently excluding the very litigants whose rights stand at risk.
The concern then was technological presumption.
This time, the concern is technological distrust.
The Case and Its Difficulties
In Bakampa Brian Baryaguma v Bbaaka Property Consultants (U) Ltd (Misc. Cause No. 0033 of 2023, 22 May 2026), the High Court held that service through WhatsApp, without prior leave for substituted service, was improper. The Applicant, self‑represented, sent the application to the Respondent company director’s WhatsApp number on 24 February 2023. The director only saw the message weeks later, on 4 April 2023, before instructing counsel who filed a response on behalf of the company.
The Court struck out the affidavit of service, holding that the Applicant was not authorised to effect service under Order 5 rule 7 of the Civil Procedure Rules and had not first obtained leave for substituted service. The Court further struck out the Applicant’s supporting affidavit for being argumentative and containing matters of law (contrary to Order 19 rule 3 CPR), and dismissed the application with costs.
I do not defend every aspect of the Applicant’s filings. The supporting affidavit may well have been defective under Order 19. The Applicant also admittedly did not first attempt conventional corporate service under Order 29 rule 2 CPR, nor did he obtain prior leave before resorting to WhatsApp. Those are genuine procedural weaknesses.
I raised a critical concern about the preparedness of lawyers for paperless transition come June 2026. This blog inverses that question back to the courts themselves. With a ruling which effectively rolls back all the gains in the courts’ E-justice and digital transformation journey, I equally ask, “are our courts really ready for a fair, meaningful and realistic digital transformation?“
The Conceptual Problem
The real issue is not whether procedural safeguards around electronic service should exist. The question is: should courts continue treating direct electronic communication as inherently inferior to conventional physical service, even where actual notice is eventually achieved and no prejudice is demonstrated?
Historically, substituted service existed because direct communication with a litigant had become impossible, impracticable, or evasive. Newspaper advertisements, affixing summons to premises, or leaving documents with third parties were indirect approximations designed to create the possibility of awareness where direct access could not be achieved.
WhatsApp communication to a litigant’s verified personal number occupies a very different space.
It is direct. It is individualised. It is traceable. And in many modern contexts, it may be more personal than conventional physical service itself.
Traditionally, courts have accepted service where documents are left with receptionists, secretaries, guards, clerks, or relatives – all based on the assumption that the communication will eventually reach the intended recipient. A WhatsApp message arrives directly on the litigant’s personal handset, often with timestamps, delivery indicators, and sometimes read receipts.
Ironically, historically accepted physical substituted service may sometimes be less direct than modern electronic communication.
That forces an uncomfortable question: In the smartphone era, why should communication sent directly to a litigant’s verified personal number automatically be treated as procedurally inferior to leaving papers with a receptionist, such that prior leave for substituted service is required?”
The Delay Problem – And Why It Is Not Decisive
Of course, the facts of this case reveal an important caution. The Respondent director did not see the message immediately. Weeks passed before the communication came to his attention. That delay cannot simply be ignored.
But the existence of delay does not necessarily establish that the medium itself was defective.
Physical summons may equally sit unread on office desks for weeks. Letters may remain unopened. Receptionists may misplace documents. The proper procedural inquiry cannot merely be whether awareness occurred instantly, but whether the chosen method was reasonably calculated to bring the proceedings to the attention of the affected party.
Here, the communication eventually did exactly that. The Respondent became aware. Counsel was instructed. An affidavit in reply was filed. Participation followed.
Which raises another important constitutional question: What actual prejudice was ultimately suffered?
That question becomes particularly pressing under Article 126(2)(e) of the Constitution, which requires courts to administer substantive justice without undue regard to technicalities – especially where the litigant is self‑represented and navigating complex procedural terrain without legal assistance.
Even if the Court was correct that service was technically defective, one may still ask whether striking out the affidavit of service, striking out the supporting affidavit, and dismissing the entire application with costs was proportionate. Could the Court instead have directed proper service and allowed rectification, particularly in a human rights enforcement application?
Uganda’s Own Jurisprudence Already Points Forward
Long before this dispute arose, Uganda had already begun integrating technology into adjudication. The Constitution (Integration of ICT into the Adjudication Processes for Courts of Judicature) (Practice) Directions, 2019 encouraged the use of technology to improve efficiency and expedition. The Judiciary’s ongoing embrace of ECCMIS, electronic filing, virtual hearings, and paperless procedure reflects an unmistakable institutional movement toward digitally facilitated justice.
More importantly, Ugandan jurisprudence has already recognised technologically facilitated service itself.
