Uganda: Election fever, fear, and a fractured republic

A supporter of Uganda opposition leader and NUP presidential candidate Robert Kyagulanyi Ssentamu, during the party’s final campaign rally ahead of the 2026 general elections, in Kampala on January 12, 2026. [AFP]

If you have spent even a few minutes in Kampala’s central business district, you know the sound before you see it.

The deafening roar of motorbikes tears through the air: engines revving, horns blaring, brakes screeching in sharp protest. It is a restless, chaotic city environment. Boda bodas slice through traffic at terrifying speed, brushing past buses, taxis, and pedestrians by inches.

The eerie peep of horns collides with the grinding cry of worn brake pads, each near-miss a reminder of how precarious survival has become. This is not just traffic noise but the sound of an economy running on the edge.

Behind every bike is a young Ugandan navigating more than potholes and reckless drivers. Most are burdened by debt, disappointment, and a shrinking future. Rodgers, 28, is one of them.

A university graduate with a degree in business administration from Kampala University, Robert now earns a living on two wheels. The motorcycle he rides is not truly his; it was acquired through a high-interest loan whose value depends on the model, ranging between 10 million and 14 million Ugandan shillings, repayable within a maximum of 24 months.

The repayments are relentless, swallowing nearly everything he earns each week.

“By the time I finish paying,” he says, “the bike will be worn out – almost unroadworthy.” For Rodgers, breaking even is not a milestone but a daily battle, leaving little room to save, plan, or imagine a future beyond survival.

Nicolas, another rider, says his situation is worse. Almost all his daily earnings go to the owner of the bike, his “boss.” Many riders say those bosses are politicians: councilors, Members of Parliament, and local power brokers who own fleets of motorcycles rented out as a form of employment.

In Kampala and other major towns, boda bodas have quietly become part of a political economy, one that keeps thousands of young men working, indebted, and dependent even as it secures loyalty for those who control the system. Rodgers and Nicolas summarise the sentiments of the majority youth whose main business is boda bodas, the principal mode of transport in Uganda’s major towns.

Away from the streets, the same economic pressures are crushing small businesses. In Kikoni, near Makerere University, Chris, who runs a modest hotel, says rent alone costs him over 700,000 Ugandan shillings (about Sh26,000) a month for a space that accommodates fewer than seven guests. High taxes and inflation have steadily eroded students’ purchasing power, leaving rooms empty and profits thin.

Ali, a Somali trader operating a similar business in the same area, tells the same story. In the city centre, Suzan, a boutique owner, points to another burden: relentless harassment by Kampala city officials demanding endless documentation and bribes. “If you don’t pay,” she says, “they make sure you don’t operate.”

These pressures converge into something deeper than economic pain: they have hardened into a generational sense of betrayal. Many young Ugandans with diplomas and university degrees now openly say they regret ever going to school. They believe the time and money spent on education might have been better invested in small enterprises, even in buying those motorbikes. For a generation promised opportunity, the future feels foreclosed.

That simmering frustration, audible in the roar of motorbikes and visible in shuttered shops, has now spilled decisively into politics. Many say they will still turn out to vote on Thursday, fully aware that the exercise may change little. They describe it less as hope than as obligation: a civic duty performed in a system they no longer trust.

It is against this backdrop that President Yoweri Kaguta Museveni, who has governed Uganda since when most of these young people were not yet born, is campaigning for another term under the slogan “Protecting the Gains.” To many voters, the phrase lands as an indictment rather than a promise.

The gains, they argue, appear tightly ring-fenced around the political class and its networks. What they experience daily is not progress, but exhaustion, a country in constant motion, yet going nowhere.

With just days to go before the January 15, 2026 general election, this disconnect between lived reality and political rhetoric has become the emotional core of the contest. Uganda is heading into the polls burdened by economic anxiety, generational resentment, and a quiet but pervasive anger, making this one of the most consequential elections in its modern history.

Across Uganda’s major towns, the political atmosphere is tense and polarised, defined by the heavy presence of military boots on the streets, masked men and women in combat fatigues, and armoured vehicles patrolling urban centres, most visibly in Kampala.

The show of force has deepened public skepticism about whether Thursday’s vote will reflect the will of the people or simply reaffirm the continued rule of President Museveni, who is seeking a seventh term in office.

At the centre of this moment stands a familiar duel between the long-serving president and his most formidable challenger, Robert Kyagulanyi Ssentamu, popularly known as Bobi Wine, a musician-turned-politician whose appeal has surged among young Ugandans frustrated by decades of economic stagnation and political closure.

Yet the contest remains heavily uneven, with Museveni’s dominance over state institutions, security forces, and constitutional rulemaking shaping the terrain long before ballots are cast.

In the run-up to Thursday’s vote, critics and rights groups have accused security forces of violent repression and systematic intimidation of opposition supporters, while the government insists it is merely maintaining order, a familiar refrain in Ugandan elections.

Yet this climate of coercion does not exist in isolation; it interacts directly with widespread economic hardship, shaping how millions of young Ugandans experience politics.

National statistics highlight this sense of economic stagnation among Uganda’s youth. According to World Bank data, more than 70 per cent of Ugandans are under the age of 30, and a significant share works in the informal economy, often earning meagre incomes with little job security or social protection. Many see the election as a rare chance to voice their discontent, but also harbour deep doubts about its fairness.

Bobi Wine, 43, remains the most prominent challenger. His presidential campaign has been dogged by reports of arrests, beatings, and the disruption of rallies by state security forces, actions opposition figures and rights groups describe as part of a brutal campaign of repression designed to cripple mobilisation and visibility.

Stay the same

Control of the digital space has become a central battleground. Facebook remains officially blocked in Uganda, a restriction imposed ahead of the 2021 elections after Meta removed pro-government accounts and never fully lifted since.

