When an Army General with a Moustache Beard Fears a Civilian with a Dutch Beard, Democracy Is at Large

The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author, Norman Tumuhimbise, and do not reflect the official editorial stance of www.ugandatoday.co.ug. The platform publishes diverse voices to promote public discourse while upholding legal and ethical standards. Readers are urged to engage responsibly and verify information through trusted channels.

By Norman Tumuhimbise
Four-time state abductee, author of six books, son of RA013490 (longest-serving army sergeant)
Email: teamleader@alternativeuganda.org | Tel: +256 200 955 155

“The rights of every man are diminished when the rights of one man is threatened.” — John F. Kennedy

On a continent still nursing the scars of colonial repression, few things are more chilling than the sight of a national army being deployed not to defend the sovereignty of the nation but to terrorise its citizens. The case of Eddie Mutwe, the long-serving bodyguard of opposition leader Hon. Robert Kyagulanyi Ssentamu (Bobi Wine)—abducted, allegedly tortured, and brazenly claimed by General Muhoozi Kainerugaba to be held “in my basement”—is not just a story of personal suffering. It is the sounding of a death knell to Uganda’s constitutional order and a searing indictment of the moral decay at the heart of state power.

The impunity was laid bare on April 26, 2025. Mutwe was abducted in broad daylight by heavily armed plain-clothed operatives. His whereabouts were concealed for days. Then came the tweet from General Muhoozi, Commander of the Uganda People’s Defence Forces and son of the “standing,” rather sitting and sinking, president—a presumed successor-in-waiting. Filled with ego and taxpayers’ data on his iPhone, he typed: “Eddie Mutwe is in my basement.” Attached was an image of a battered and handcuffed man.

What should have sparked a national crisis met eerie silence. No condemnation. No investigations. The state normalized a confession of illegality. The father—General Yoweri Kaguta Museveni—remained mute. The “mother,” a cabinet minister and self-proclaimed God-fearing figure, offered no biblical rebuke. The sister, a senior pastor, didn’t receive a divine whisper condemning this act. Are we simply awaiting next year’s National Prayer Breakfast for more empty thanksgiving rituals as citizens perish silently?

That tweet wasn’t a joke—it was a declaration: I am the law.

This is not about one man. It is about a nation whose political spine is being surgically removed. It is about the deliberate erosion of civil liberties, the personalisation of national institutions, and the creeping normalcy of torture as an instrument of governance.

To avoid sounding disrespectful, scientific studies suggest a warthog’s memory lasts just eight seconds. It sprints from danger only to forget and relax. Mr. President and your dear son, are we now forgetting why we ran in the 1970s and 80s? Your guess is as good as mine.

I usually avoid political predictions—my past accuracy has brought me trouble with the military. But silence is no longer an option. Mr. President, this country is doomed unless change is managed with extreme care. In your bush-war days, many Ugandans died—none your relatives. Today, the entire country knows who your family is, where they stay, what they own—and the tweets they post.

If our politics remains reckless, your family may one day be victim too—something no Ugandan should wish for. Yet you, having held power for four decades, have the most to lose. Reconciliation is possible, but time is running out.

Eddie Mutwe’s rights, like all Ugandans’, are enshrined in the 1995 Constitution. Article 23 guarantees personal liberty; Article 24 prohibits torture; Article 44 makes these rights non-derogable—even in emergencies.

When a general unlawfully detains a citizen, it’s not a joke. It’s a crime.

The Prevention and Prohibition of Torture Act (2012) defines torture in Section 2 as any act inflicting severe pain for purposes like coercion. Section 3 criminalises torture absolutely and dismisses superior orders as a defense. Uganda’s laws don’t wink at cruelty—they condemn it.

If Mutwe’s injuries are real, then Gen. Muhoozi and his enablers must be investigated. Torture substitutes justice when evidence is lacking.

Even with plenty of bananas, Uganda is not a banana republic. We are signatories to the UN Convention Against Torture and the African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights. These impose binding duties to investigate torture and redress victims. In Uganda Law Society v. Attorney General (2009), the Supreme Court reaffirmed accountability for all power holders. That ruling is now being spat on in broad daylight.

Still, what happened? Mutwe appeared in court—battered, accused of robbery, yet no inquiry into his abduction. Justice Minister Norbert Mao confirmed signs of torture. But the DPP remains silent. The Human Rights Commission is reduced to press releases. Parliament’s Human Rights Committee shares sitting allowances, not justice. Where is our conscience?

This is not isolated. It is systemic. The militarisation of politics, the erosion of civilian supremacy, the conversion of citizens into subjects—Uganda is transforming into a personal thiefdom. Articles 208 and 209 of the Constitution require the UPDF to be professional and non-partisan. The army is not family property. Barracks are not dungeons. Officers are not torturers.

We are witnessing the breakdown of the social contract. When the military no longer answers to civilians, when courts rubber-stamp state crimes, and when Parliament grows mute—what remains of a republic? We have become a Public, with the “RE” in custody of those who hold the people hostage.

This is a call to action. To lawyers: uphold justice, not convenience. To Parliament: perform oversight, not “over-blindness.” To judges: reclaim independence. And to Ugandans: declare boldly—torture is not our culture, impunity is not our heritage, and silence is not our safety.

Uganda is bleeding—not from rebel bullets, but from the silence of good men with eyes tightly shut. From jokes that are not jokes. From tweets that are war cries in disguise. From power unchecked.

Let this be the line in the sand. Let Uganda rise and say:
Enough.
Enough of torture.
Enough of impunity.
Enough of basement prisons.
Enough of generals playing God.

Only when justice is blind to power can a nation truly see.

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