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There is a peculiar tragedy in the politics of a ruling party that begins its journey promising liberation, constitutional restoration and democratic renewal, only to find itself increasingly uncomfortable with those who insist that its founding promises should be honoured. The tragedy becomes even more profound when the people who once stood in the front line defending the government begin to question its conduct, not because they have suddenly discovered an appetite for power, but because the principles that brought them into government appear to be in conflict with the practices they are now expected to defend. Uganda's National Resistance Movement (NRM) presents a compelling case study of this political contradiction. For decades, the Movement has cultivated a powerful political identity built around its historical contribution to ending the political disorder that preceded its rise to power in 1986. Its supporters point to security, infrastructure, education, economic development and the restoration of state institutions as evidence of its achievements. Yet, beyond the familiar language of political accomplishment, a more difficult question confronts the Movement: what happens when defending the party becomes incompatible with defending the Constitution, when loyalty to the leadership is mistaken for loyalty to the country, and when those who challenge wrongdoing are treated as enemies while those who remain silent are rewarded as dependable political allies?
This is not merely a question about the survival of a political party. It is a question about the character of the Ugandan state, the integrity of constitutional government and the future of political succession in a republic whose citizens have repeatedly expressed a desire for accountable leadership. The central paradox is that a party may possess an overwhelming parliamentary majority and still struggle with the moral authority required to govern a diverse population. It may command the machinery of government and yet find itself increasingly challenged by questions of justice, accountability and institutional independence. It may celebrate its loyalists while alienating some of its most experienced members, only to discover that the people it once regarded as troublesome critics were among those best positioned to defend its historical legitimacy.
The distinction between loyalty to a party and loyalty to a leader is therefore fundamental. Loyalty to a party should mean commitment to its constitution, manifesto, declared principles and legitimate political objectives. Loyalty to a leader, when elevated above every other consideration, can become a personal obligation in which the law is respected only when it does not inconvenience those who exercise power. A constitutional republic cannot survive indefinitely on that distinction being ignored. The question is whether the NRM has reached a point at which some of its members are judged less by the quality of their arguments than by their willingness to agree with the leadership. If so, the problem extends beyond internal party discipline. It becomes a question of political culture, institutional independence and the ability of a ruling party to correct its own mistakes before those mistakes become national crises.
WHEN THE LIBERATION MOVEMENT BEGAN TO CONFRONT ITS OWN CONSCIENCE
To understand the present contradictions, one must return to the historical circumstances that brought the NRM to power. The National Resistance Army captured Kampala in January 1986 after a protracted armed struggle. The new government presented itself as a departure from the coups, political violence, electoral disputes and institutional instability that had afflicted Uganda since independence in 1962. Its political philosophy emphasised resistance to sectarianism, the restoration of security, the reconstruction of state institutions and the establishment of a political order that would prevent a recurrence of the country's violent past. The NRM's initial political appeal was not confined to military victory. It also rested on the promise that Uganda could be governed differently.
The National Resistance Movement's political programme, the experience of the National Resistance Council and the eventual promulgation of the 1995 Constitution all formed part of this wider attempt to establish a new constitutional order. The Constitution was intended to provide a framework within which political authority would be exercised according to law, public institutions would serve the republic, and the transfer of power would be governed by established rules rather than personal preference. Yet every liberation movement eventually confronts a difficult test. The discipline required to overthrow an established political order is not necessarily the same discipline required to govern a constitutional democracy. An organisation united by resistance can find itself divided when resistance is no longer its principal activity and the central question becomes how power should be exercised, limited and eventually transferred.
During the struggle, unity may depend on a common enemy. In government, unity must depend on a common commitment to public institutions and the law. The difference is profound. A liberation movement can demand obedience in the name of survival. A constitutional government must permit disagreement in the name of accountability. A commander may expect discipline from soldiers under his authority, but a political leader in a republic must recognise that citizens, legislators, judges and public officials possess rights and responsibilities that cannot be extinguished by the demands of party loyalty.
The difficulty arises when the habits of a liberation struggle become permanent features of government. Criticism begins to appear as disloyalty, internal debate becomes suspicious, and the protection of the organisation is elevated above the correction of its mistakes. The NRM's history contains several important episodes in which this tension became visible. Some of the most consequential involved the debate over presidential succession, the removal of constitutional term limits in 2005 and the removal of the presidential age limit in 2017. These were not simply legal amendments. They exposed disagreements about the relationship between the Movement's historical leadership and the constitutional future of the country. As the years passed, the question increasingly became whether the NRM could distinguish the survival of its political programme from the continued tenure of the individual who had led it since 1986. That distinction remains central to Uganda's democratic future.
THE FIRST GREAT FRACTURE: WHEN THE CONSTITUTIONAL CLOCK WAS STOPPED
The removal of presidential term limits in 2005 marked a decisive moment in Uganda's political history. The 1995 Constitution had established a maximum of two presidential terms under Article 105(2). The provision reflected the desire to prevent the indefinite concentration of executive authority in one individual and to create a predictable framework for political succession. By the early 2000s, the question of what would happen when President Yoweri Museveni reached the end of his constitutionally permitted tenure had become increasingly contentious within the NRM. The controversy was not simply about whether Museveni had performed well as president. It was about whether the constitutional rules should remain binding when they became inconvenient for the incumbent.
The debate produced tensions among figures who had participated in the liberation struggle and the subsequent establishment of the NRM government. Some regarded the removal of term limits as necessary to preserve continuity. Others feared that altering the rules to accommodate an incumbent would weaken the institutional safeguards upon which Uganda's constitutional future depended. Eriya Kategaya, a senior historical figure within the Movement and a longtime ally of Museveni, became one of the most prominent figures associated with opposition to the third-term project. His disagreement reflected a fundamental concern: a political organisation could not indefinitely claim to be committed to constitutionalism while treating constitutional limitations as obstacles to be removed whenever they threatened the tenure of its leadership. Contemporary accounts of the period document the political consequences of disagreement over the proposed third term, including Kategaya's departure from the centre of government.
