“The greatest disgrace of democracy is that it reveres the numerical strength of idiots, who unfortunately are the majority of the world.”—Nelson Rodriguez

Welcome to Uganda, the land where democracy is not just a system—it is a full-blown comedy show, complete with special effects, a live audience, and plot twists that would make Shakespeare weep. Here, every citizen has a voice. And every voice counts. Yes, even the one belonging to the man who believes the President’s speeches are written by aliens and delivered via solar-powered microphones. Even the aunt who insists her neighbour’s goat is secretly a government spy. In Uganda, democracy is beautifully egalitarian: every opinion matters, every vote matters, and every absurdity gets applause.

In theory, democracy is fair. In practice, it is hilariously cruel. Every head has a vote, yet not every head has the capacity for wisdom. Research might suggest that a minority of citizens are critical thinkers, but the majority? They are professional repeaters, expert slogan-traders, and expert interpreters of “what feels right,” which is usually determined by how catchy a phrase sounds on the radio or how dramatically a politician waves their hands at a campaign rally. Intelligence, analysis, and foresight—those are optional accessories, like fancy shoes nobody wears to a boda-boda race.

Let’s take a look at campaigns. Oh, the campaigns! Billboards multiply like rabbits in every corner of Kampala, Gulu, and Mbarara. “Vote for me, and I will fix roads, build schools, and stop your neighbour from stealing your goats!” reads one. “I will bring sugar, soap, and airtime!” screams another. The clever voter reads the fine print; the majority memorises slogans, chants them like incantations, and votes for the one with the widest smile or the shiniest hat. Debate? Manifestos? Policies? Optional. Loudness, hand gestures, and the ability to look offended enough to earn sympathy votes? Mandatory.

The parliament is another marvel. Watching it is like attending a circus. Bills are debated with the drama of a Telenovela. Amendments are proposed with the subtlety of someone tossing a live chicken into the chamber. Sometimes, legislation is passed based not on merit but on who can shout the loudest, act the most shocked, or pretend they have been personally wronged by the issue at hand. Logic sits politely in the corner with a cup of tea. Chaos performs front and centre.

And the intellectuals? The so-called elites, educated citizens, and policy wonks? They try. They write essays, conduct research, present data, and suggest evidence-based solutions. And then… silence. Their voices vanish into the wind, while the crowd claps for the loudest idiot promising free sugar, free airtime, or “better days” delivered with hand gestures reminiscent of an Olympic athlete conducting a symphony.

Ugandan democracy is spectacularly fair. It gives exactly what the majority deserves. Unfortunately, in Uganda, what the majority deserves is usually chaos wrapped in a flag, sprinkled with slogans, garnished with applause, and served with a side of goats plotting quietly in the background. The result? The worst rise, the cleverest stay silent, and the mediocre rule. And the voters? They cheer. Loudly. With gusto.

Take elections in rural villages, for example. Campaign rallies resemble music festivals with a political twist: drums beating, speakers blasting, politicians shaking hands like they’re auditioning for a dance competition, and the crowd chanting slogans like a synchronised swimming team. At some point, promises become so absurd that they could rival the plots of a Nollywood film. “I will personally ensure your boda-bodas never fall in potholes!” “I will create a ministry of goat intelligence!” The crowd applauds. And they vote.

The absurdity extends beyond campaigns. Consider governance. Policies are often executed as improvisational theatre. Roads may appear overnight, only to vanish after the first rainy season. Projects are inaugurated with grand fanfare, speeches, and ribbon-cutting ceremonies that require more planning than actual construction. Meanwhile, citizens wait, clap politely, and occasionally point at the goats to see if they are taking notes.

Even the opposition, bless their theatrical souls, falls into the trap. They blame the country’s problems on the elites, the educated, or “those who think too much.” Cute. They forget that the masses have never needed reasons to act—they need slogans, handshakes, and the occasional plate of sugar. Even if the elites act decisively, the majority will cheer for the loudest, not the wisest. Democracy in Uganda mirrors the absurd truth of society: the louder, the sillier, the more hand-waving, the more applause.

And what about the voters themselves? They are both audience and judge, critics and participants. Every election season, they navigate chaos with dedication. They memorise chants like religious texts, clap for theatrics, and occasionally vote according to what their neighbours think. Democracy rewards the spectacle, and Uganda has perfected the art form.

Ugandan democracy is like a boda-boda race on a flooded Kampala street: thrilling, noisy, dangerous, and utterly unpredictable. Everyone thinks they are winning. No one really knows who is. The goats? Still plotting. The politicians? Still performing. The elites? Still sighing. And the system? Still working exactly as designed: fair, funny, and completely unstoppable.

In the end, democracy in Uganda is less a system and more a living comedy. It rewards noise over wisdom, slogans over substance, and charm over competence. Every voice gets a microphone, including the ones yelling nonsense. The loudest idiot rules, the cleverest stay silent, and everyone else enjoys the spectacle—popcorn in hand, goats in the background, and the occasional boda-boda weaving through traffic like an unscripted metaphor for governance.

So yes, Ugandan democracy is absurd, chaotic, and often painful—but it is fair. Painfully fair. It mirrors society: applause for applause, chaos for chaos, noise for noise. And as the loudest idiot waves the flag and smiles like they invented governance, the rest of us can only sit back, sigh, and wonder whether we voted or merely attended the greatest comedy show in East Africa.