There are two ways to disappear in Uganda. The first is to vanish physically. The second, and perhaps the more frightening, is to remain alive somewhere while the country becomes accustomed to your absence.

Your mother remembers you. Your children remember you. Your friends remember you. Your name appears in petitions, speeches and parliamentary questions. But outside your family, life continues with impressive efficiency.

The football match still happens. The comedian still posts. The politician still campaigns. The WhatsApp group still laughs.

Only your family is still waiting.

There is something wonderfully efficient about Uganda. A person can disappear and, remarkably quickly, the disappearance itself becomes a matter of competing statements, official explanations, political calculations and public fatigue. By the time everyone has finished asking who knew what and who should say what, the country has usually moved on to the next scandal. It is a national talent, really. We should put it in the tourism brochures: Uganda — come for the sunshine, stay for the explanations.

The case of opposition activist Sam Mugumya has once again forced the country to confront that uncomfortable talent. Mugumya, who was reported missing in August 2025, has remained the subject of unanswered questions. In recent days, footage circulating online has purported to show him in a severely weakened condition. Parliament has demanded an account of his whereabouts, while the Uganda Law Society has said it will engage United Nations procedures concerning enforced and involuntary disappearances. The UPDF, however, has rejected allegations contained in material circulating online and disputed claims concerning secret detention Facilities.

And so, Uganda has entered its favourite phase of national crisis: the meeting.

When a human being disappears, the first thing we apparently must not do is find him. We must discuss finding him. We must convene. We must consult. We must form committees, request reports, seek clarification and promise to return with answers. The minutes must be taken. The matter must be referred to the relevant authorities. Someone must be given two weeks. Perhaps there will even be a closing prayer.

Meanwhile, somewhere in the middle of all this magnificent administration, there is a family waiting for a person.

Has Uganda Become Too Good at Looking Away?

Mugumya's case should frighten us, whether or not we agree with his politics. That is precisely the point. A person's entitlement to liberty, due process and protection from abuse cannot depend on whether his political opinions make us comfortable. If a citizen has committed a crime, the answer should be remarkably boring: arrest him lawfully, charge him and produce him before a competent court. The law should do its work.

But we have developed a curious habit of first examining the victim's political identity before deciding whether his suffering deserves our attention. If he belongs to our side, we call it persecution. If he belongs to the other side, we ask what he was doing. If we like him, we demand justice. If we dislike him, we demand an explanation for why he deserves justice.

Apparently, God created human beings equally, but Uganda has created categories.

Some people are innocent until proven guilty. Others seem to be guilty until proven human.

Have We Discovered the Magic Word Called “Allegedly”?

Our other great national invention is the word “allegedly.” It is a magnificent little word because it allows everybody to stand safely several metres away from reality.

Someone was abducted? Allegedly.

Someone was tortured? Allegedly.

Someone was detained? Allegedly.

Someone disappeared for more than a year? Allegedly.

A video appears to show a badly weakened man? Allegedly.

Soon we shall need an entire national anthem built around it: Oh Uganda, Land of Allegedly.

The beauty of the word is that it allows us to stand beside a burning house and conduct a seminar on whether the smoke has been independently verified. Nobody has to take responsibility for the fire because everybody is still investigating whether there is a fire.

Of course, allegations should be investigated before they are treated as facts. That is what evidence and due process are for. But there is a difference between not jumping to conclusions and using uncertainty as a permanent waiting room in which accountability can sit indefinitely.

When Will “We Have No Information” Stop Being an Answer?

There is another sentence that deserves a place in the Ugandan museum of official language:

“We have no information.”

It is a remarkably versatile sentence.

A citizen disappears: no information.

A family asks where he is: no information.

A lawyer asks where his client is: no information.

Parliament asks questions: no information.

The public asks whether the person is alive: no information.

At some point one begins to suspect that Information itself has disappeared.