In 2005, Parliament approved the removal of presidential term limits through a constitutional amendment. The amendment enabled Museveni to seek re-election beyond the two-term restriction contained in the original constitutional arrangement. Supporters defended the change on the grounds that the electorate should determine who governs. Critics countered that elections alone cannot replace constitutional safeguards, because democracy requires not only the right to choose leaders but also rules governing the exercise and duration of power.
Both propositions must be understood carefully. An electoral majority is important in a democracy, but a majority cannot make every political decision constitutionally wise merely by supporting it. Constitutionalism exists partly because political majorities, like individual leaders, can act in ways that undermine the conditions necessary for future democratic competition. Term limits do not guarantee good governance. Nor does their removal automatically establish dictatorship. But they create a predictable boundary around the tenure of the executive, and removing that boundary changes the institutional relationship between the president, the ruling party and the state.
The question is not whether an incumbent may win another election. It is whether the constitutional framework should continually be altered to preserve the political prospects of the incumbent. In the Ugandan case, the removal of term limits became a watershed because it altered expectations about succession. What had once appeared to be a constitutional timetable became a political question whose answer depended increasingly on the decisions of the ruling establishment. The fracture within the Movement was therefore also a fracture in the national imagination. Ugandans who had expected the 1995 Constitution to establish a durable framework for orderly succession began to confront a different possibility: that constitutional arrangements could be revised when the existing leadership faced the prospect of leaving office.
The immediate political beneficiary was the incumbent. The longer-term institutional consequence was a weakening of the expectation that presidential tenure would be limited by the original constitutional design. The damage, if measured in institutional confidence rather than immediate political advantage, was potentially much greater than the removal of a single clause. A constitution is not merely a collection of legal provisions. It is also a public promise about the limits of political authority. When that promise is revised to accommodate the interests of those already in power, citizens may reasonably ask whether constitutional safeguards are permanent principles or temporary arrangements.
THE MEN AND WOMEN WHO DISCOVERED THAT HISTORY DOES NOT GUARANTEE PERMANENT BELONGING
The story of internal dissent within the NRM cannot be reduced to one person or one constitutional amendment. It is a longer story involving former ministers, senior officials, legislators and historical insiders whose relationships with the Movement changed over time. Their experiences were not identical. Some departed because of disagreements over succession. Others became critics of government policy, challenged the leadership politically, joined opposition organisations or gradually lost their influence within the ruling establishment. In some cases, their disagreements involved personalities and political strategy as well as constitutional principle. A serious historical account must preserve these distinctions rather than assume that every former NRM figure left for precisely the same reason.
Nevertheless, their experiences reveal a recurring question: what happens to a political movement when its former insiders begin to regard its direction as inconsistent with the principles that originally attracted them? Eriya Kategaya represents one of the clearest examples of the succession dispute. His disagreements with the third-term project illustrated how a constitutional question could divide individuals whose political histories had previously been closely intertwined.
Winnie Byanyima, who participated in the NRM's early political environment before becoming an internationally recognised human rights and development advocate, represents another trajectory. Her later career took her into opposition politics and international public service. Her political evolution should not be simplistically attributed to one disagreement, but it demonstrates that participation in the early Movement did not necessarily translate into permanent agreement with its subsequent direction. Dr Maria Matembe, a lawyer and former minister, became a prominent voice in debates about constitutionalism, democratic accountability and women's political representation. Her public interventions contributed to the wider debate about the difference between institutional responsibility and unquestioning political loyalty.
Amanya Mushega, a senior figure associated with the NRM's early years and later public service, also belongs to the broader history of changing relationships between the Movement and some of its former insiders. The late Major John Kazoora, a former military officer and political figure, became known for his criticism of aspects of the political order he had once helped establish. His trajectory illustrates the difficult relationship between participation in a liberation struggle and later disagreement with the governing organisation.
Dr Kizza Besigye presents perhaps the most consequential example of an insider becoming a major opposition figure. A physician and former military officer who had served within the NRM government, Besigye broke with Museveni and contested the presidency against him in 2001, 2006, 2011 and 2016. His departure transformed the political landscape because he was not simply an external critic. He possessed personal knowledge of the Movement's history and had once occupied a place within its governing establishment. His opposition became a sustained challenge to the NRM's political legitimacy, although the reasons for his departure and subsequent political positions must be understood through his own statements, the circumstances of the time and the wider political context.
Amama Mbabazi offers a different but equally revealing case. Having served as prime minister and secretary general of the NRM, he was once among the most powerful figures in the governing establishment. His relationship with the leadership deteriorated as the question of succession became more prominent. His decision to challenge Museveni in the 2016 presidential election exposed the difficulty of discussing leadership transition within a party whose political identity had become closely associated with one individual.
The experiences of these figures demonstrate that departure from a ruling party does not automatically establish moral superiority, just as remaining in the party does not automatically establish complicity in wrongdoing. Individuals must be judged by their actions, their arguments and the evidence available about their conduct. The deeper lesson lies elsewhere. A ruling party that loses experienced insiders through unresolved disagreements over constitutionalism, succession and accountability risks losing more than individual members. It risks losing institutional memory, internal corrective mechanisms and the ability to understand how its policies are perceived beyond its own political circles.
The departure of a critic can be politically convenient in the short term. It may remove an uncomfortable voice from internal meetings or parliamentary discussions. But it can also deprive an organisation of precisely the kind of internal criticism that prevents avoidable mistakes from becoming systemic problems. The important question, therefore, is not simply why these individuals left, were marginalised or became critics. It is whether the Movement created sufficient institutional space for them to disagree without being treated as political liabilities.
A political party confident in its principles should be capable of accommodating internal disagreement. Indeed, the ability to correct errors through internal debate may be one of the strongest indicators of institutional maturity. When criticism becomes grounds for exclusion, the organisation may achieve superficial unity while gradually weakening its capacity for self-correction. That is the paradox of political purges, whether formal or informal: a movement can become more united in appearance while becoming less capable of confronting its own weaknesses.
THE SECOND FRACTURE: WHEN AGE BECAME A CONSTITUTIONAL BATTLEGROUND
Twelve years after the removal of presidential term limits, Uganda confronted another defining constitutional controversy. In 2017, Parliament approved the removal of the upper presidential age limit contained in Article 102(b) of the 1995 Constitution. Before the amendment, a presidential candidate had to be at least 35 years old and not older than 75. The amendment removed the upper age restriction, enabling Museveni to continue seeking election without the constitutional disqualification that would otherwise have applied upon reaching the prescribed maximum age.
