For avoidance of doubt, a “necessary evil” is not necessarily something admirable or universally loved. It is something—or someone—many people may dislike, criticise, or even resent, but still consider indispensable for achieving a larger objective.
Like a difficult spouse in a long marriage, a necessary evil is tolerated because the alternative is viewed as potentially worse.
As President Yoweri Kaguta Museveni prepares to be sworn in for another term on May 15, 2026, perhaps it is appropriate to summon one of history’s greatest dramatists, William Shakespeare, to frame the reality confronting Uganda today.
“Get thee a good husband/wife, and use him/her as he uses thee. So farewell,” Shakespeare wrote in All’s Well That Ends Well.
Ugandans and Museveni found each other in 1986 and, for better or worse, have remained together ever since. In modern political terms, forty years is an extraordinarily long relationship. Few marriages today survive that long, whether solemnised in church, mosque, or customary ceremony.
Yet the political union between Museveni and Uganda has endured because both sides continue to derive something from it.
For Museveni, Uganda has provided the platform upon which he has built one of Africa’s longest and most consequential political careers. He has used time, political control, and historical continuity to cement a legacy as the man who has ruled Uganda longer than any post-independence leader.
For many Ugandans, however, Museveni has represented something different: relative peace and stability in a country whose earlier decades were marked by coups, insurgencies, political violence, and institutional collapse.
Before 1986, Uganda’s history was repeatedly interrupted by bloodshed and political upheaval. Governments rose and fell through military force, and entire communities lived under the shadow of instability and fear.
That memory still shapes political thinking today.
To many citizens—particularly older generations who experienced the turmoil of the 1970s and early 1980s—the argument is simple: whatever Museveni’s shortcomings, Uganda under him has remained more stable than Uganda before him.
This does not mean Ugandans are blind to the failures of his government.
Far from it.
Complaints about corruption, unemployment, inequality, poor service delivery, patronage politics, and concentration of power have become increasingly widespread. Young people especially continue to express frustration over economic exclusion and shrinking political trust.
The contrast between wealth among the political elite and the daily struggles of ordinary citizens has only deepened public anger.
Yet even amid such dissatisfaction, many Ugandans remain hesitant about political transition, particularly when they do not see a united or sufficiently reassuring alternative.
That hesitation partly explains why Museveni continues to dominate Uganda’s political landscape despite growing criticism.
Opposition figures including Robert Kyagulanyi, Nathan Nandala Mafabi, Norbert Mao, Jimmy Akena, and Greggory Mugisha Muntu each command support bases of their own. But Uganda’s opposition politics has often struggled with fragmentation, ideological inconsistency, and internal competition.
For voters prioritising stability above all else, the fear of uncertainty under a divided opposition sometimes outweighs the desire for immediate political change.
That reality may frustrate critics of the current government, but it remains politically significant.
In many ways, Uganda’s political future resembles an uncomfortable balancing act.
Some Ugandans view Museveni through the practical lens of survival and accumulation. They argue that relative peace over the last four decades has enabled families to build businesses, educate children, acquire property, and establish long-term security.
Others see the same period as one of missed opportunities, widening inequality, and democratic stagnation.
Both perspectives coexist.
Still others interpret Uganda’s political trajectory through spiritual or biblical imagery. The Book of Genesis speaks of years of abundance followed by years of hardship.
For such observers, the central question is no longer whether Museveni’s era will eventually end—it certainly will—but rather what comes after it, and whether Uganda is adequately prepared for that transition.
That anxiety explains why debates around succession increasingly dominate political discourse.
Among younger generations, attention is already shifting toward Muhoozi Kainerugaba and the possibility of a future political transition shaped by his influence.
Whether one supports or opposes that possibility, it reflects the growing recognition that Uganda is entering a new political phase, one that may eventually redefine the relationship between the state, leadership, and a rapidly changing population.
For now, however, Museveni remains central to Uganda’s political equation.
Supporters see him as a guarantor of continuity and national cohesion. Critics view him as a symbol of prolonged incumbency and democratic fatigue.
But beyond the slogans, the emotional arguments, and the partisan battles lies a more uncomfortable truth: many Ugandans continue to tolerate Museveni not necessarily because they are fully satisfied with his leadership, but because they remain unconvinced that the alternative guarantees greater stability.
That may not be a romantic endorsement of power. It may not even be an enthusiastic one.
But in politics, as in life, many relationships survive not because they are perfect, but because those involved fear the consequences of separation more than the burdens of staying together.
As Uganda enters another chapter under Museveni’s leadership, the country’s greatest challenge may not simply be how long one man governs, but whether Uganda can eventually manage political transition without sacrificing the peace and stability many citizens still hold above everything else.
I rest my case.
