The death of Police Constable Sulaiman Chemonges during a burial in Ibanda District is not just a grim story of mob justice—it is a stark indictment of the structural vulnerabilities and risky deployment practices within Uganda’s police force.
That a trained officer, in uniform and armed, could be lynched in broad daylight while on duty raises profound questions: Why was he alone? Who sanctioned a solo deployment into a volatile environment? And what does this say about the state of public trust in police institutions?
Chemonges had reportedly been assigned to provide security at the burial of Lazarus Kahangire, a prison inmate who died while on remand for attempted murder in a land dispute.
Even on paper, this burial was a high-risk affair—an emotionally charged gathering, involving a deceased suspect in a deeply personal land wrangle, and a community possibly aggrieved both at the prison system and law enforcement more broadly.
Sending a lone officer to such a setting, without backup or a clear community engagement strategy, was a grave miscalculation. It not only endangered the officer, it also ignored basic crowd control principles.
A visibly uniformed, armed officer arriving alone—on a motorbike, no less—was seen not as a peacekeeper but as a provocation.
There are quiet suggestions that Chemonges was backed up non-uniformed officers who "disappeared into the crowd" when things headed south, but that is a make-believe in the face of the tragedy.
The Nile Post has since been reliably informed that there was a policing gap when Chemonges was allowed to go it alone on the basis that he was familiar with the circumstances leading to the death of the Kahingire.
But make no mistake, the operational decision to deploy Chemonges solo raises troubling questions about Uganda Police Force’s internal protocols and situational awareness.
Did his superiors carry out a threat assessment? Was he briefed about community sentiments or the high tensions surrounding the deceased? Was there any provision for reinforcement in case of escalation?
These are not academic questions. The fact that Chemonges was filming the scene—a move possibly intended for intelligence gathering or incident reporting—was misread by mourners as surveillance or intrusion.
The hostile reaction he received underscores a deeper breakdown in community-police relations, especially in rural settings where police are often viewed with suspicion.
While mob justice is unequivocally condemnable, its frequency in Uganda cannot be divorced from broader societal frustrations. The police are often seen not as protectors, but as instruments of repression, accused of partisanship, corruption, and brutality.
This eroded trust explodes in tragic episodes like Chemonges’ lynching, where an officer in uniform inspires fear rather than respect.
The public perception of Chemonges at that burial wasn't shaped by his personal record—which by most accounts was clean—but by what he represented. He became a symbol, however unfairly, of a system people mistrust.
This tragedy should compel the Uganda Police Force to rethink solo deployments, especially to emotionally charged public gatherings.
Assigning a single officer to a volatile crowd violates basic safety protocols and unnecessarily endangers lives. Backup should not be optional—it should be policy.
Further, the force must urgently invest in community policing models that rebuild trust, favour dialogue, and ensure officers are not just enforcers but embedded members of the communities they serve.
Chemonges’ death is not an isolated incident. It fits into a troubling pattern of officers being overwhelmed in the field, of intelligence gaps, poor preparation, and strained public relations.
But it is also a wake-up call. The calls for justice must go both ways: justice for the slain officer, and justice in the form of reforms that ensure this never happens again.
Until then, officers like Sulaiman Chemonges—young, committed, and grossly under-protected—will remain on the front lines alone. Sometimes, tragically, too alone.