Perhaps Information is being held somewhere in a secure location. Perhaps Information has not been charged. Perhaps Information has requested a lawyer. Perhaps Information has been promised that it will be produced before Parliament in two weeks.

The joke would be hilarious if the subject were not human beings.

Parliament's October 1 demand for answers over Mugumya and other reported missing persons shows that the issue has moved beyond social-media speculation into a formal demand for accountability. The government was given two weeks to provide information.

Two weeks.

In Uganda, even the missing apparently have to wait their turn in the queue.

Are We Really Too Busy to Care?

To be fair, Ugandans have legitimate problems. There are school fees to find, rent to pay, food to buy, jobs to protect, children to raise and debts to survive. There is always someone calling about money. There is always another bill. There is always another emergency.

Perhaps that is why injustice has discovered such a comfortable hiding place among ordinary people: we are tired.

But there is a dangerous point at which exhaustion becomes an excuse for surrender. A country does not become secure merely because its citizens are too busy to ask questions. It simply becomes accustomed to things that should never have become ordinary.

That is how the extraordinary becomes routine. The first disappearance shocks us. The next one worries us. After several more, we ask which political party the victims belong to. Eventually somebody shrugs and says, “You know how this country is.”

That sentence deserves to be treated with suspicion.

It is often what we say when we have decided that something is wrong but have no intention of doing anything about it.

Why Are We Brave Only Behind a Phone Screen?

Fortunately, Uganda has WhatsApp, the safest parliament in East Africa.

Here, everybody is courageous.

Someone posts a disturbing photograph, and within seconds the nation is liberated. We write “ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!” We add angry emojis, the Ugandan flag and perhaps a quotation from Nelson Mandela. For five glorious minutes, the revolution is alive.

Then somebody writes: “Please delete before you get arrested.”

And suddenly the revolution discovers the delete button.

Our digital courage is remarkable. We will condemn injustice provided our names remain comfortably outside the story. We will share evidence of suffering, add a crying emoji and then move on to a comedian's video. We will mourn a missing person at 10:00 am, and argue about football by lunchtime.

The modern Ugandan conscience has apparently acquired a scrolling function.

Why Must a Victim First Pass Our Political Test?

The deepest problem may not be fear at all. It may be tribalism—not necessarily ethnic tribalism, but political tribalism.

We have learned to distribute sympathy according to party affiliation.

When our supporter is arrested, we demand justice. When the other side's supporter is arrested, we ask whether the arrest was justified. When our people are beaten, we call it brutality. When their people are beaten, we ask whether they provoked the police.

We have transformed human suffering into political football.

The result is grotesque. A victim must somehow pass an ideological examination before we decide whether his pain deserves our attention.

But rights do not become rights only when the victim belongs to our camp.

That is the whole point of rights.

If due process is good enough for our enemy, it should be good enough for our friend. If torture is wrong when committed against our supporter, it remains wrong when the victim supports somebody we cannot stand.

Otherwise, what we are defending is not justice.

We are merely defending our turn to receive it.

What Happens When Disappearance Becomes Normal?

The most frightening stage of a crisis is not necessarily when something terrible happens. It is when terrible things stop surprising us.

The first disappearance shocks the public. The tenth becomes news. The twentieth becomes political ammunition. The fiftieth becomes another forwarded message.

Then the vocabulary changes.

People stop saying, “How can this happen?”

They start saying, “You know how things are.”

That is how a society adjusts itself to the unacceptable.

The danger is not simply that people may disappear. The deeper danger is that the public may eventually develop an emotional system for accommodating their disappearance.

Today it is somebody else's son.

Tomorrow it may be your neighbour.

Eventually it may be somebody you love.

And suddenly the question changes from “Why should I care?” to “Why is nobody answering me?”

What If Today's Victim Is Tomorrow's Neighbour?

That is why the issue cannot be reduced to Mugumya's political identity.

Tomorrow's missing person may be a journalist, student, politician, lawyer, teacher, boda-boda rider, government supporter, opposition supporter, or somebody whose greatest political achievement was never attending a political rally in his life.

