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There is perhaps no criminal accusation more politically frightening than treason. It carries with it the language of betrayal, conspiracy, overthrow, and the destruction of the State itself. In many legal systems, it is therefore treated as one of the gravest offences a citizen can commit. But across parts of Africa, an uncomfortable question is increasingly demanding the attention of lawyers, political observers, and citizens: when opposition politicians are repeatedly arrested and prosecuted for treason, are African governments confronting genuine attempts to overthrow constitutional order, or are some governments turning the gravest criminal accusation into an instrument for controlling political opposition?
The question is not whether treason exists as a legitimate offence. It unquestionably does. A government has a legitimate interest in protecting the constitutional order against armed rebellion, violent insurrection, and genuine conspiracies to overthrow the State. The problem begins when ordinary political speech, electoral mobilisation, criticism of government, or peaceful opposition activity is made to resemble treason without sufficiently establishing the criminal elements required by law.
Uganda offers one of the most striking contemporary examples. Dr Kizza Besigye, one of Uganda's longest-serving opposition figures and a former presidential candidate, has remained in detention while facing treason proceedings. He was arrested in Kenya in November 2024 and brought back to Uganda, where he was subsequently prosecuted. By July 2026, Uganda's High Court had cleared the way for the treason trial to proceed. The prosecution alleges that Besigye and his co-accused participated in meetings in Geneva, Athens, Nairobi, and Kampala in connection with an alleged plan to overthrow the government, acquire weapons, obtain military equipment, and organise paramilitary operations. The State says it will rely on audio and video recordings, communications, immigration records, and telephone data.
Those allegations are extremely serious. But the seriousness of an accusation is not itself evidence of guilt. The courtroom must still answer the essential questions: what precisely was agreed? By whom? What overt acts followed the alleged conspiracy? Where is the independent evidence of the alleged weapons acquisition or military preparations? Which communications demonstrate criminal intention rather than political discussion? And, most importantly, can the prosecution prove every essential element of treason beyond reasonable doubt?
These are not questions designed to protect a politician from accountability. They are questions designed to protect the law from becoming an instrument of political power.
Besigye's case becomes even more remarkable because the prosecution has extended beyond the opposition politician himself. His lawyer, Erias Lukwago, was arrested and charged with misprision of treason — essentially alleging that he failed to report treasonous activities. Lukwago has denied the allegation. The circumstances surrounding his arrest have attracted criticism, particularly because he had been representing Besigye and had been preparing legal action involving the army leadership. The Associated Press reported that Lukwago was seized by soldiers before being taken into police custody and charged.
The question that therefore arises is whether the law is being used merely to prosecute conduct connected to an alleged treasonous conspiracy, or whether the boundaries of treason are beginning to expand so far that lawyers, political allies, and critics can themselves be drawn into the criminal net.
Human Rights Watch has described recent Ugandan prosecutions as part of what it considers an increasingly abusive use of the justice system against government critics. It has also documented the military seizure and detention of opposition figures and critics before their transfer into the criminal justice system. These are allegations by a human-rights organisation, not judicial findings, but they raise precisely the institutional question that a constitutional democracy ought to confront: whether criminal law is being allowed to follow political conflict into the courtroom.
Across the border in Tanzania, the case of opposition leader Tundu Lissu presents an even more direct examination of the boundary between political speech and treason. Lissu, chairman of CHADEMA, was arrested in April 2025 and charged with treason following remarks made at a political rally. The prosecution alleges that he incited rebellion and sought to disrupt the 2025 general election. Lissu has denied the allegations and has argued that the case was fabricated to prevent him from participating politically.
The Tanzanian case is particularly important because treason carries the death penalty in Tanzania. That means the criminal classification of political conduct is not merely a question of imprisonment. It can potentially become a question of life and death.
And yet, as the trial has progressed, Lissu's defence has repeatedly attacked the evidentiary foundation of the prosecution's case. In his final submissions in September 2026, he argued that the prosecution's case rested substantially on police interpretation of his April 3, 2025 speech. He pointed out that only four of the prosecution's 17 witnesses had given evidence concerning the alleged intention to mobilise the public to obstruct the election, and that three of those four were police officers who had not attended the meeting in question. The remaining witness was a journalist who had attended and broadcast the event.
Lissu has also challenged the allegation that his words actually threatened the government. He argued that senior government officials who could have testified about whether the government had actually been threatened were not called by the prosecution. The prosecution, for its part, maintains that its evidence satisfies the legal threshold, and the court has yet to determine the final outcome.
This is precisely where the distinction between political accusation and criminal proof becomes important.
A politician may make inflammatory, irresponsible, or even deeply disturbing political statements. But criminal law requires more than political discomfort. The State must establish the particular offence defined by legislation. A government being criticised, embarrassed, or challenged at a political rally is not automatically equivalent to the government being subjected to treason.
The danger is that once the language of treason enters ordinary political competition, the opposition politician ceases to be treated simply as a political rival and begins to be portrayed as an enemy of the State. The political contest consequently changes character. Elections become security operations. Opposition rallies become potential conspiracies. Political speeches become evidence of insurrection. Meetings with foreign persons become evidence of foreign-backed plots. And political mobilisation becomes susceptible to being interpreted as an attempt to overthrow the State.
This is why treason charges deserve a higher level of scrutiny, not a lower one.
