By Isaac Christopher Lubogo
Where is Uganda truly headed?
This is not a poetic question. It is a desperate cry rising from the very soul of a nation gasping beneath the weight of parliamentary gluttony and institutional betrayal.
As Uganda inches toward another round of elections, the public must rise from political slumber and examine with sober eyes the tragic mutation of Parliament from a house of the people into a den of predators.
A House Once Sacred, Now For Sale
The Parliament of Uganda was once imagined as a sacred house of representation, oversight, and legislation. It was to be a fortress of justice, where the cries of the ordinary citizen would echo in debates, laws, and resolutions.
But today, it stands hollowed out—a rubber-stamp institution, bloated by numbers and deflated of morals. With over 500 Members of Parliament, it ranks among the most expensive legislatures in the world—yet delivers the least in public trust.
It is no longer a place where ideas are weighed. It is a place where envelopes are exchanged, party lines are parroted, and public interest is auctioned to the highest bidder.
A Decade of Deals, Not Debates
Let us not sanitise what is happening. Over the years, and especially under the NRM regime, Parliament has evolved into a cartel of consumption.
From the infamous 2005 bribe-laced vote to remove presidential term limits, to the militarised 2017 amendment that scrapped age limits, Parliament has repeatedly betrayed its constitutional mandate and allowed Uganda to slide into a de facto dictatorship.
These weren’t legislative decisions. They were transactions—exchanged in silence, sealed in corruption, and celebrated with perks.
MPs as Merchants of Misery
Every election cycle, MPs parade themselves as servants of the people. Yet once sworn in, they morph into insatiable merchants of misery, living lavishly at the expense of the very people they swore to serve.
Each MP earns over Shs 30 million per month, not including sitting allowances, fuel cards, foreign travel, medical insurance abroad, and fully furnished offices.
In 2022, they shamelessly accepted a Shs 100 million “constituency facilitation bonanza” in the middle of economic despair. Most of the country couldn’t afford school fees or medical bills. But Parliament was in a feeding frenzy.
But it didn’t stop there.
Barely two months ago, another Shs 100 million was quietly deposited into the accounts of MPs—this time under even murkier circumstances.
While no official justification was provided, many observers draw a direct link between the sudden payout and the passage of two controversial and democracy-deflating developments:
The amendment of the UPDF Act, which significantly tightened the Executive’s grip on the armed forces, consolidating military control under partisan command.
A chilling amendment to Rule 87(2) of Parliament's Rules of Procedure, effectively barring any MP from mentioning the sitting President by name unless through a substantive motion—a motion which, given the dominance of the ruling party, would never survive the first breath of debate.
What kind of Parliament silences itself?
What democratic chamber gags its own members from scrutinising the most powerful man in the land?
This is not oversight. This is legislative suicide.
This is not a rule of order—it is a rule of fear.
And that Shs 100 million? It was not facilitation. It was hush money.
It was Parliament’s price for complicity. A payment not for service, but for silence.
And when the public questioned this latest robbery, MPs responded, as before, with cold indifference—some muttering, “Everyone else is eating, why not us?”
Is this service? Is this representation?
Or is it state-sanctioned cannibalism—now constitutionally codified?
Oversight or Complicity?
Our Parliament’s role is not merely legislative. It is oversight—to hold the Executive accountable and ensure national resources are protected.
But what oversight can come from a House that votes with its stomach?
Scandal after scandal passes through Parliament like wind through an open window:
Lubowa International Hospital: Shs 1.4 trillion guaranteed, not one functioning ward.
Karamoja Iron Sheets: stolen by ministers, debated without consequence.
CHOGM billions, GAVI funds, COVID-19 billions, oil bribery allegations—all buried in committee reports that gather dust.
Oversight has become a stage-managed circus. Committees bark, but never bite. Reports are filed, but never followed. It is all sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Rubber Stamp Republic: Death of Parliamentary Supremacy
Uganda’s Constitution vests supremacy in Parliament—to check, balance, and question Executive power. But today, our Parliament does none of these.
The Speaker answers to the President. The majority caucus votes like a choir. And even the opposition has become too comfortable with compromise, sitting at the banquet table while Ugandans queue for food rations.
We no longer have a Parliament. We have a puppet theatre, and the strings are golden.
The Human Cost: Blood on the Ledger
Behind every payout to an MP lies a silent funeral in the village:
A child dies in Mulago because there are no gloves.
A mother in Moroto walks 30km to a health center without medicine.
A teacher in Bundibugyo gives up after ten months of unpaid salary.
A youth with a degree sells onions on the roadside.
This is not theoretical. This is murder by misallocation.
It is blood on the ledger. Blood on Parliament’s hands.
The Voter’s Verdict: 2026 Is the Crossroad
As we approach the next general election, Uganda must ask itself some uncomfortable questions:
Why do we keep voting for those who feast as we starve?
Why are candidates judged by how much money they dish out, not by what laws they pass?
Why do we settle for empty manifestos, for those who show up only to bury us, never to build us?
The tragedy of Uganda is not only that leaders steal. It is that the public often elects thieves knowingly, then complains in whispers when the meal is stolen from their children.
A Final Plea: Reclaim the House or Bury the Nation
Uganda is bleeding not from war, but from the slow poison of greed.
If Parliament remains unchecked, Uganda will collapse not in one explosive moment—but in daily drops of disappointment, until there is nothing left to betray.
We must no longer ask, “What is government doing for us?”
We must begin asking, “What are we allowing it to do to us?”
This next election must not be about political parties. It must be about moral resurrection. About cleansing. About replacing parasitism with patriotism.
Let us rise. Let us remember. Let us vote not with our bellies, but with our brains.
Let us restore Parliament—not as a palace of power—but as a hall of honor.
Or we will lose the republic to the parasites who call themselves our representatives.