While millions of Ugandans continue to access the platform through virtual private networks (VPNs), authorities have repeatedly warned that circumventing the ban is illegal, reinforcing fears that online political expression is both surveilled and precarious as election day approaches.

Against this backdrop, Bobi Wine last week escalated his concerns beyond domestic platforms.

“Here in Uganda, your Starlink has disabled citizens’ access to the Internet just days to the January 15th election,” he wrote in a public appeal to SpaceX CEO Elon Musk after Starlink satellite Internet services were rendered unavailable, a development critics say threatens communication, election monitoring, and transparency at a critical moment.

Government officials have denied any intention to shut down Internet access, dismissing such claims as misinformation. They have attributed the Starlink suspension to licensing issues rather than election strategy.

Still, the combination of a long-standing Facebook ban, regulatory pressure on social media, and the sudden unavailability of Starlink has deepened anxiety about digital rights in an already tightly controlled political environment.

The situation revives memories of Uganda’s 2021 elections, when a nationwide Internet shutdown coincided with violent crackdowns that left dozens dead, according to rights groups.

As voting day nears, the fear that history could repeat itself is palpable, particularly among citizens who rely on digital tools to organise, document abuses, and contest results in real time.

There is also growing unease over frequent power outages and what many describe as irregular behaviour by telecom companies in the days leading up to the vote. Residents in Kampala and other major towns say blackouts have become more common just days to the polls than usual. They are read as signals of rehearsal for disruption, a pattern associated with past election periods.

Others suspect a quieter form of disruption online. While the government has denied plans for a direct Internet shutdown, many Ugandans report unusually rapid depletion of mobile data bundles and higher-than-usual billing in the days leading up to the vote.

For citizens who rely on mobile Internet to communicate, follow news, report irregularities, or organise politically, this creates a serious obstacle. Young people, who are disproportionately dependent on prepaid data and have limited financial means, may be unable to sustain connectivity throughout election day, effectively restricting their access to information and digital civic engagement.

Some analysts argue that these patterns may reflect a subtle form of interference, where telcos, in collusion or under pressure from authorities, employ “bad business practices” to frustrate users indirectly rather than resorting to outright shutdowns.

While there is no definitive evidence of coordinated interference, the perception alone amplifies public anxiety and self-censorship. Similar dynamics have been observed in the region; for instance, in Kenya, concerns have been raised in the recent past about surveillance and manipulation of mobile networks to monitor opposition activity, though the context differed, highlighting how telecom infrastructure can become a tool for state control in sensitive political moments.

For young Ugandans who rely on mobile internet to organise, communicate, and share information, even the fear of digital disruption is enough to dampen participation at a critical moment.

Security forces have also played a prominent role not just in policing protests, but also in directing the terms of political engagement.

Last week, the government banned live broadcasts of riots, “unlawful processions,” and violent incidents ahead of the vote, citing the need to prevent panic. This move has alarmed free-speech advocates and independent journalists who see it as an effort to sterilise public reporting of police and military actions.

Opposition campaigns, particularly Bobi Wine, have experienced repeated interference, including tear gas, arbitrary arrests, and restrictions on movement.

Amnesty International has characterised the situation as a repression campaign aimed at silencing dissent. Many National Unity Platform (NUP) supporters recounted how rally attendees in Wakiso were chased into ditches and swamps by security forces, with tear gas deployed to disperse crowds that Museveni’s own rallies appear free to hold without obstruction. NUP is the party Bobi Wine leads.

Observers note a stark contrast of where Museveni travels with the full apparatus of state support, his opponents must contend with uniformed intimidation, logistical obstruction, and a heavy presence of army and police vehicles.

This heavy militarisation has not only heightened fear but also shaped public perceptions about whose interests are truly at stake in the electoral process.

Ahead of the polls, international and regional election observers have expressed deep reservations about the pre-election environment. Restrictions on media coverage, allegations of arbitrary arrests, and concerns about the independence of the electoral commission have all featured prominently in their assessments. A group from the Forum of Parliaments of the Member States of the International Conference on the Great Lakes Region on Friday called for campaigns free of hate speech and violence, while the United Nations Human Rights Office raised alarm over growing repression targeting opposition politicians, journalists, and civil society actors.

Activists under the Pan African Solidarity Movement have also warned that systemic violence, administrative exclusion, and the militarisation of civic space risk undermining a free, fair, and credible election. Reports from Human Rights Watch, Article 19, and Ugandan civil society groups corroborate these concerns, documenting arbitrary arrests, harassment of opposition supporters, media restrictions, and the use of military courts against civilians.

But these abstract warnings are not just headlines. They intersect with the everyday struggles of Uganda’s youth, who are among the most economically disenfranchised segments of the population.

According to World Bank figures, youth unemployment and underemployment remain persistently high, with many young people working outside formal wage structures, relying instead on casual labour or informal commerce.

“I have waited years to get a real job,” says Gloria, 30, a communications graduate who sells mobile airtime and registers SIM cards in central Kampala. “We are told to vote, but I don’t see how that will make my life different.”

From fruit sellers to newspaper vendors, many who line Kampala’s congested streets voice the same frustration.

“A vote should change our future,” says Kiconco, a newspaper vendor. “But we have been here before. The old man [President Museveni] promises progress, yet things stay the same or even gotten worse, while we carry hope in our pockets. Our children deserve more than the same cycle of speeches and pain.” Kiconco will be voting for the fourth time next week, a ritual laden with both expectation and weary resignation.

Their voices highlight a stark reality that, for a generation confronting economic hardship, limited opportunity, and political exclusion, the election is more than a political event. It is a symbol of hope tempered by the lived experience of frustration and systemic neglect.