Mozambique provides another important example, although it should not be inaccurately described as a case of an opposition leader currently imprisoned for treason. Venâncio Mondlane, who challenged the official result of Mozambique's 2024 presidential election, is facing trial over five offences connected to the protests that followed that disputed election. The charges include public advocacy of crime, incitement to collective disobedience, public instigation to a crime, and allegations relating to terrorism. As of September 2026, Mondlane was not under arrest and had not yet stood trial.
That distinction matters because responsible journalism must not convert every prosecution of an opposition politician into a treason case. Mondlane's case is nevertheless relevant to the wider question because prosecutors allege that his calls for protest and resistance contributed to post-election unrest, while his supporters and some commentators view the proceedings within the broader political conflict surrounding the disputed election.
There is therefore a recurring pattern across the continent that deserves careful examination. The State says it is defending itself against destabilisation. The opposition says it is being criminalised for challenging those in power. The prosecution presents evidence which it says establishes criminal intent. The defence attacks the evidence as inference, political interpretation, or insufficient proof.
The proper answer should not be determined by political allegiance.
It should be determined by law.
Zambia has now added another developing case to this wider African conversation. Opposition politician Brian Mundubile was detained following the disputed August 2026 presidential election on allegations connected to treason. He and his running mate, Makebi Zulu, surrendered themselves to police after Mundubile had sought refuge at a United Nations facility, citing concerns for his safety. The authorities linked the allegations partly to a security operation at a property associated with Mundubile, where weapons were reportedly recovered and former cabinet minister Mutotwe Kafwaya was fatally shot. Mundubile disputes the authorities' account and says the opposition was unarmed. At the time of reporting, he and Zulu had provided statements while formal charges were still developing.
That case therefore cannot yet fairly be presented as proof that Zambia has convicted an opposition leader of treason. But it demonstrates how rapidly political conflict following an election can migrate from the ballot box into the language of national security and treason.
And this is where Africa's constitutional history ought to make us cautious.
The greatest danger to constitutional democracy is not necessarily that a government possesses a law against treason. Every State needs laws protecting its constitutional existence. The danger is what happens when those entrusted with political power also control, directly or indirectly, the institutions responsible for determining whether political conduct amounts to treason.
The rule of law requires a distinction between the State and the government of the day. A government is temporary. The State is supposed to be permanent. An opposition party may seek to remove the government through elections without seeking to destroy the State. Indeed, that is the very purpose of constitutional democracy.
An opposition leader who wants to replace a government through lawful political competition is not committing treason merely because the government regards his political programme as dangerous. Equally, an opposition leader who genuinely organises an armed rebellion cannot escape criminal responsibility simply by describing his conduct as politics.
The difficult task is therefore to distinguish the two.
That distinction cannot be made through political speeches. It must be made through evidence.
And evidence must be tested.
Uganda's Besigye trial, Tanzania's Lissu trial, and the developing Zambian case all demonstrate why this principle matters. In each case, governments have presented serious national-security allegations. In each case, the accused have disputed the allegations. In Tanzania, the defence has identified alleged weaknesses and inconsistencies in the prosecution's witnesses. In Uganda, the prosecution says it possesses communications, recordings, travel records, and other material supporting its allegations, while the accused deny the charges. In Zambia, the authorities have connected opposition figures to a violent security incident, while the opposition disputes the official account.
The courtroom, rather than the political rally, must ultimately determine which version survives the test of evidence.
Africa therefore needs to be extremely careful with the word "treason." Once it becomes a convenient political label, its extraordinary legal meaning can be diminished. Worse still, the accusation itself can become a punishment long before conviction. A politician can spend years in detention, lose political opportunities, lose access to voters, and become publicly branded as an enemy of the State, even if the prosecution eventually fails.
That is why the presumption of innocence is not a technical privilege invented for criminals. It is one of the shields protecting every citizen from the enormous power of the State.
The history of African politics contains too many examples of governments confusing opposition with rebellion and criticism with sedition. Some opposition movements have undoubtedly crossed the line into violence, armed rebellion, and unconstitutional attempts to seize power. But history also demonstrates that authoritarian governments can manufacture the language of national security around legitimate political dissent.
The answer, therefore, is neither to abolish treason laws nor to automatically believe every treason prosecution is politically motivated.
The answer is to demand proof.
If an opposition leader has genuinely conspired to overthrow a constitutional government through violence, let the evidence be presented in an open court and let the law take its course. If weapons were purchased, let the prosecution establish who purchased them, when, where, how, and for what purpose. If secret meetings constituted a criminal conspiracy, let the participants, agreements, communications, and overt acts be proved. If political speeches constituted incitement to an offence recognised by law, let the actual words, context, intention, and consequences be demonstrated rather than politically interpreted.
But if the evidence amounts only to political speeches, opposition meetings, criticism of government, electoral mobilisation, or speculation about political intentions, then the extraordinary machinery of treason law risks becoming something far more dangerous than the offence it was created to prevent.
It becomes a weapon.
And when the criminal law becomes a weapon in the hands of those who control the State, the greatest casualty is not necessarily the politician sitting in the prisoner's dock. It is the law itself.
The question Africa must therefore continue asking is not simply whether its opposition politicians have committed treason. The deeper constitutional question is whether governments are proving treason through evidence, or merely declaring political opposition to be treasonous.
For once treason becomes a political vocabulary rather than a strictly proved criminal offence, every government begins to see its opponents not as future competitors for public office, but as enemies of the State.
And that is the moment when democracy begins to confuse the government with the country it temporarily governs.
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 a 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, not a gun.
