Once upon a time in the Republic of Uganda, the Parliament was meant to be a sacred temple of national progress. Laws were to be debated. Policies were to be crafted. Oversight was to be conducted. But in today’s version of events, it is merely a well-air-conditioned lounge for adult children who believe that the Constitution is optional reading material and that “bill” only means one thing—money.
Welcome to the House of Honorable Excuses, the National Theatre of Tax-funded Leisure, the Ugandan Parliament.
In Uganda, a nursery school teacher—yes, the humble hero teaching toddlers how to color within the lines and sing the national anthem off-key—is required to have a degree. Not just any degree, but a recognized, accredited one. Meanwhile, the people making laws about education, health, security, and your grandmother’s land can be school dropouts who last opened a book in S.6. Apparently, it’s more important to have a degree to teach a child how to draw a circle than it is to legislate the national budget. You can’t make this up.
Our Parliament has two major sections: the Plenary Hall (where laws are supposed to be discussed) and the Canteen (where things actually happen). Many of our “honourable” members are more active at the canteen than in any legislative debate. If there were attendance awards for tea drinking and Rolex eating, Some of our MPs would sweep every category. While critical bills gather dust, important decisions are being made—over samosas and malwa. Ask an MP about a national crisis, and they’ll shrug. Ask them about the quality of groundnut paste in the canteen, and they’ll deliver a TED Talk.
Every budget season is like Christmas for our legislators. New allowances, car grants, travel perks, and mysterious “facilitation” packages appear with the consistency of sunrise. One would be forgiven for thinking that being an MP is less about making laws and more about winning a game show: “Who Wants to Be a Billionaire – Ugandan Edition.” Public outrage flares briefly whenever another Shs 500 million is allocated to “consultation meetings” (translation: hanging out with fellow MPs at a resort in Jinja), and then dies down like a candle in a storm. Meanwhile, MPs continue to smile all the way to the bank, waving to us from tinted Land Cruisers we helped fund with our taxes.
When they’re not in the canteen, our MPs are on the campaign trail—even while in office. Constituents only see their elected leaders during funerals, weddings, or disasters, and even then, it’s only for a quick prayer, a photo, and the legendary brown envelope. Inside? Maybe Shs 10,000 or 20,000, depending on how loud the ululations were during their arrival. Legislation? Vision? Policy proposals? Please, that’s secondary. First, we must give the Honourable a special chair at the burial, feed them fried chicken, and escort them back to Kampala like a visiting king.
Before we get carried away roasting the MPs, let us glance in the mirror. Yes, us—the voting public. The people who exchange votes for t-shirts, sachets of salt, and promises of boreholes that never arrive. We cheer at campaign rallies for the best dancer, the funniest speaker, the most generous “money shower,” and then somehow expect legislative miracles afterward. We vote for people who can’t speak English, can’t articulate a policy, and whose campaign manifestos consist of vague statements like “development is coming.” We vote for clan loyalty, for the guy who built a latrine in 2004, for the woman who called the President “Mzee” with the correct tone. Then we cry foul when Parliament turns into a reality show sponsored by our own naivety. Let’s face it: we’ve been electing entertainment, not leadership.
The painful truth is that Uganda is being run by a reality show cast. A cast that loves allowances, dodges accountability, avoids reading, and shows up to Parliament just to sign the attendance sheet before disappearing to check on their farm or construction site. For many, being an MP is just a networking opportunity to upgrade from a Toyota Premio to a V8. Debates? Mostly shouting matches. Legislation? Copy-paste from foreign templates. Oversight? Only if it affects their pay. If you bring a real issue—say, rising food prices or crumbling schools—you’re likely to be told, “It is under investigation,” which in Uganda is political code for “We forgot already.”
Perhaps the real satire isn’t the MPs. It’s us—the voters—who clap like seals at every boda-boda stunt, every bar of soap tossed during campaigns, and every rice sack delivered like mana from heaven. We elect comedians, expect governance, and then cry foul when Parliament turns into a reality show. Maybe next election, we’ll try something new: voting for people who can actually read a budget, spell “legislation,” and understand that Parliament is not a retirement home for the politically ambitious. Until then, let us enjoy the show—Uganda’s Parliament: Season Infinity, now streaming live on your taxes.
The writer, MOSES WAWAH ONAPA is a senior educationist and a social commentator
