By Melvin Kiyimba
There was a time when understanding how power worked did not require a degree or a television. In precolonial Uganda, the governance of society was not hidden behind long documents or elite vocabulary.
It lived in public conversations, clan structures, oral traditions, and songs. The process of resolving disputes or allocating land was something you could follow with your ears.
Decisions were made in proximity to the people they affected. Language, context, and meaning were all aligned. People did not need to be taught civic education in schools. They lived it.
That changed. Colonialism replaced participation with procedure. It brought law in English, governance through force, and authority that reported upward instead of outward.
And after independence, that system stayed in place. It dressed itself in African institutions, but it continued to operate with the same logic.
Participation became symbolic. Communication became technical. The state no longer spoke in the language of its people. And in response, the people began to stop listening.
Over the last twenty years, Uganda has moved steadily away from the idea that citizens should understand how power works.
In 2004, civic education was quietly removed from the school curriculum. Students who graduated after that year were never taught the basics of how Parliament functions, what a Constitution protects, or how to petition their representatives.
The vacuum left by the education system was never filled. Civil society tried to explain, but their voices were often restricted.
NGOs that ran civic awareness campaigns were accused of political interference. Radio programs were taken off air. Funding dried up. Instead of empowering citizens to question, the system conditioned them to obey.
The result is that most Ugandans today know very little about how decisions are made in their name. A new law can pass without them ever hearing about it.
A national budget can be read in English without a single local-language explainer. The village remains quiet because the state never invites it to speak.
And yet, this silence is not apathy. It is a form of exclusion. The people are not passive. They are unheard.
But something is changing. In the last few years, digital platforms have begun to reopen the space that formal education and traditional media left behind.
TikTok in particular has done what textbooks, press briefings, and curriculum reforms have failed to do. It has reconnected information to everyday life.
It has returned explanation to the people. Not just in English, but in Runyankole, in Lugbara, in Swahili, in voices that feel familiar.
Videos explaining what a new tax means for tomato sellers. Skits that break down court rulings. Creators who connect national headlines to village concerns. This is not just entertainment. It is education. It is civic participation in the language of now.
Look at what happened in Kenya. In 2023, the government introduced a Finance Bill that proposed a series of new taxes. It was technical.
It was long. It was designed to move quietly. But it did not. Young people began to explain the bill on TikTok and YouTube.
They translated the proposals into everyday examples. They showed how it would increase the cost of bread, data, and public transport.
They used street Swahili. They filmed from estates and villages. And as the information spread, so did the resistance. Protests followed.
MPs felt the pressure. The bill was adjusted. Not because people rioted blindly, but because they understood exactly what was being done to them.
The government had information. But so did the people. And in that moment, power was forced to listen.
That is the opportunity we now have in Uganda. To stop waiting for civic education to return through official channels. To start creating it ourselves. With the tools we already hold.
The recent UPDF Amendment Act is a good reminder of what happens when we do not. It was a 140-page bill passed by Parliament.
Inside it were provisions that allowed civilians to be tried in military courts under certain circumstances. The Supreme Court had previously ruled such trials unconstitutional.
Yet the bill passed without public debate. There were no breakdowns in Luganda or Lusoga. There was no local newspaper series explaining its contents.
Most people did not even know what the law was about until it was already law. That is how power operates in silence. Not with brute force. But with the quiet confidence that no one will ask questions.
This is not just about one law. It is about a broader system that benefits from keeping the population uninformed. And the only way to disrupt that system is to make explanation a civic responsibility.
Every teacher, boda boda rider, student, comedian, and parent can play a part. It starts with translating the news. Asking questions. Making content.
Telling stories in languages that carry meaning. Because a population that understands cannot be governed by confusion.
The future of Uganda does not depend on another constitutional review. It depends on how well we can explain the world to each other.
And that begins with reclaiming the flow of information. Civic education is not a topic to be taught once in secondary school. It is a conversation that must happen daily, across every platform, in every corner of the country.
Ask your MP how they voted. Ask what they stand for. Then ask your neighbour what they think. Record it. Post it. Share it. The republic does not belong to those in power. It belongs to those who pay attention.
This is the time to pay attention.
