There is a troubling pattern emerging in Uganda, and the latest episode began not in a dark alley or at a border crossing, but inside a radio station.
On Saturday, political analyst Charles Rwomushana appeared on Radio Simba’s current affairs programme. Shortly afterwards, armed men in plain clothes surrounded him and escorted him from the station.
Video footage circulating publicly shows several men taking Rwomushana away, with some appearing to carry firearms. Radio Simba said he had been arrested by security officers for questioning. But at the time Nile Post reported the incident, the identities of the officers, the agency responsible, Rwomushana’s destination and the specific matter over which he was being questioned had not been publicly established.
That is where the story becomes bigger than Charles Rwomushana.
Because in Uganda today, the question is increasingly not simply “Was someone arrested?”
It is:
Who took them? Where were they taken? Under whose authority? Why were they taken? And why should the public have to discover the answers afterwards?
Rwomushana is not an isolated case
The circumstances surrounding Rwomushana’s arrest are particularly uncomfortable because his name had already entered the broader political-security controversy surrounding the treason proceedings against Dr Kizza Besigye.
In July, Nile Post reported that prosecutors had named Rwomushana among people alleged to have attended a meeting in Brussels connected to allegations of a plot to overthrow the government. At the time, however, it remained unclear whether being named in that evidence would result in his arrest.
Now he has been picked up by armed men shortly after appearing on radio.
That does not prove that his arrest is connected to the treason case.
But it is entirely reasonable for the public to ask whether the two events are connected.
And that question should be answered by the authorities, not left to speculation.
Then came Matthew Bagonza
Just days before Rwomushana’s arrest, another case raised remarkably similar questions.
Matthew Bagonza, head of the Secretariat of the Presidential Advisory Committee on Exports and Industrial Development (PACEID) and a close aide to its chairman Odrek Rwabwogo, was reportedly picked up from his home in Entebbe.
Initially, the identity of the agency that had arrested him, the allegations against him and his place of detention were unclear.
The situation became even more extraordinary when Gen. Muhoozi Kainerugaba publicly confirmed Bagonza’s detention and posted a photograph of him. Reports subsequently quoted the army chief making threats of physical punishment against the detainee.
Whatever one’s view of PACEID, its leadership or the allegations surrounding the organisation, one principle should remain non-negotiable:
A suspect is not a prisoner of war.
If there are allegations of corruption or any other offence, investigate them.
If there is evidence, charge the suspect.
If the case is strong, take it before a competent court.
But the punishment cannot precede the trial.
And the authority of the State cannot be reduced to the personal power of whoever happens to command the armed men.
And then there was Erias Lukwago
The case of former Kampala Lord Mayor and lawyer Erias Lukwago makes the pattern even more difficult to dismiss.
On June 15, Lukwago was taken from his home by security operatives in circumstances that generated widespread concern. His party initially said he had been taken to an undisclosed location. Public pressure subsequently helped establish that he was being held, according to reporting at the time.
The case later moved into the formal judicial system.
Lukwago was charged with misprision of treason, which he denied, and was remanded in custody. The case subsequently proceeded towards the High Court.
That subsequent legal process is important.
It demonstrates the distinction Uganda must preserve between arrest and punishment.
The State has the right to investigate and prosecute where there is reasonable suspicion of crime.
But the citizen has the right to know why he or she is being deprived of liberty and to have the matter determined through lawful judicial procedures.
The Commonwealth Lawyers Association subsequently condemned Lukwago’s arrest and detention, describing the episode as a serious concern for the rule of law and the independence of the legal profession.
That concern was not confined to Uganda. Reuters and the Associated Press also reported extensively on the circumstances of Lukwago’s arrest and the questions it raised about due process and the role of the military in civilian affairs.
What is becoming normal?
This is the question Uganda should now confront.
When armed men take away a citizen and the first question is “Which agency has him?”, something has gone wrong.
When a family does not know where its relative is being held, something has gone wrong.
When lawyers have to search for their clients, something has gone wrong.
When journalists report that someone has been arrested but cannot establish where the person has been taken, something has gone wrong.
And when the public learns about a person’s detention through social media posts from powerful officials rather than through the established institutions of the State, the problem becomes even more serious.
A modern state cannot function on rumours, anonymous security operatives and social-media declarations.
It functions through institutions.
The problem is not that Uganda arrests people
This distinction matters.
Every serious state arrests people.
Uganda is entitled to investigate corruption.
It is entitled to investigate terrorism.
It is entitled to investigate treason.
It is entitled to protect national security.
It is entitled to prosecute people suspected of breaking the law.
The problem begins when the method of arrest becomes indistinguishable from the punishment itself.
There is a world of difference between:
“You are under arrest. Here is the warrant or legal basis. You are being taken to this police station. You have access to your lawyer.”
and:
armed men arrive, take someone away, their destination is unknown, their family cannot establish their whereabouts, and the explanation comes later—or does not come at all.
The first is law enforcement.
The second creates fear.
Fear is becoming part of the political vocabulary
Uganda has just emerged from a highly contentious election period in which security forces faced widespread accusations of excessive force, arbitrary arrests and suppression of opposition activity.