In Male H Mabirizi K. Kiwanuka v Attorney General, Justice Ssekaana Musa expressly acknowledged that service through “email or facebook or whatsApp or any other technologically advanced means” are methods calculated at bringing proceedings to the attention of parties. The Court further recognised that personal service is required only “wherever practicable” before concluding that service was effective because participation followed.
That reasoning shifts procedural legitimacy away from ceremonial delivery and toward communicative effectiveness.
And that is where the Bakampa ruling becomes difficult to reconcile with the Judiciary’s broader digital trajectory.
A Concrete Way Forward
What is needed is not a revolution, but a practice direction.
The Chief Justice should issue guidance clarifying that electronic service via WhatsApp, SMS, or similar direct messaging platforms – when sent to a verified number and followed by reasonable confirmation (such as a follow‑up call or text) – may be recognised as valid service without prior leave, provided that:
· The sender proves actual notice (e.g., delivery receipt, screenshot, or acknowledgment); · No prejudice is caused to the recipient (e.g., sufficient time to respond); · The court retains power to set aside service if injustice is shown.
This would bring Uganda’s procedural law into alignment with its own constitutional commitment to substantive justice and its declared embrace of digital transformation.
Conclusion
Uganda’s courts now stand between two procedural imaginations. One remains rooted in paper legitimacy and inherited analog assumptions. The other recognises that constitutional fairness depends not on the medium, but on whether proceedings actually come to the attention of the affected party.
That tension is no longer merely technological. It is jurisprudential.
In Geoffrey Gatete & Another v William Kyobe, the Supreme Court distinguished between “deemed service” and “effective service,” warning that procedural law may presume notice without proving actual awareness. The Bakampa difficulty inverts that concern: awareness eventually existed, participation followed, yet the communication remained procedurally suspect because it arrived through a medium still viewed with doctrinal caution.
This is not an argument against procedural safeguards. It is an argument for procedural realism in the age of digital justice.
Because justice does not only fail when communication never reaches. Sometimes, it also falters when the law hesitates to recognise communication after it has already arrived.
DISCLAIMERS:
This blog is not an attack on the Learned Judge in the Bakampa decision. It is fair commentary intended to foster a discussion and self reflection on the Judiciary’s forthcoming paperless transition to fully digital courts, for E-justice and digital transformation must serve justice rather than suffocate or truncate it.
This blog is not intended to be used as a substitute for legal advice. The author accepts no liability or responsibility for any losses that arise from use of information as legal advice. Readers are encouraged to consult a licensed attorney of their choice for situation specific legal advice.
Enen Ambrose Member, Judiciary Affairs Committee, Uganda Law Society.
For comments or feedback, write to: enen@enenlegalworld.com
In a matter of days, somewhere in Kampala, an advocate will walk into chambers carrying a file. A real file. Bound in cardboard. Stuffed with pleadings. Scarred by coffee stains. Held together by registry stamps, handwritten notes, and the quiet traditions that have shaped Uganda’s legal profession for generations. He will place it on his desk. He will call his clerk. He will ask about the service. He will ask whether the registry finally responded. He will ask whether the ruling was uploaded. He will ask if tomorrow’s matter still appears on the court list. And without fully realizing it… He may already be practising history.
And on 1 June 2026, every advocate practising before courts integrated into ECCMIS will begin to feel the reality of it. Paper files, as we know them, begin to lose their dominance. Not theoretically. Not academically. Not someday. This June.
Suddenly, a question that once sounded futuristic now feels deeply personal: Is the Ugandan legal profession actually prepared for digitally operational courts? Not on conference banners. Not in panel discussions. Not on LinkedIn posts celebrating innovation. In chambers. In active files. In client communication. In deadlines. In operational reality. And if we are being honest, this conversation did not begin with me.
The Judiciary has moved. ECCMIS has moved. The Uganda Law Society has moved. Developers have moved. Institutions have moved. The only chambers left to convince… may now be our own. Because if we are being painfully honest, many firms are still operating through fragmented systems held together largely by human effort. Some clerks still physically chase court lists.
Some advocates still log into ECCMIS repeatedly “to check.” Some clients still travel to court only to discover their matter was adjourned hours earlier. Some managing partners still call chambers late in the evening, asking whether rulings were uploaded. Some firms still lose valuable hours searching through paper trails for information that should already be accessible instantly. None of this reflects incompetence. It reflects transition. And in June, transition becomes unavoidable. Because nostalgia will not file pleadings. Sentiment has never uploaded a PDF. And operational inefficiency increasingly carries reputational consequences.
Days ago, in my previous article, The Quiet Violence of Procedure, I argued that justice does not always fail loudly. Sometimes it fails quietly – inside missed notifications, delayed communication, inaccessible records, and systems that store information without truly delivering it to the people who need it. Technology alone does not solve that problem. Preparedness does.
