By Daniel Kakuru
On the 30th day of April 2026, a Ugandan man was sentenced to death. Christopher Okello Onyum, a 38-year-old holder of both Ugandan and American citizenship, was condemned to die by hanging after being convicted on four counts of murder.
The sentence was delivered by a special High Court session sitting in Ggaba under the full glare of public scrutiny. By the time the judgment was read, almost every onlooker had already decided the suspect deserved to die a slow, painful death and then burn forever in the fires of hell.
About twenty-eight days earlier, Okello had dragged his sickle-cell-ravaged body out of bed and walked into a daycare centre in Ggaba, pretending to be a parent.
He reportedly paid school fees for a child he claimed he would later enroll. But on his way out, drew a kitchen knife and fatally attacked the infants and teachersin his sight. Four children between the ages of one and two years died from their wounds. The teachers survived with injuries andtwo of them would later testify against him in court. It took the intervention of police officers, soldiers, tear gas and live bullets to rescue him from (and disperse) the angry mob that had already begun beating his life out of him at the scene of crime.
Nobody fully understands what his real intention was on that day. During his trial, the prosecutors claimed he had admitted that the murders were part of a human sacrifice ritual that would make him rich. Of course, he denied any intentional wrongdoing and insisted that the wires in his head were not firmly attached to their poles at the time of the attack. According to him, the court should acquit him on grounds of insanity. After all, he argued, would a man planning mass murder first pay daycare fees for a child he supposedly intended to enroll?
His trial triggered mixed emotions across the country. The ordinary person in Ggaba could not understand why such a monster even deserved a trial in the first place. Had he not been seen and caught committing the murders in broad daylight? Were there not enough witnesses already? Had the murder weapon not been recovered from the scene? To many people, the entire process felt like a waste of time. Yet what angered the public even more was the perception that Okello was receiving unusually humane treatment.
By Ugandan standards, his trial moved at lightning speed. There are suspects arrested in 2020 who have still never been tried. But in Okello’s case, the President intervened and directed that a mobile court be established in the same community where the murders occurred. Then came the photographs. Okello appeared in court looking healthy, composed and unusually well-kept. Sometimes he was even seen laughing. The images sparked outrage.
Ordinary Ugandan detainees usually appear before court looking like they have returned from the land of the dead. They are weak, malnourished and visibly brutalized by the system. Some have missing body parts, burns and cannot even stand upright. Their bodies look exhausted long before the court reaches a verdict. But not Okello. He appeared clean and comfortable, occasionally sipping expensive drinks while cameras flashed around him. To many Ugandans, it felt like privilege.
Eventually, Justice Alice Komuhangi Khauka delivered the judgment the country had been hoping and praying and waiting for. Guilty on all four counts. Across social media, in bars, taxis, boda-boda rides and trading centres, people celebrated. Some claimed death by hanging was still too merciful for him. A viral video even showed inmates at Luzira Prison demanding that he be handed over to them so they could tear him apart themselves. During most of the trial, Okello reportedly remained under solitary confinement for his own safety.
Now a noose hangs over his future, pending appeals and presidential approval. And many Ugandans cannot wait for the day the sentence is finally carried out.
There is no denying that Christopher Okello Onyum committed horrifying crimes. Four children are dead because of him. Families were shattered forever. Parents walked into a daycare centre with healthy children in the morning and picked up corpses at the end of the day. Nothing could ever minimize that horror. No amount of talking can do the trick either. Not even an apology from Okello himself.
What I do not understand, however, is why Ugandans are celebrating his possible execution as though he were the worst killer this country has ever produced.
Uganda is full of killers who do not use a knife as does Okello.Some of them sit in government offices signing documents that quietly condemn thousands of people to death. Others steal public funds meant for hospitals, medicines and roads, then appear on television sloganeering about patriotism and protecting gains. Some are powerful enough to sabotage investigations, bury case files or sell justice to the highest bidder. Their violence is less visible than Okello’s, but its consequences are far deadlier. Poor Okello will likely forfeit his life for four murders while people responsible for thousands of deaths continue sleeping peacefully in air-conditioned mansionsunder police protection.
That is the part I cannot ignore.
Okello has been condemned by the Judiciary; one of the three arms of Uganda’s government. According to findings released in 2024 by Transparency International Uganda, Uganda’s Judiciary ranked among the most corrupt institutions in the country. They were only second to the Uganda Police Force. In the Judiciary, lots of case files disappear and reappear miraculously when money exchanges hands. Bail is only granted to those who can cough up a few coins. Powerful politicians interfere with investigations and openly defy court orders. Cases drag on for years until bribery becomes the only way desperate people can move them forward. And yet this same institution claims the moral authority to decide who deserves death.
Corruption kills too. It kills patients in public hospitals that lack basic medicine because somebody stole the procurement money. It kills accident victims on bumpy roads because construction funds found their way into private pockets and bank accounts. It kills ordinary citizens forced to choose between starvation and untreated illness while public officials hoard stolen wealth intheir mansions.
In an on-going operation overseen by the Chief of Defence Forces (CDF), searches were conducted in several homes linked to a powerful parliament official. It was revealed that several bedrooms were found filled with inestimable amounts of cash in Ugandan and foreign currency whose source still remains difficult to explain. Several pricey items – including cars and cosmetics – have since been seized from these homes and we hear that there will be more investigations. If we are to go by what we already know from what happens to corrupt officials in Uganda, we can tell how this story will pan out. There will be investigations. There will be headlines. There will be public outrage for a week or two. Then there will be silence. As usual. In this country, powerful people get away with everything. Her political grave might have been dug, but she will still fade into obscurity with bottomless pockets. But doesn’t such an individual have more blood on her hands than Okello?
That is why the national celebration surrounding Okello’s death sentence unsettles me. We behave as though he is the greatest monster this country has ever produced simply because his violence was immediate and visible. But visible violence is not always the deadliest kind.
A corrupt official who steals hospital money may never see the faces of the patients who die because there were no cannulas and gloves. A judge who takes a bribe may never attend the funeral of the innocent person destroyed by that corruption. A politician who steals road funds may never witness the bodies being pulled from wrecked taxis after preventable accidents. Nonetheless, they are murderers. The only difference between them and Okello is the method.
I am not arguing that Christopher Okello Onyum is innocent. He is not. I am arguing that Uganda applies its outrage selectively. We know how to and we excel at punishing the publicly disgraced, the mentally unstable and the powerless. But when confronted with respectable criminals and friends of the pope in expensive dresses imported from Europe, we suddenly become patient, cautious and forgiving. Even the security personnel suddenly prove to us that they actually know how to treat suspects but they always choose not to.
Okello is not the only murderer we need to hang. And until Uganda develops the courage to pursue every kind of killer with equal fury, we will continue mistaking spectacle for justice.
About the Author:
Daniel Kakuru is a writer of poetry and prose. His debut poetry collection – We Chose Fire – has been forever forthcoming. He drinks, smokes and hopes to die a planned death.