International reporting documented a broader crackdown around the January 2026 election, including arrests and restrictions affecting opposition figures and activists.
The situation was not limited to politicians.
In June, the military ordered the shutdown of several Nation Media Group outlets, including Daily Monitor, NTV Uganda, KFM, Spark TV and Dembe FM. Reuters reported that the military said the outlets would not reopen without its permission, while the closure generated criticism from Amnesty International and others concerned about media freedom.
Against that background, an armed arrest inside a radio station carries significance beyond the individual involved.
It sends a message to everyone watching.
Speak carefully.
Ask carefully.
Challenge carefully.
You may be next.
Whether or not that is the intention of the authorities, that is the psychological effect such incidents can create.
A radio station should be one of the safest places for disagreement
There is something particularly disturbing about Rwomushana being taken from a media house.
Radio is one of the few places where Uganda’s competing political ideas regularly meet.
Government officials appear.
Opposition politicians appear.
Security analysts appear.
Journalists challenge them.
Listeners call in.
Sometimes people say things that are provocative, uncomfortable or even wrong.
That is what public debate looks like.
The answer to controversial speech should ordinarily be more speech, evidence, correction and, where necessary, lawful proceedings.
It should not be the spectacle of armed men arriving to take away the person who has just finished speaking.
If a crime was committed, say what the crime is.
If there is an investigation, identify the responsible institution.
If there is evidence, take the matter to court.
But do not leave the public guessing.
The State should not outsource justice to intimidation
This is where the Bagonza case is particularly instructive.
It is one thing for an individual to be arrested.
It is another for the circumstances surrounding the arrest—and subsequent public commentary by powerful officials—to create an impression that physical punishment is being contemplated outside the judicial process.
That is not how a constitutional state should operate.
A court may convict a person and impose a sentence.
A prison may lawfully hold a convicted prisoner.
An investigator may lawfully question a suspect.
But no official, however powerful, should appear to possess a personal mandate to decide how a detainee will be punished.
The danger is not only to the individual.
It is to the institution of government itself.
Uganda’s security agencies need to understand something fundamental
Transparency does not weaken security.
It strengthens it.
If Rwomushana was lawfully arrested, say so.
If Bagonza was lawfully arrested, say so.
If Lukwago was lawfully arrested, the subsequent court proceedings should demonstrate that.
If anyone else is arrested, the same standard should apply.
The public should not have to depend on anonymous sources, social media posts or political speculation to understand who is in custody.
The Police, military and intelligence agencies are institutions of the Republic.
They should therefore operate through institutional procedures—not personalities.
The danger of selective outrage
There is also a lesson for Uganda’s political class.
We cannot defend due process only when our friend is arrested.
We cannot condemn “abductions” when they affect our political camp and celebrate them when they affect our opponents.
We cannot demand constitutional rights for ourselves while denying them to people we dislike.
The rule of law becomes meaningful only when it protects the unpopular, the inconvenient and the politically powerless.
If Rwomushana is suspected of a crime, he deserves due process.
If Bagonza is suspected of wrongdoing, he deserves due process.
If Lukwago is accused of an offence, he deserves due process.
If Besigye is accused of treason, he deserves due process.
And if a government critic is accused of anything else, the same principle applies.
Otherwise, we are not defending the rule of law.
We are merely defending our side.
The question Uganda must answer
There is a simple test for any democratic government:
Can a citizen be arrested without the State being able to explain who arrested him, why he was arrested and where he is being held?
The answer should be an unequivocal no.
That does not mean suspects should escape investigation.
It means investigation must be conducted within the law.
Uganda’s Constitution does not become optional when national security is invoked.
Due process does not disappear because someone is politically inconvenient.
And human dignity does not become conditional upon whether we agree with the person being arrested.
Rwomushana’s arrest should be a warning, not another headline
The greatest danger is that the country simply moves on.
One person is taken today.
Another tomorrow.
A political leader disappears.
A businessman is detained.
A journalist is threatened.
A media house is closed.
Then the news cycle changes.
We become accustomed to it.
That is how extraordinary state power becomes ordinary.
And once society becomes accustomed to people being taken away without immediate explanation, the burden of proof quietly changes.
Instead of asking the State to explain why someone was arrested, citizens begin asking the victim:
“What did he do to deserve it?”
That is a dangerous reversal.
The first question should always be:
“Under what law was he arrested?”
Uganda does not need a weaker security state.
It needs a more professional security state—one that is capable of fighting crime and protecting national security without making citizens fear the very institutions established to protect them.
The Rwomushana case therefore deserves more than another social-media argument.
The Bagonza case deserves more than political speculation.
The Lukwago case deserves more than partisan outrage.
Together, they force Uganda to confront a much larger question:
Are we building institutions governed by the law—or a system in which the power to arrest increasingly depends on who possesses the guns, the influence and the ability to explain themselves afterwards?
That question is bigger than Charles Rwomushana.
It is bigger than Matthew Bagonza.
It is bigger than Erias Lukwago.
It is a question about what kind of country Uganda wants to be.