Shortly after publishing that article, I received a phone call from a Ugandan technology company, Riyale Tech Solutions. I assumed the conversation would be defensive. Instead, the invitation was remarkably simple: “Counsel… come and see.” So I went. And what I encountered forced me to confront an uncomfortable possibility:
What if the profession is not facing a technology problem at all… but a preparedness problem?
Because what I saw was not merely software in the conventional sense. It was an attempt to redesign how legal practice operationally functions in the ECCMIS era. Imagine chambers operating from one secure digital environment where drafting, filing, billing, scheduling, client communication, and court updates exist together rather than in disconnected fragments.
A matter moves in ECCMIS – and the Advocate knows immediately. A notice is issued, and the chambers know immediately. More importantly, the client knows too. Automatically.
Through WhatsApp. Through SMS. Through email. No chasing. No uncertainty. No “let me first call my clerk.”
For years, lawyers adapted themselves to court systems. For the first time, platforms are beginning to adapt around lawyers.
And perhaps most surprisingly, this is not imported software retrofitted for Uganda. It is Ugandan-built technology designed specifically around the operational realities of Ugandan legal practice.
A client in Kampala, Gulu, Arua, Mbarara, Nairobi, London, or Dubai can securely monitor the progress of their matter in real time. Invoices are generated systematically. Records organize themselves. Court updates synchronize automatically. Internal workflows become visible. Communication becomes traceable. In that moment, a law firm stops functioning merely as a paper-dependent physical office and begins operating as a modern legal institution.
This article is not an advertisement. It is an observation about where legal practice in Uganda appears to be heading. Because in the ECCMIS era, legal excellence may still win cases – but operational efficiency will increasingly win client confidence. And that reality raises difficult questions. Which firms will adapt fastest? Which firms will attract the next generation of clients? Which chambers will build operational resilience? Which firms will continue spending valuable hours managing paperwork while competitors focus on strategy, advocacy, and growth? Technology itself does not threaten the legal profession. Irrelevance does. Paperless courts alone do not create digital justice. Prepared lawyers do. Over the past week, conversations around legal technology have intensified – among advocates, managing partners, clerks, judicial officers, and law students alike, all asking versions of the same question: “What does readiness actually look like?” For the first time, I may now have at least one answer. Because on June 1st, paper may begin leaving Uganda’s courtrooms. But excuses may begin leaving the profession, too.
Riyale Tech Solutions offers a comprehensive legal management system integrated with ECCMIS, designed to support law firms transitioning into Uganda’s digital court environment. It centralises case management, client records, document handling, billing, scheduling, and daily operations into a single structured system. Through real-time synchronisation with ECCMIS, case updates are automatically reflected without requiring repeated manual logins. The platform also delivers instant notifications via email and WhatsApp, ensuring that both advocates and clients remain informed as matters progress.
Now let me be equally clear. I hold no equity, ownership, employment, or decision-making role in Riyale Tech Solutions or any affiliated legal technology provider discussed in this article. Any professional introductions that may arise between practitioners and technology providers do not influence the opinions expressed here, which remain independently formed.
Enen Ambrose
Battle hardened RNB Ethusiast; deliberately pushing #Digital Transformation, one of the 4Ds of the RNB Back on track Mantra. Member, Judiciary Affairs Committee Uganda Law Society For feedback or questions: enen@enenlegalworld.com
There is a quiet violence in procedure. It does not shout. It does not argue. It simply assumes; and in that assumption, rights collapse without anyone noticing. This is exactly what happened in two recent High Court decisions: Visare Uganda Ltd vs Festus Katerega T/A Quickway Auctioneers and 3 others. A copy of it can be accessed here:
A case is filed. A hearing date is fixed. Somewhere deep within a digital system, a notice is uploaded. The law nods in satisfaction: service has been effected. The machinery moves. The courtroom sits. The judge writes. And somewhere else, perhaps across the city, perhaps across a fragile internet connection, a litigant knows nothing.
We call this progress.
We call this efficiency.
We even call it justice.
In the recent ruling of the High Court of Uganda in Misc. Application No. 2289 of 2025, the court took the position that once a hearing notice is posted onto ECCMIS, service is complete. It held that it is not mandatory for a party to actually receive an email or SMS notification, so long as the system reflects that service was effected.
The implication is stark: the burden shifts entirely to the litigant or counsel to constantly monitor the system. Failure to do so is fatal. A case may be dismissed. Rights may evaporate. And yet, in the eyes of the law, nothing has gone wrong.
But open justice demands something far more stubborn, far more human. It demands not that proceedings merely exist in public form, but that those whose rights are at stake are actually present; or at the very least, actually aware. The old wisdom insisted that justice must be seen to be done. It did not imagine a world where justice could be technically visible yet practically invisible; where a notice exists, but never reaches; where a hearing occurs, but never touches the party it condemns.