The erosion of rights rarely announces whose turn comes next.

This is why due process cannot be a favour reserved for people we like. If someone has committed a crime, charge that person. If the evidence is there, present it in court. If the state has detained someone, account for the detention. If the person is innocent, release him.

These are not radical demands.

They are the basic mechanics of a society governed by law.

The alternative is frighteningly simple: take somebody, hide somebody, deny knowing somebody, explain later—or never.

At that point, the law ceases to be a shield and becomes stage decoration.

Can Looking Away Really Keep Us Safe?

We often describe indifference as neutrality. It is not always neutrality. Sometimes it is fear wearing respectable clothing. Sometimes it is selfishness. Sometimes it is exhaustion. Sometimes it is political loyalty. And sometimes it is simply the calculation that has become almost instinctive:

“As long as it is not me.”

But history has a nasty habit of changing the subject.

Today you are watching.

Tomorrow you are being watched.

Today you are asking what the victim did to deserve it.

Tomorrow somebody may ask the same question about you.

And when your family begins searching for you, the people you expected to speak may suddenly become very busy. They will have work. Rent. School fees. Church. Football. WhatsApp.

Life will continue.

That is perhaps the darkest part of all.

A society can continue functioning while justice is quietly being dismantled.

Should We Officially Establish a Ministry of Disappearances?

Perhaps we should stop pretending.

Let us make it official.

Uganda should establish a Ministry of Disappearances.

Its slogan can be: “WE HAVE NO INFORMATION.”

The Department of Missing Persons would be responsible for losing people and subsequently losing the paperwork.

The Department of Official Denials would explain that nothing happened immediately after something happened.

The Department of Public Amnesia would ensure that yesterday's outrage expires before today's lunch.

The Department of Selective Humanity would determine whether a victim deserves sympathy according to political affiliation.

And the Department of Administrative Patience would politely ask grieving families to wait another two weeks.

The ministry would be a tremendous success.

In fact, it would hardly require a budget.

It already has volunteers.

When The Victim Has a Face, a Family and a Name, Can We Still Look Away?

There is, however, one thing satire cannot make funny.

A mother waiting for her son is not a political argument.

A wife waiting for her husband is not an opposition strategy.

A child asking when Daddy is coming home is not propaganda.

A family staring at a telephone that refuses to ring is not a parliamentary procedure.

These are human beings waiting for human beings.

And that is where the jokes should stop.

The Uganda Law Society has said it is pursuing international avenues concerning Mugumya's case, while Parliament has demanded an official account of his whereabouts. Whatever the eventual findings, the essential principle should be painfully simple: a state must account for people in its custody, and allegations of unlawful detention or torture must be investigated rather than buried beneath procedural fog.

We do not need to know somebody personally to believe that he deserves the protection of the law.

We do not need to agree with his politics to oppose torture.

We do not need to admire him to insist that he be produced before a court if he is accused of a crime.

That is the minimum standard.

Anything less should disturb us.

So, congratulations, Uganda.

We have become remarkably good at looking away, changing the subject, waiting for somebody else to speak and turning serious questions into administrative exercises.

We have become experts at saying allegedly, experts at asking for more time and experts at treating another person's disappearance as tomorrow's news.

But there is one inconvenient truth that no committee can postpone forever:

A country does not lose its humanity in one dramatic moment. It loses it through a thousand small accommodations.

A shrug.

A rationalisation.

A deleted message.

A joke made too soon.

A question we decide not to ask.

A victim we decide is not our victim.

And perhaps the darkest joke of all is this:

If we become comfortable enough with people disappearing, one day we may discover that the missing person is no longer somebody else's problem.

It is somebody we know.

Perhaps even ourselves.

And then we may finally ask the question we should have been asking all along:

Where is he?

Only to discover that, after years of perfecting the answer, the country has nothing left to say.