Supporters of the amendment argued that age should not automatically disqualify a citizen from seeking the presidency and that voters should decide whether an older candidate remained suitable for office. Opponents argued that the amendment formed part of a wider pattern in which constitutional safeguards were being removed to accommodate the continued tenure of the incumbent. The distinction between the two arguments matters. A maximum age limit can itself be debated as a matter of constitutional policy. Countries differ in how they regulate presidential eligibility. But the timing and political context of Uganda's amendment made it difficult to separate the general question of age discrimination from the immediate question of presidential succession.
The controversy also exposed the unequal political costs of disagreement. Legislators who opposed the amendment faced intense political pressure, and the debate became one of the most contentious parliamentary episodes in the NRM era. The Constitution was subsequently amended through the relevant legislative process, and the legality of the changes was challenged in court. In Male Mabirizi and Others v Attorney General, Constitutional Petition No. 49 of 2017 and related petitions, the Constitutional Court upheld the removal of the presidential age limit while striking down other provisions concerning the extension of parliamentary and local government terms and the reinstatement of presidential term limits. The judgment therefore requires careful interpretation: it did not declare every provision associated with the wider constitutional amendment process valid or invalidate the removal of the age limit.
The political significance of the age-limit amendment extended beyond the question of how old a presidential candidate could be. Together, the removal of term limits in 2005 and the removal of the upper age limit in 2017 altered two important constitutional safeguards that had previously constrained presidential eligibility or tenure. Neither provision, taken in isolation, could guarantee a democratic transition. Their removal, however, raised a broader concern about whether Uganda's constitutional order was becoming increasingly accommodating of continuity in the presidency while leaving the question of succession unresolved.
This concern was not confined to the opposition. Afrobarometer's July 2021 analysis reported that 70 per cent of Ugandans supported a maximum of two presidential terms and 80 per cent supported a maximum age limit for presidential candidates. These findings indicate that substantial public support existed for restoring the two safeguards, even after their removal from the Constitution. They should not be interpreted as proof that every Ugandan shared the same view, but they demonstrate that the constitutional changes did not eliminate public demand for limitations on presidential eligibility and tenure.
The central question became unavoidable: if the NRM had confidence in its institutional strength, why should the future of the party appear so inseparable from the continued tenure of its historical leader? A party that has governed for decades should, in principle, possess the experience, personnel and organisational structures necessary to produce credible successors. If succession remains politically difficult to discuss, that difficulty invites questions about the strength of the party's internal institutions.
The constitutional amendments therefore became more than disputes about age and tenure. They became symbols of a deeper disagreement over whether the NRM was an organisation capable of outliving its founder or a political structure whose stability depended upon his continued presence. That question remains one of the most important tests of Uganda's democratic future.
DOES LOYALTY TO THE PARTY REQUIRE DISLOYALTY TO THE REPUBLIC?
This is where the present controversy surrounding Ofwono Opondo and General Kahinda Otafiire becomes particularly significant. Both men have long been associated with the NRM political establishment. Their careers have placed them within the political and institutional architecture of the government, and both have participated in the defence of the Movement's record and legitimacy. Yet recent debates about alleged abductions, security excesses and accountability have exposed a difficult question for ruling-party loyalists: what should a government supporter do when the conduct of state agencies becomes the subject of serious human rights concerns?
On 22 October 2026, Daily Monitor reported that Ofwono Opondo, then serving as Member of Parliament for Older Persons representing the Eastern Region, criticised alleged security excesses and called for accountability over reported arrests and abductions. He questioned how agencies operating under an NRM-led government could become associated with alleged impunity and demanded explanations from the responsible authorities. The report also described concerns raised by opposition legislators about individuals allegedly detained without being brought before court.
Opondo's intervention is politically interesting because of the position he has occupied in Uganda's public life. For many years, he was one of the most recognisable public defenders of the government, particularly during his tenure as executive director of the Uganda Media Centre. He became known for forceful arguments in defence of government policies, frequent participation in political debates and an ability to articulate the NRM's position before a national audience. That history makes his criticism especially significant.
When an established government spokesperson raises concerns about alleged abuses by institutions operating under the government he has defended, the intervention cannot simply be dismissed as an opposition talking point. It raises the possibility that the distinction between party loyalty and institutional accountability is being recognised from within the ruling establishment itself. But there is an important qualification. Opondo's criticism does not automatically establish that every allegation he raised is proven, nor does it mean that he has abandoned the NRM. His position can be understood as an attempt to insist that the government answer questions about its own institutions.
Indeed, that may be precisely why his intervention matters. A government that receives criticism only from its opponents can easily characterise accountability demands as partisan attacks. When members of its own establishment raise similar concerns, the argument becomes more difficult to dismiss without examining the substance of the allegations. The question is no longer simply whether the opposition dislikes the government. It is whether the government can demonstrate that its institutions act within the law.
Opondo's position therefore presents an opportunity for the NRM to demonstrate that internal criticism is not necessarily rebellion and that demanding accountability does not automatically place a person outside the political family. The same broader question applies to General Kahinda Otafiire, a veteran of the liberation struggle and a long-serving senior figure in the government. Otafiire's political career has placed him close to the historical and institutional foundations of the NRM. His position as a senior government figure gives his statements about legality, security and the conduct of state institutions a significance that cannot be measured solely by whether they please the party's supporters.
However, Opondo and Otafiire should not automatically be treated as having identical positions or motives. Their respective statements, political responsibilities and public interventions must be assessed individually. The proper question is whether their actions and arguments reinforce a constitutional principle: state institutions must operate within the law, and the government must answer credible allegations of wrongdoing. If they defend that principle, their historical loyalty to the NRM should not count against them. It should make their position an opportunity for institutional reflection.