And this is not an abstract concern. It is a doctrinal one.
The Supreme Court of Uganda, in Geoffrey Gatete & Another v William Kyobe, confronted a similar question under the language of “deemed good service.” The Court drew a careful and deliberate distinction; one that modern digital procedure now risks erasing.
It held that “deemed service” is a legal fiction, a procedural convenience that allows courts to proceed even where actual notice may not be proven. But it went further to warn that such service does not necessarily amount to “effective service.” For service to be effective, it must achieve its intended purpose: to bring the proceedings to the attention of the party.
A copy of the decision in Gatete can be accessed here:
This distinction is not semantic. It is foundational.
Because once the law accepts that something may be “deemed” without being real, it must also accept the consequences; that the fiction may fail in practice. And where it fails, justice demands correction.
Yes, there will be cases where a litigant deliberately avoids monitoring the system. But the system cannot punish the many for the bad faith of the few; especially when actual notice remains technically possible.
Yet the modern system presses on, collapsing this distinction. ECCMIS becomes both the record and the proof, both the act and its consequence. Once a notice is uploaded, the law assumes its journey is complete.
But a system is not a voice. A database is not a message. A record is not communication.
And so we arrive at a troubling convergence: a digital architecture that satisfies procedural form while undermining substantive awareness.
Context makes this even more urgent. Even in Kampala, internet access is not constant. Connectivity fluctuates. Costs are high. Power is unreliable. To build a legal system on the assumption that litigants and advocates will perpetually monitor an online platform is to design justice for an ideal world, not the real one.
What then becomes of open justice?
It remains, perhaps, in architecture. The courtroom doors are still open. The rulings are still written. The processes are still documented. But the litigant; the very person for whom the system exists; may never arrive, not out of defiance, but out of ignorance.
And in that moment, something profound happens.
Justice is no longer denied loudly. It is denied quietly.
Not in secrecy, but in silence.
Not by concealment, but by assumption.
Justice does not only die in closed courtrooms. It also dies in silent systems, where notices exist, but never reach.
This is not an argument against technology. It is an argument against unquestioned technology. Against systems that replace human communication with automated presumption. Against a jurisprudence that confuses efficiency with fairness.
The answer is neither retreat nor resistance. It is correction.
If ECCMIS is to be the backbone of modern judicial administration, then it must evolve beyond being a passive repository into an active communicator. It must speak, not just store. It must reach, not just record.
External notification systems are not luxuries; they are necessities. SMS alerts. Email notifications. Web based and Android Push Notifications, Real-time prompts that move beyond the confines of the system and into the lived reality of the user. And more than that, they must not be optional embellishments. They must be integral guarantees, designed to ensure that service is not merely deemed, but actually effected.
The Judiciary and the architects behind ECCMIS stand at a critical threshold. They have built the infrastructure. Now they must build the connection.
Because the law may deem service to be good, but justice demands that service be real.
A system that merely stores notices, without ensuring they reach those whose rights are at stake, does not advance justice, it endangers it. In a jurisdiction where access to digital infrastructure is uneven, to insist that litigants must constantly patrol an online platform is to replace fairness with fiction.
Technology must serve justice, not obscure it.
There is an old wisdom in scripture: No one lights a lamp and puts it under a bed. Instead, they set it on a stand, so that those who enter may see.
ECCMIS is that lamp, lit, visible in theory. But when a notice sits in a database without actively reaching the litigant, we have placed it under the bed. The light exists. It just does not shine where it is needed most. (Mark 4:21)
Let ECCMIS evolve, blending its internal efficiency with robust external communication, ensuring that every litigant is not merely assumed to know, but is given a real opportunity to know.
For if justice is to remain open, it must also remain visible.
Otherwise, quietly and without protest, justice will die in the darkness of its own systems. -THE END-
Disclaimers:
This Blog is not an attack on the Judicial officers who handed down the two decisions criticised above. It is not an attack on the institution of the Judiciary or EECMIS developers. It is intended to spark conversations to make E-Justice and the whole E-Government Digital Transformation a complete and wholesome journey and / or experience.
This Blog is not to be substituted for or taken for legal advice. The author does not accept responsibility or liability for damage suffered as a result of its use as legal advice. Readers are encouraged to consult a qualified and licensed attorney for situation specific legal advice.
Enen Ambrose. (Personal Archive)
Enen Ambrose
Member, Judiciary Affairs Committee of
Uganda Law Society.
For feedback or questions, write to: enen@enenlegalworld.com
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.
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. TheIncompetence 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!.
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.
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?
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.
“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.
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.
“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:
“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:
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
