Culture, Comedy and Politics

 

ENGLISH FIREWORKS IN POLITICAL CAMPAIGNS IN UGANDA

National Unity Platform (NUP) debate for aspiring MPs of Kawempe North Where Grammar Met Drama!

By Joseph Batte

Welcome to Uganda—where the sun is hot, the matooke is hotter, and the English? Eh... that one depends on the speaker, the weather, and the mood of the ancestors.

But let’s be honest: we Ugandans speak English with confidence. Whether it’s right or wrong is another story, but at least we speak it with our whole chest. Shakespeare might weep in his grave, but here, we clap!

And so it was that the National Unity Platform (NUP) decided to host a debate for aspiring MPs of Kawempe North. A serious event, yes, but one that quickly turned into a linguistic comedy special. Think of it as Uganda’s Got Grammar, featuring contestants from all walks of life—and dialects.

The Political Debate That Became a Variety Show

The venue? Makerere-Kavule. The prize? A ticket to Parliament. The method? A two-part showdown:

English round (for vibes),

Luganda round (for survival).

The audience? A cocktail of die-hard party supporters, political comedians, boda boda philosophers, and one stressed moderator who looked like he wished he had carried holy water and earplugs.

NUP’s Secretary General, Lewis Rubongoya, tried to inject order into this chaos. “Only a few supporters per candidate,” he warned, like a teacher pleading with students not to copy during exams. Sweet man. Still believes in peace at Ugandan rallies.

Ten Candidates, One Piggy Bank, and a Gas Cylinder

By Friday, the ring was full. Ten contenders had officially entered the political battlefield. Among them:

Luwemba Lusswa Muhammad (the late MP Ssegirinya’s former right-hand man),

Lawyer Luyimbazi Nalukoola (came armed with English and a legal smile),

Dr. Charles Rubagumya (because health is also political),

Engineer Ssenkungu Kenneth (probably here to build bridges and break silences), and, drumroll please, Moses Nsereko—a man who brought a whole wooden piggy bank to a political debate.

Yes. A piggy bank. Labeled boldly: “Nsereko Moses Box.” His campaign promise? “To teach Kawempe North how to save.” Sir, please. Some people came with manifestos, you came with piggery! Revolutionary behavior!

Another candidate walked in holding a mini gas cylinder like it was the Ark of the Covenant. Was he about to fry his opponents? Start a cooking show? Nobody knew. The crowd was both confused and entertained.

Then there was Muhammad Luswa, who came waving a framed photo of the late Ssegirinya like it was a campaign poster. One man in the crowd shouted, “Let the late rest in peace, bwana! You’ve carried him like a handbag!” The court yard shook with laughter. Politics, my friend, is not for the faint-hearted—or the overly sentimental.

 A Mayor, a Mic, and a Moment

Enter His Worship Mathias Walukaga, mayor of Kyengera and, apparently, newly crowned king of mixed-language motivation. He was dressed like a man going to parliament and spoke like a man going to... anywhere but there.

Asked why he had suddenly upgraded his English to “international levels,” he proudly declared:

“Nina okubeera ready for sesonii…”

(Translation: I must be ready for the session.)

The crowd exploded. Was it the pronunciation? The bravery? The fusion of Luganda and Queen’s English like a Rolex with avocado? We may never know. But one thing was certain—Walukaga had entered the chat.

The Moderator Tries His Best

At this point, the moderator took over. Poor guy. Dressed like a university lecturer and holding the mic like it was a weapon of peace, he tried to calm the storm.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, adjusting his glasses with the seriousness of a priest about to announce a wedding cancellation, “Please clap if your candidate says something good. But no shouting. Let’s behave.”

Plot twist: Ugandan crowds don’t “behave.” They perform.

Then he dropped the rule of all rules: “Candidates, no phones allowed. Leave them on your chairs. We want to hear what’s coming from your heads—not from Google!”

Laughter thundered through the tent. One candidate whispered, “Even WhatsApp notes?” The moderator gave him a look that said, “Don’t try me, young man.”

“And audience members,” he added, “please put your phones on silent. This is a debate, not a ringtone competition.”

Setting the Stage for Chaos

And with that, the circus was ready. The candidates were standing straight, ties adjusted, mouths rehearsed. The crowd was vibrating with energy. Some came to support. Others came to laugh. And a few were just looking for a free chair in the shade.

Little did they know, the English Round was about to begin. And oh—the things we were about to hear…

LET THE ENGLISH GAMES BEGIN: When English Tried To Fight Back

“Silence, silence please!” barked the moderator, adjusting his glasses like a man about to recite the Ten Commandments. “This is a debate, not a downtown market. We are here to gauge how well our candidates will represent us in Parliament.”

And just like that, the English session of the NUP Kawempe North debate was declared open. You could almost hear the late Queen Elizabeth herself coughing politely in Buckingham Palace.

Nervous tension gripped the air like the smell of katogo in a taxi. Some candidates were busy warming up their tongues like athletes before a race—"accountability... accountability…," they whispered. Others clutched their printed speeches like rosaries, praying to the gods of grammar.

The Introductions: A Dictionary-Shaking Affair

First to the stage: Magara Umar.

 “My name is Magara Umar. A teacher by professional.”

(Pause. Silence. The crickets refused to clap.)

Sir… a teacher by what? Profession? Professional? Prophet? We may never know. But bless him—he powered through.

“Top of my agenda is accountability… from the military. We are going to put them on test.”

On test? On toast? Under oath? The jury’s still out.

Next came Mulumba Mathias, whose energy could power an entire village. He thundered:

“I’m a mutongole of Sabasajja. Being a mutongole is not a joking subject!”