A ruling party that interprets every demand for accountability as an attack upon itself risks confusing the reputation of the organisation with the interests of the public. But the government is not the country, and the party is not the Constitution. The state belongs to all citizens, including those who vote for the NRM, those who vote against it and those who support neither side. Its security agencies do not derive their legitimacy from the approval of a party leadership. They derive their authority from the Constitution and the laws governing their conduct.
The 1995 Constitution protects the right to liberty under Article 23, prohibits torture and cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment under Article 24, protects freedom of expression under Article 29 and establishes safeguards relating to arrested persons and access to courts. Article 28 guarantees the right to a fair hearing. Article 20 affirms that fundamental rights and freedoms are inherent and not granted by the state. Article 99 places the executive authority of Uganda within the constitutional framework, while Article 128 protects the independence of the judiciary.
These provisions do not mean that every arrest is unlawful or that security agencies cannot investigate suspected criminal activity. They mean that the exercise of state power must comply with legal requirements and that allegations of unlawful detention, torture or disappearance demand credible investigation. Where a person is suspected of committing a crime, the proper response is lawful investigation and prosecution, not punishment outside the judicial process. Where a person has been arrested, the government must be able to account for that person's whereabouts and ensure compliance with constitutional safeguards. And where allegations of abuse arise, the appropriate authorities must investigate them impartially rather than dismissing them because the accused institution operates under a politically favoured government.
A state cannot defend the rule of law selectively. It cannot invoke constitutional authority when arresting its critics and disregard constitutional safeguards when those critics demand judicial protection. The question for the NRM is therefore not whether Opondo or Otafiire has demonstrated sufficient loyalty to the party. It is whether the party can accommodate a principle that must bind every government: no official, agency or political organisation stands above the law.
WHEN THE GOVERNMENT'S DEFENDERS BECOME ITS MOST NECESSARY CRITICS
There is an irony in Opondo's political trajectory that deserves serious reflection. For years, he helped defend the government against criticism. He was a familiar voice in political discussions where the NRM's policies, achievements and decisions were challenged. His role placed him at the centre of the government's public communications apparatus. Yet the credibility of any government spokesperson ultimately depends on the conduct of the government being defended.
A spokesperson may explain policy, correct misinformation and defend legitimate government decisions. But no spokesperson can permanently substitute rhetoric for accountability. If the underlying facts become indefensible, the art of political communication eventually encounters the limits of reality. This is why the present debate matters beyond Opondo as an individual. A person who has spent years defending a political establishment may possess a particularly valuable understanding of its institutional weaknesses. If such a person eventually concludes that a government action requires explanation, that conclusion should be examined on its merits rather than dismissed because it inconveniences the party.
There is no contradiction in defending a government against false accusations while demanding that it answer credible allegations of wrongdoing. There is no contradiction in supporting a political party while criticising an unlawful act committed by an official associated with it. And there is no contradiction in believing that the NRM has made important contributions to Uganda while insisting that its leadership must remain accountable to the Constitution. Indeed, those positions are compatible with responsible political citizenship.
The contradiction arises when support for the party is interpreted as a duty to defend every action taken in its name. Such an expectation turns political loyalty into an intellectual and moral trap. The individual is no longer permitted to judge the action according to the law. Instead, the individual must first ask whether the action benefits the political organisation. The result is a reversal of constitutional priorities.
Rather than the party serving the public through lawful government, the public is expected to accept the party's decisions because the party claims to represent the public. Rather than officials being accountable to citizens, citizens are told to trust officials because they belong to the ruling organisation. Rather than the Constitution establishing the limits of government, government supporters are encouraged to interpret the Constitution through the political interests of those in power. This is how a political movement can gradually lose the distinction between its own survival and the survival of the state.
A mature ruling party should reject that confusion. Its strongest supporters should be those who can defend its legitimate achievements while identifying its failures, because they understand that a government which cannot correct its mistakes will eventually become vulnerable to them. The most dangerous adviser is not necessarily the person who opposes the government. It may be the person who knows the government is wrong but fears that acknowledging the truth will cost him a position, a promotion, a political future or the approval of powerful superiors. Silence may preserve an individual's place within an organisation. It cannot establish that the organisation is acting correctly.
THE POLITICS OF PROMOTION, EXCLUSION AND INTERNAL EXILE
Political parties rarely announce that they are punishing members for raising uncomfortable questions. The process is often more subtle. A critic may find that invitations to important meetings become less frequent. Their influence over policy may diminish. Their contributions may be interpreted in the least charitable way. Supporters may be encouraged to regard them as unreliable, ambitious or disloyal. In parliamentary politics, an outspoken member may lose access to influential party structures or find that their views carry less weight in the organisation's internal calculations.
These possibilities are not unique to Uganda, and their existence in a particular case must be established by evidence rather than assumed. But they describe a familiar mechanism through which organisations can discourage dissent without formally prohibiting it. The underlying political incentive is straightforward. If promotion depends primarily on demonstrating loyalty to the leadership, members may learn that the safest course is to agree, remain silent or frame criticism in ways that do not threaten powerful interests.
Over time, the organisation risks selecting its leaders according to their willingness to conform rather than their ability to identify problems and propose solutions. This is especially dangerous in a dominant ruling party because the distinction between internal party politics and national governance becomes blurred. When the ruling party controls the executive and enjoys a substantial parliamentary majority, internal party decisions can influence legislation, public appointments, government policy and oversight of state institutions. Weaknesses in the party's internal accountability mechanisms can therefore have consequences far beyond its membership.
The problem is not that political parties impose discipline. Every functioning party needs procedures for coordinating policy, maintaining order and presenting a coherent programme to voters. The problem arises when discipline becomes indistinguishable from unquestioning obedience. A member who disagrees with a particular policy should not automatically be treated as an enemy of the organisation. Nor should the mere fact of criticism confer moral superiority on the critic. The test must be whether the criticism is made honestly, whether the facts support it and whether the proposed remedy serves the public interest.
The same standard should apply to those who defend the leadership. Political loyalty cannot be measured solely by the strength of a member's public declarations. It must also be measured by the member's willingness to protect the party's legitimate principles when doing so is politically inconvenient. A legislator who challenges an unlawful practice may be performing a more important service to the government than a colleague who defends it without examining the evidence. The first may help prevent a scandal, restore public confidence and protect the institution from legal consequences. The second may offer immediate political comfort while allowing the underlying problem to deepen.
