The UPDF Amendment Bill 2025 will be the latest in a long line of laws that the NRM has passed in a disturbingly similar fashion—rushed through Parliament with little regard for institutional safeguards.
The process is typically hurried and bulldozed past the very checks and balances that ought to protect citizens. Of course, when you have the numbers, you can do as you please.
Before I get too far, allow me to illustrate this point more graphically. To grasp what I’m labouring to explain, one must be capable of understanding that marital rape exists.
Many men in this country either do not grasp this concept or reject it entirely. To them, the idea is nonsensical—because in their minds, they own a woman’s body simply by virtue of having paid bride price or dowry. But that was, and is, her body—marriage does not erase that fact.
This is why a respectful man asks if his wife is in the mood, rather than assuming he is entitled.
In the same spirit of entitled dominance, the NRM has used its majority in Parliament in ways that leave a sour taste in the mouths of those who value humility and democratic principle.
In civilised democracies, leaders at least pretend to care about the views of their citizens. They organise genuine public consultations, even when they intend to ignore the submissions.
Here, however, we see invitations for public input sent out at 10:00am, with hearings scheduled for midday the same day. That is not just inconsiderate—it is deliberately exclusionary.
Why does no one ever explain this rush? Why is there no urgency to justify this urgency? Imagine receiving a wedding invitation at 10:00am for a ceremony starting at noon, without any prior verbal notice or phone call.
Most people wouldn’t attend, and that’s just a social event.
Yet we are expected to accept such short notice when the issue at hand is a law that could determine who gets tried in a military court. If we care more about weddings than legislation, what does that say about our priorities as a country?
When we normalise unfairness—when we use power to frustrate the powerless—we do so under the illusion that power never changes hands. But it always does.
It is not a matter of if, but when. I take comfort in conversations I’ve had with members of the ruling inner circle who are uneasy with how things are being handled. It was refreshing to discover that, at least privately, we agree on what’s going wrong—and on the dangers this poses to our fragile sense of national cohesion.
You take your Shs10 million, sign a committee report, and walk away. But have you considered that one day your own son or daughter could be dragged before a court because of that document you rubber-stamped?
Everyone involved in football, for instance, should be alarmed when new football laws are being drafted. I cannot understand how anyone working in the sport could accept a bribe to support legislation that clearly undermines football itself.
Our desperation has dulled our moral compass. We are so consumed by our immediate needs that we no longer pause to reflect on the long-term consequences of our actions.
That is why I’ve always believed that wealthy individuals—people whose financial needs exceed a Shs10 million handout—should play a greater role in legislation. Their independence from petty inducements could be our salvation.
I hope I live long enough to see someone who voted “aye” on this bill marched to Makindye over the very law they supported. If I do, I will ask them to grant me an interview. I would want to hear what they have to say—then.