Now, if you're familiar with Uganda’s own kickboxing philosopher, Moses Golola, you’ll know this line belongs in the Hall of Fame of Ugandan Quotables. The audience lost it. Cheers, laughter, and even a few confused murmurs like, “Wait, what’s a mutongole again?”

When the Gas Cylinder Guy Went Full Musical

Just as we were recovering from the mutongole, the Gas Cylinder Candidate took the mic—and then did the unthinkable.

He broke into song.

Yes. Mid-debate. No beat, no warning, no mercy. Just him, the mic, and an off-key version of “Ghetto Youth.”

People reached for imaginary remotes to mute the moment. Someone behind me whispered, “Eh! Is it karaoke now?”

But wait—it gets better. As the gas notes fizzled out, he declared with presidential seriousness:

“I will give a free gas cylinder to every household in Kawempe North!”

People clapped. Some clapped in support. Some clapped in disbelief. And some clapped simply because they didn’t know what else to do. Democracy is wild.

 Enter: The Smooth-Talking Advocate

Then came the man of suits, syllables, and status: Luyimbazi Erias Nalukoola.

Before he even said a word, women in the crowd were already squealing like he was a pop star.

“I am an Advocate of the High Court of Uganda and all courts of judicature…”

He said it slowly, like honey dripping from a hot katogo.

“When I assume the seat of Member of Parliament, the constitutional amendment under Article 79…”

Pause. Eyebrow raise. Dramatic silence.

“I will legislate, ladies and gentlemen!”

The crowd melted. Somewhere, someone fainted over sheer vocabulary.

Then he dropped a mic-worthy line:

“Many youth in Kawempe are not only unemployed—they are unemployable!”

Ouch. That one hit like a tax increase.

The Real Drama: Question Time

Now came the tough part—Q&A. The moderator cleared his throat like a teacher about to announce surprise tests.

“In your view, what is the greatest development challenge facing Kawempe North?”

Magara Umar went first.

“Eh… Lack of health infrastructure.”

Simple. Safe. Short. He passed.

Then Mulumba Mathias grabbed the mic.

“Poverty! That’s why I created Ekikumi kya Doola! Every person should have at least 100 dollars!”

 100 dollars? Sir, in this economy? You’re either a dreamer or a magician. But hey, give him points for optimism.

And then… Moses Nsereko. The man. The myth. The piggy bank prophet.

“Yes sir! Yes sir!” he responded eagerly, like a student who read the wrong chapter.

The moderator repeated the question.

“There are so many, sir… But the first one is… EMYAALA! EMPYAALA!”

He shouted like he had just discovered the cure to corruption.

“Poverty! Poverty! Poverty!”

He then raised his wooden piggy bank!

At this point, the audience didn’t know whether to cheer, cry, or break into praise and worship. But one thing was clear: Kawempe North had spoken—and English had tried its very best to survive.

THE FINAL BLOW: When English Waved A White Flag

By the time the final question was thrown into the linguistic boxing ring, the moderator looked like a man rethinking all his life decisions. Was this what he went to school for? To referee an English match between ambition and confusion?

With the calmness of a priest before chaos, he asked:

“What is your understanding of the word appropriations?”

Silence.

Nsereko Moses, the People's Piggy Banker, blinked twice.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” he replied, like a man who had just been asked to spell ‘photosynthesis’ in reverse.

The moderator, clearly suppressing a scream, simplified:

“The role of an MP is to pass laws…”

Nsereko nodded aggressively.

“Ah yes, yes! To represent the people! To pass... roles… that govern the country.”

I winced.

Ladies and gentlemen, roles were passed. Grammar was not.

Somewhere in the distance, a dictionary caught fire.

Let’s be clear—appropriations are about deciding how the government slices up the national cake. Money for hospitals, roads, schools, defense—you name it. But at this point in the debate, even if someone had defined it properly, the piggy bank had already won hearts and minds.

THE BRIBE BOMBSHELL: Hospital Vs Honour

And then came the final question. The big one. The ethical earthquake.

“Would you accept a bribe to extend the government’s term if it meant a new hospital for Kawempe North?”

You could hear hearts beating. Or maybe that was just someone drumming on a jerrycan outside.

First up, Dr. Charles Rubagumya—polished, composed, ready for the anti-corruption medal.

He stood tall and declared:

“Our party is a party for change! We cannot be compromised. What I want is to remove President Museveni!”

BOOM! The crowd roared like someone had announced free WiFi for all. People stood up. Ululated. Even the camera shook with excitement.

And then, like a phoenix rising from a comedy skit…

Nsereko Moses.

“Yes, sir! Yes!” he jumped up, his voice already high on adrenaline.

“I cannot allow, sir! Even I can box the Speaker in that issue!”

Box the Speaker? Ladies and gentlemen, Parliament had officially turned into a kickboxing ring.

And just like that, he started shadowboxing an imaginary Speaker, ducking and jabbing like he was live on SuperSport. Punch left. Punch right. Knee bounce. Boda-boda bob and weave.

NUP President Robert Kyagulanyi (Bobi Wine) was spotted wiping tears of laughter.

At this point, I quietly walked away from my TV. Sweat on my brow. Confusion in my soul. A bemused smile on my face.

What had I just witnessed?

A debate? A drama? A stand-up comedy audition? Or the world’s first piggy bank-powered political movement?

Truth is, in Uganda, political debates are never just about vocabulary. No sir. They’re about vibes. It’s about how confidently you can fumble a sentence, how passionately you can shout "Poverty!", and how creatively you can promise gas cylinders while quoting Golola.

It’s not just about words. It’s about performance, personality, and pure, unfiltered Ugandan theatre.

And so, dear reader, if you ever wonder whether Uganda still has the best English speakers in Africa, just remember Kawempe North.

We may not pass appropriations, but we sure know how to pass vibes.