This is why internal dissent should be understood as a potential mechanism of institutional repair rather than an automatic threat to party unity. The question is whether the NRM can recognise this distinction before the cost of suppressing criticism becomes greater than the cost of listening to it.
WHY THE OPPOSITION SOMETIMES LOOKS LIKE A FORMER GOVERNMENT MEETING
One of the most striking features of Uganda's political landscape is the number of opposition figures who once held important positions within the NRM government or participated in the Movement's early political life. Besigye was once an insider. Mbabazi served at the highest levels of government and the party. Kategaya was a historical ally of Museveni. Other former insiders have moved into civil society, international institutions, independent political advocacy or relative political obscurity.
Their trajectories differ, and it would be historically inaccurate to suggest that they all left for the same reasons. Some disagreements were constitutional. Others involved political strategy, competition over leadership, personal relationships, government policy or the distribution of political authority. Nevertheless, their collective history raises a legitimate question: why has a movement that began as a coalition of people seeking political transformation experienced repeated disagreements with some of its own historical figures?
One possible explanation is the changing relationship between a liberation movement and the state it governs. During a liberation struggle, political legitimacy is often derived from the promise of transformation. After victory, legitimacy must increasingly be sustained through the quality of government, the fairness of institutions, the protection of rights and the ability to transfer power peacefully. The founding narrative may continue to inspire support, but it cannot answer every contemporary question.
A citizen who was not politically active in 1986 may reasonably ask what the government is doing today to protect the Constitution, improve public services, safeguard public funds and ensure that state institutions operate impartially. A young Ugandan who has never experienced the political conditions that preceded the NRM's rise may judge the government less by its historical achievements than by the opportunities available to them, the quality of public institutions and the fairness of the political system they have inherited. This is not ingratitude. It is a legitimate feature of political succession between generations.
A liberation movement that wishes to remain relevant must continually demonstrate that its founding principles are reflected in contemporary practice. It cannot permanently demand political loyalty on the basis of historical achievement alone. Nor can it assume that every critic has forgotten the country's past or wishes to restore the political disorder that preceded the current government.
The opposition itself must also be scrutinised. Former insiders do not become infallible merely because they have fallen out with the ruling establishment. Their records, promises, policy proposals and respect for constitutional principles must be examined with the same seriousness applied to the government. But the existence of flaws among opposition figures does not absolve the ruling party of responsibility for its own conduct.
The relevant question is not whether a former NRM member has become a perfect politician. It is whether the circumstances surrounding their departure reveal weaknesses in the ruling party's capacity to accommodate disagreement, regulate competition and prepare for succession. If every prominent critic is dismissed as a traitor, an opportunist or an enemy, the party risks replacing political analysis with a vocabulary of exclusion. That may be useful for mobilisation. It is not an adequate substitute for historical explanation.
A political organisation that cannot learn from the departures of its own experienced members risks repeating the conditions that produced them.
THE CONSTITUTION IS NOT A RELIGIOUS TEXT RESERVED FOR POLITICAL PRIESTS
There is a temptation in highly polarised politics to treat the ruling party as though it were a religious congregation in which questioning the leadership is interpreted as an act of heresy. The analogy is imperfect because religious communities differ widely in their traditions of interpretation, debate and accountability. Many churches, mosques and other religious institutions actively encourage questions and scholarly disagreement. Nevertheless, the comparison captures a political danger: the transformation of legitimate authority into an untouchable object of loyalty.
In a healthy constitutional democracy, no political leader should be beyond questioning. A minister must be able to explain the legality of a policy. A legislator must be able to justify a vote. A police officer must be able to account for the exercise of coercive authority. A security official must operate within the law. A party leader must tolerate legitimate criticism. And a president must remain subject to constitutional limitations. These are not acts of rebellion. They are ordinary requirements of accountable government.
The analogy becomes particularly relevant when considering the relationship between political leaders and their supporters. Imagine a religious service in which the congregation is told that asking the preacher to explain an obscure passage demonstrates hostility to the faith itself. Such an arrangement would discourage understanding and encourage the substitution of personal authority for reasoned interpretation. In politics, the equivalent occurs when a citizen who questions a government decision is immediately labelled an enemy of the state, a supporter of the opposition or a person working against the ruling party.
The effect is to transform a question about public policy into a test of personal allegiance. But the state is not a private congregation, and the Constitution is not a doctrine whose meaning belongs exclusively to the governing establishment. The Constitution is the supreme law of the Republic. Its authority does not depend upon the political popularity of the officials required to obey it.
Article 2 establishes the supremacy of the Constitution, while Article 3 addresses the defence of the Constitution against unlawful suspension, overthrow or abrogation. These provisions embody a principle that should be central to political education: the government derives its authority from the constitutional order and must exercise that authority within its limits. The ruling party is not the source of the Constitution's legitimacy. It is one participant in the political system the Constitution establishes.
Consequently, a party member who asks whether a government action is lawful is not necessarily challenging the existence of the party. The member may be defending the legal framework within which the party is entitled to govern. The same applies to journalists, lawyers, civil society organisations and ordinary citizens. A constitutional democracy requires people who can ask uncomfortable questions without fearing that the act of questioning itself will be treated as proof of disloyalty.
The alternative is a political culture in which agreement becomes more important than evidence, public declarations become more valuable than honest scrutiny, and the preservation of appearances takes precedence over the correction of wrongdoing. Such a culture can be deeply damaging because it deprives the government of reliable information about the consequences of its own decisions. Leaders who hear only praise may eventually mistake silence for consent and fear for respect. A political party that discourages its own members from asking difficult questions should not be surprised when the public begins asking those questions on its behalf.
DOES THE RISE OF POLITICAL OBEDIENCE SIGNAL THE EMERGENCE OF TYRANNY?
The question must be asked carefully. Not every dominant government is a dictatorship, and not every constitutional amendment that benefits an incumbent establishes tyranny. Political systems must be assessed through evidence concerning elections, judicial independence, legislative oversight, civil liberties, the treatment of opposition groups and the practical limits placed on executive power. Nevertheless, tyranny does not begin only when a government formally abolishes the Constitution. It can also emerge through the gradual weakening of institutions that are supposed to restrain power.
