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In a moment of rare candour and reflective honesty, General Kahinda Otafiire delivered a speech that may well stand as both a warning and a confession from within the corridors of power. Speaking with the authority of a man who has traversed Uganda’s turbulent political history—from colonial rule, through the regimes of Idi Amin and Milton Obote, to the present government under Yoweri Museveni—Otafiire’s words carried the weight of lived experience and institutional memory.
At the heart of his address was a deeply unsettling question: “Why should our law society radicalize to struggle against the government?” This was not merely a rhetorical inquiry, but a profound indictment of a system where institutions once aligned with governance now find themselves in opposition to it. The reference to the Uganda Law Society signals a growing discontent within the legal fraternity—an elite body that traditionally operates within the framework of the state, not against it.
Otafiire situates his concern within a long historical arc: “For a person like me who has transited from colonialism… I worked under Amin, I was in the bush during Obote II… and now 40 years of another regime,” he recounts. This sweeping reflection is not just autobiographical—it is a lamentation of continuity. It suggests that despite changes in leadership, the fundamental tensions between authority and the governed remain unresolved.
His most piercing question follows: “What are we leaving behind?” It is a question that cuts across generations of leadership and forces a reckoning with legacy. For Otafiire, the radicalization of successors is not an isolated case—it is symptomatic. “When your own successors radicalize against you, it means things have been going wrong,” he admits, in what may be one of the most honest acknowledgments from a sitting minister.
Drawing from historical moral philosophy, Otafiire invokes the famous warning attributed to Martin Niemöller: “When they came for the socialists, I kept silent… When they came for me, there was nobody left to speak for me.” By recalling this, he situates Uganda’s current trajectory within a broader global history of silence enabling repression. His conclusion is unequivocal: “Don’t commit the sin of silence.”
This warning is directed not only at citizens but, crucially, at those in power. “Those of us in authority must learn to listen,” he emphasizes. In a political environment often characterized by command rather than dialogue, this call for listening is both radical and necessary. Leadership, he argues, is not domination: “We lead with the consent of the governed… Sometimes the governed are wrong, but most times they are right.”
Here, Otafiire challenges one of the most dangerous assumptions of entrenched power—the belief in its own infallibility. His insistence that leaders must “patiently explain” rather than suppress dissent underscores a democratic ethic that appears increasingly strained in practice.
Perhaps the most emotionally resonant part of his speech lies in his appeal for compassion. Recalling an incident involving students, he notes: “Students were crying… don’t suppress them… feel their pain.” This is not merely a plea for empathy; it is a political philosophy grounded in human dignity. A government that cannot feel, he implies, cannot govern justly.
Yet, it is when he turns to issues of arbitrary arrests and enforced disappearances that the speech takes on a darker, more urgent tone. Citing the case of an individual allegedly detained without trial, Otafiire expresses visible alarm: “For six months, this person has not been brought to court… so-and-so has disappeared.” His recounting of the case of Amos Rwangomani—“arrested… disappeared for three weeks… authorities say they don’t know where he is”—raises serious constitutional and human rights concerns.
His rhetorical question is chilling in its simplicity: “When people of my size, height, and weight disappear without a trace, that’s a problem.” It is a statement that exposes the fragility of security in a system where even the visible can vanish. The implication is clear—if this can happen to one person, it can happen to anyone.
This portion of the speech touches on the core of constitutional governance: the rule of law. In any democratic society, the state’s power to arrest must be balanced by its duty to account. Detention without trial and disappearance without explanation are not merely administrative failures; they are violations that erode the very legitimacy of the state.
What makes Otafiire’s speech particularly significant is not just its content, but its source. As Minister of Internal Affairs, his acknowledgment of these issues is both courageous and consequential. It suggests an internal awareness—perhaps even a quiet crisis—within the machinery of governance itself.
Ultimately, this speech is not just a critique; it is a warning—a warning that when institutions like the law society begin to radicalize, when citizens cry out and are unheard, and when individuals disappear without accountability, the state is no longer in full control of its moral compass.
The General’s message is clear: silence is complicity, and power without listening is perilous. If leaders fail to correct their course, history will not be kind. For, as he reminds us, those who refuse to learn from their people will inevitably be taught by them.
About the Author
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 a particular emphasis on Uganda’s political and legal systems. Ndahura writes from a Pan-African critical perspective, interrogating the failures of state institutions and the lived realities of ordinary citizens under entrenched systems of power. He believes that the liberation of Africa will occur through a mighty pen, not the gun.