Montesquieu, in The Spirit of the Laws, argued for the importance of distributing political power so that authority would not be concentrated without effective restraint. His argument remains relevant because the danger of arbitrary government lies not merely in the character of an individual ruler but in the absence of institutions capable of checking the ruler's decisions. A benevolent leader may exercise restraint voluntarily. A constitutional system must make restraint obligatory. That is the difference between personal virtue and institutional protection.
A government may possess a leader who genuinely believes that continuity is necessary for national stability. But the belief does not eliminate the need for rules governing succession, public accountability and the treatment of political opponents. Nor does a government's record of development automatically answer questions about unlawful detention, freedom of expression or the independence of public institutions.
The relevant test is whether the state can protect the rights of people who disagree with its leadership. If political critics are lawfully investigated when credible evidence of criminal conduct exists, constitutional government remains possible. If critics are punished merely for expressing disagreement, the state moves towards arbitrary power. If public officials can investigate alleged misconduct without political interference, institutions retain the possibility of accountability. If officials are rewarded for protecting politically powerful individuals regardless of the evidence, the system risks becoming self-protective.
If members of the ruling party can question policy without being treated as enemies, the party preserves an avenue for internal correction. If disagreement is consistently interpreted as betrayal, the party risks becoming dependent on obedience rather than judgment. These are the kinds of institutional questions that determine whether a government is moving towards constitutional resilience or arbitrary rule.
The issue is not whether Uganda should be casually labelled a tyranny. The issue is whether its institutions possess the practical strength necessary to prevent the arbitrary exercise of power. The most useful warning signs are not slogans. They are observable practices: whether detainees are produced before courts as required by law, whether allegations of torture are investigated, whether judicial orders are respected, whether Parliament can scrutinise the executive, whether opposition parties can organise freely and whether public officials are held accountable for misconduct. These questions can be investigated, documented and debated. They offer a more reliable basis for political judgment than the assumption that every government action is lawful because it has been taken by a government elected under the Constitution.
WHO BENEFITS WHEN LOYALTY REPLACES ACCOUNTABILITY?
The political economy of unquestioning loyalty deserves particular attention. When public officials believe that their careers depend more on pleasing powerful superiors than on complying with the law, incentives can become distorted. An official may be tempted to conceal a failure rather than report it. A legislator may avoid scrutinising a minister because doing so could damage an important political relationship. A public institution may hesitate to investigate allegations involving influential individuals. A party member may defend a questionable decision because acknowledging the problem would undermine a position from which they derive political or material benefit.
These are institutional risks, not proof that every official behaves in this manner. But the risks are significant because they explain why systems of patronage and personal loyalty can weaken public accountability even without an explicit instruction to break the law. The benefits of such a system are often concentrated. Individuals with access to appointments, contracts, political influence or privileged decision-making may gain from the preservation of existing arrangements. The costs, however, may be distributed across the wider population through weaker public services, declining institutional confidence, inefficient allocation of public resources and reduced opportunities for citizens who lack political connections.
This is why the question of who benefits from a culture of unquestioning loyalty cannot be answered merely by identifying the president or a small group of senior officials. The beneficiaries may include political actors who fear that a genuine succession process could weaken their influence, individuals whose positions depend on personal access to powerful leaders, and institutions whose leaders prefer the protection of political relationships to the uncertainty of independent scrutiny. But the ultimate beneficiaries in any particular case must be identified through evidence.
It would be irresponsible to allege that a named individual sponsors unlawful conduct without substantiation. The more productive approach is to examine the institutional incentives that reward silence, discourage oversight and make it difficult to investigate allegations involving powerful people. The public should ask whether appointments are based on competence and integrity, whether public procurement is transparent, whether parliamentary committees can obtain information, whether law-enforcement agencies operate impartially and whether allegations of abuse are investigated regardless of the political status of the persons involved.
These questions shift the debate from personal accusation to institutional diagnosis. They also expose a central contradiction in the politics of patronage: a government may reward loyalty in the short term while weakening the very institutions required to protect its long-term legitimacy. When the public begins to believe that access to justice depends on political connections, the credibility of the entire system is endangered. The law must therefore operate as a common standard, not a privilege available to the powerful and an obligation imposed only upon ordinary citizens.
THE SILENCE OF THE WELL-PLACED AND THE COURAGE OF THE UNCOMFORTABLE
There is another question that the NRM and Uganda's political establishment must confront: why do some people who privately acknowledge institutional problems remain publicly silent? The answer may vary. Some fear losing their positions. Others believe that criticism should remain within internal party structures. Some may genuinely disagree with the critics. Others may calculate that the political cost of speaking openly outweighs the possible benefit. Still others may have legitimate concerns about the accuracy of allegations and prefer to wait for evidence. Silence, therefore, cannot automatically be interpreted as approval or complicity.
Nevertheless, when silence becomes a widespread response to credible allegations of wrongdoing, it can weaken the mechanisms through which institutions identify and correct their mistakes. A political party needs members who can speak when something is wrong, just as a government needs civil servants who can identify policy failures before those failures become crises.
The responsibility is particularly important for people who possess influence, access to information and institutional authority. A junior official may have little ability to challenge an unlawful instruction without risking their livelihood. A senior official, minister or legislator may possess greater capacity to raise the issue through established procedures. The obligations of these individuals differ according to their roles, but the underlying principle remains: public office is a responsibility, not merely a personal privilege.
For Opondo, the significance of speaking about alleged security excesses lies partly in the fact that he has spent years defending the government. His experience places him in a position to explain why public confidence requires credible answers rather than political slogans. For Otafiire, the broader challenge is to ensure that the historical credentials of the liberation struggle reinforce rather than weaken the demand for lawful government. For other senior members of the NRM, the question is whether they can distinguish the temporary discomfort of internal criticism from the long-term damage caused by unaccountable institutions.
The ruling party should not require every member to agree on every policy question. Nor should every disagreement be transformed into a public confrontation. But a political organisation that seeks to govern a constitutional republic must provide credible procedures for raising concerns, investigating allegations and correcting errors. Without such procedures, the party risks leaving its members with only two choices: silence or departure. Neither outcome is necessarily in the public interest. The first may preserve superficial unity while allowing problems to deepen. The second may deprive the organisation of experienced people who could have contributed to its reform.
A healthier political culture would permit a third option: principled disagreement within the party, supported by transparent procedures and a shared commitment to the Constitution.
THE PUBLIC'S JUDGMENT AND THE PARTY'S INTERNAL MIRROR
One of the most interesting features of political life is that the public and a ruling party may judge the same individual by entirely different standards. Within a party, a member may be considered difficult because they challenge decisions, question appointments or refuse to defend a controversial policy. Outside the party, the same individual may be regarded as courageous because they appear willing to defend the public interest despite the political cost. Neither judgment should be accepted uncritically.
A politician may be praised by the public for principled criticism while pursuing personal ambition. A party may discipline a member for legitimate reasons unrelated to dissent. Political reputations are rarely simple, and public opinion does not substitute for evidence. Yet the contrast itself can be revealing. If a party repeatedly treats criticism as disloyalty while substantial sections of the public interpret the same criticism as a demand for accountability, the organisation should ask whether its internal standards have become detached from the concerns of the population it seeks to represent.
The answer cannot be determined by social media applause or political rhetoric alone. It requires careful attention to public opinion, parliamentary debates, court decisions, documented cases of institutional misconduct and the actual performance of government institutions. But the possibility of such a divergence should concern any political party that hopes to maintain public confidence over the long term.
A party's internal approval mechanisms may reward conformity. The public, however, must live with the consequences of government decisions. Citizens judge public institutions through their everyday experiences: whether the police protect them, whether courts provide remedies, whether public hospitals function, whether schools offer quality education, whether officials explain the use of public funds and whether political disagreement can be expressed without fear.
A government may win an argument in a political talk show and still fail to answer the institutional question raised by a citizen. It may successfully defend a policy in Parliament while leaving unresolved concerns about its implementation. And it may silence an internal critic without persuading the public that the criticism was wrong. The challenge for the NRM is to understand that political communication and institutional credibility are not the same thing. The ability to defend the government is useful. The ability to identify when the government needs correction is indispensable.
If the party rewards the first while consistently discouraging the second, it may gradually undermine its own capacity to govern effectively.
THE UNFINISHED QUESTION OF SUCCESSION
Beneath the controversies surrounding term limits, age limits, internal dissent and accountability lies a larger question: how does Uganda prepare for a peaceful transition of political power? Since independence in 1962, Uganda has experienced repeated changes of government under circumstances that have included coups, armed conflict and contested political transitions. The memory of that history makes the prospect of an orderly succession particularly important.
The NRM's long tenure has given it an opportunity to build institutions capable of managing political change. Its organisational experience, national reach and participation in government should, in principle, provide a foundation for a credible succession process. But succession is not merely the identification of a preferred individual. It is the establishment of rules and institutions through which leadership can change without threatening the stability of the state.
A succession process requires a political culture in which leadership can be discussed openly, potential candidates can emerge through credible procedures, and disagreements can be managed without being treated as existential threats to the organisation. It also requires public institutions that do not depend upon the personal authority of a single leader for their legitimacy.
The removal of term limits in 2005 and the upper age limit in 2017 intensified the debate because they removed two constitutional restrictions that had previously constrained presidential eligibility or tenure. They did not resolve the underlying question of how the ruling party would manage a future transition. Instead, they made that question more difficult to avoid.
If the NRM wishes to preserve its historical contribution to Uganda, it must demonstrate that the Movement can function as an institution rather than merely as a vehicle for the continued political dominance of its founding leader. That requires more than declarations about continuity. It requires credible internal elections, transparent procedures for selecting candidates, meaningful debate about policy and a willingness to recognise that the party's long-term survival cannot depend upon the assumption that one individual must remain at the centre of political life indefinitely.
The question of succession is also national, not merely partisan. Uganda's future should not be determined solely by the internal calculations of the NRM. It must be shaped by the constitutional rights of citizens, the integrity of elections, the independence of institutions and the ability of political organisations to compete peacefully. A transition that occurs through established constitutional procedures is more likely to preserve institutional stability than one that depends on the personal preferences of political elites.
For this reason, the defence of constitutional limits should not be interpreted as hostility towards the NRM. It can be understood as a demand that the party demonstrate confidence in the institutional framework through which it claims the right to govern. A party that trusts its achievements should not fear a system that permits leadership to change. A government that believes in its public support should not fear fair political competition. And a political movement that believes in the principles of liberation should not fear the freedom of its members to ask whether those principles are still being honoured.
WHO, THEN, IS THE TRUE LOYALIST?
The question returns us to the central contradiction. Is the true loyalist the person who defends every government decision, regardless of its legality or consequences? Is it the individual who remains silent when credible allegations of abuse arise? Is it the politician who measures the correctness of an action by whether the leadership approves of it? Or is loyalty better understood as a commitment to the legitimate principles upon which a political organisation claims its authority?
If the NRM's historical identity is rooted in resistance to arbitrary government, the restoration of security and the establishment of constitutional order, then those principles should remain relevant when the party itself exercises power. A member who asks the government to investigate allegations of unlawful detention is not necessarily undermining the Movement. The member may be insisting that the government honour the Constitution. A legislator who questions a policy that appears inconsistent with the law is not automatically an enemy of the ruling party. The legislator may be performing the oversight function expected of a representative of the people.
A senior official who warns against impunity is not necessarily disloyal to the state. The official may be defending the legitimacy of state institutions. And a citizen who demands accountability is not required to prove hostility towards the government before being entitled to an answer.
The true test of loyalty is therefore not whether a person agrees with the leadership on every issue. It is whether the person acts honestly, respects the law and recognises the public interest as a legitimate consideration in political decision-making. This standard must apply equally to supporters and opponents of the NRM.
Opposition politicians must be held accountable for their own conduct. Former insiders must not be excused from scrutiny merely because they criticise the government. Nor should a ruling-party member be condemned simply because they defend a policy that critics oppose. The point is not to replace one political orthodoxy with another. It is to insist that public affairs be judged according to evidence, constitutional principles and the consequences of government action.
A republic cannot function properly if the correctness of an action is determined solely by the political identity of the person who performs it. If an unlawful act is committed by an opposition supporter, it must be investigated. If a similar act is committed by a ruling-party supporter, it must be investigated under the same legal standards. If a government policy produces demonstrable public benefits, those benefits should be acknowledged. If the policy causes harm or violates legal obligations, the government must explain itself and correct the problem. The law must not become a weapon reserved for political opponents or a shield available only to political allies. That is the foundation of equal citizenship.
THE QUESTIONS UGANDA MUST NO LONGER AVOID
The current debate surrounding internal dissent within the NRM raises several questions that deserve serious answers. Why do political organisations sometimes regard criticism from their own members as more threatening than criticism from their opponents? Why have disagreements over presidential succession repeatedly produced some of the most consequential divisions within the NRM? What institutional safeguards exist to ensure that a member who raises a legitimate concern about unlawful conduct is not punished merely for speaking? Can Parliament effectively scrutinise alleged abuses by security agencies when the executive is supported by a dominant parliamentary majority?
What mechanisms ensure that allegations of unlawful detention, torture or disappearance are investigated independently of the political status of the persons implicated? Does the ruling party have a credible succession framework capable of operating without turning the future of the organisation into a personal contest over the continued tenure of one leader? And, most importantly, can the NRM distinguish its own political survival from the survival of the Ugandan republic?
These are not questions that should be answered through personal insults, political slogans or assumptions about the motives of individual critics. They require evidence, institutional transparency and a willingness to examine uncomfortable facts. The government should publish credible explanations where allegations concern the conduct of its agencies. Parliament should exercise meaningful oversight. Courts should remain independent in determining disputes. Security institutions should comply with constitutional safeguards. And political parties should develop internal mechanisms that permit legitimate criticism without treating it as an act of treachery.
The responsibility is shared, but it is not identical. The government has a particular obligation to explain the exercise of public power because it possesses the authority, resources and institutional capacity to act. The opposition has an obligation to present credible evidence and avoid exploiting unverified allegations. The media has a responsibility to investigate, verify and report fairly. Civil society has a role in monitoring institutions and promoting public understanding of constitutional rights. And citizens have the right to ask questions without being required to declare political allegiance before their concerns can be considered.
A constitutional republic is strengthened when these responsibilities reinforce one another rather than become instruments of partisan warfare.
THE REPUBLIC MUST BE GREATER THAN THE PARTY
The NRM's historical contribution to Uganda cannot be understood without acknowledging the political and institutional changes that followed its rise to power in 1986. Neither can its present challenges be understood by ignoring the concerns that have emerged around constitutional safeguards, succession, internal dissent and the accountability of state institutions.
The Movement now faces a test that extends beyond the personalities of Ofwono Opondo, Kahinda Otafiire, Kizza Besigye, Eriya Kategaya, Amama Mbabazi, Maria Matembe, Winnie Byanyima or any other former or current political insider. The test is whether the party can recognise that constitutional government sometimes requires its members to challenge decisions taken by the very leadership they have spent years defending.
Opondo's reported intervention on alleged security excesses provides a timely reminder that the demand for accountability does not belong exclusively to the opposition. It is a constitutional concern that should unite citizens across political divisions. The same principle applies to every official, legislator and party member who insists that public institutions must operate within the law.
A political organisation that punishes principled criticism risks weakening its own ability to correct mistakes. A government that treats public accountability as hostility risks undermining the legitimacy upon which its authority depends. And a state that allows political allegiance to determine the application of law risks turning citizenship into a hierarchy of favoured and disfavoured groups.
Uganda deserves better than a political culture in which silence is rewarded more generously than honesty and obedience is valued more highly than integrity. It deserves a political culture in which members of the ruling party can say that their government is wrong without being treated as enemies, in which opposition politicians are judged by the same standards as government supporters, and in which public officials understand that the authority they exercise is held in trust for the citizens of the republic.
The ultimate question is not whether one can remain a loyal supporter of the NRM while criticising its leadership. The answer must be yes, provided that the criticism is honest, principled and grounded in the public interest. The more important question is whether the NRM can remain faithful to its own stated principles while refusing to accommodate legitimate criticism. A party that cannot answer that question risks confusing political survival with national stability. It may retain power while weakening the institutions that give power its constitutional legitimacy.
The republic, however, is larger than any party, leader or generation of political actors. The Constitution belongs to the people. The state belongs to the people. The law must protect the people without discrimination. And the future of Uganda must remain open to peaceful political competition and constitutional change.
Those who insist upon these principles should not be judged solely by whether their arguments please the leadership of the day. History will ask a more enduring question: when the government was challenged to choose between political convenience and constitutional responsibility, who insisted that the law must prevail? And when the party demanded loyalty, who remembered that the republic deserved something greater than obedience?
Perhaps the most dangerous political mistake is to assume that a government is strengthened whenever its critics are silenced. Sometimes, the people who challenge a government are the ones trying to save it from its own mistakes. The NRM should therefore resist the temptation to interpret every internal disagreement as rebellion. Its historical achievement will not be secured merely by preserving the authority of its current leadership. It will be secured by building institutions capable of protecting the country beyond the tenure of any individual.
The true test of a liberation movement is not simply whether it can capture the state. It is whether it can govern without forgetting why it sought power in the first place. For in a constitutional republic, the highest form of political loyalty is not blind obedience to the party, but an unwavering commitment to the law, the dignity of citizens and the future of the nation.
About the Writer
Evan Sande Ndahura is a Ugandan political and legal commentator, columnist, poet, and social justice advocate whose writings focus on governance, constitutionalism, democracy, and the political economy of power in Africa. He is widely published on issues of judicial accountability, electoral justice, human rights, and institutional reform, with particular emphasis on Uganda's political and legal systems. Writing from a Pan-African critical perspective, he interrogates the failures of state institutions and the lived realities of ordinary citizens under entrenched systems of power. He strongly believes that the liberation of Africa will ultimately be achieved through the mighty pen.
