OPINION- Once upon a time in Uganda—not in a fairy tale but in a reality more dramatic than any soap opera—politics was a sacred responsibility. It was the noble art of serving the people, defending their needs, and stewarding the country toward prosperity.
Today, politics has become the unofficial ‘Plan B’ career path for jobless graduates, disgruntled professionals, and the occasional failed musician or retired comedian. The only real qualification? A loud voice, some poster money, and a stomach strong enough to handle insults, scandals, and public adoration at the same time.
Ask a final-year student at Makerere what their dream is and you’ll likely hear: “I want to become an MP.” Not an engineer. Not a doctor. Not a software developer. An MP. Why? Because apparently, Parliament has become the new corner office—complete with allowances, travel, a convoy, and applause—even if your biggest contribution is reading WhatsApp forwards to the floor of the House.
It’s no secret. Uganda has a surplus of educated, ambitious, and highly unemployed youth. Every year, universities produce graduates like a factory—but the job market can barely absorb a fraction. You’ll find a first-class public administration graduate frying chapati in Kireka, while their less academically-inclined cousin sits in Parliament because they mastered the art of mobilisation (read: buying booze for the local LC chairman during campaigns).
Enter politics—the magic door.
Suddenly, a Bachelor’s in Political Sweet-Talk carries more weight than a Master’s in Development Studies. Those who were once told to “read hard and succeed” now watch as those who “shouted loud and campaigned” drive past in fuel-guzzling cars. Hypothetically, if Shakespeare were Ugandan today, would he be publishing plays—or running for MP in Mityana?
Politics in Uganda has turned into a spiritual hustle. You don’t serve people; you get blessed by them. Campaign rallies are now religious crusades. Candidates show up, cry, promise heaven on earth—and leave with envelopes, goats, and possibly a new boda boda, all in the name of “mobilisation.”
Service delivery? That’s a distant cousin no one calls anymore.
It’s now a system where voters worship those they elect, hoping that some of the crumbs from the honourables’ table will trickle down to pay school fees, hospital bills, and even wedding costs. The MP is no longer a legislator—they’ve become a mobile ATM. And you wonder why every graduate now wants to be one?
Ugandan politics today is like a wedding buffet at a village ceremony—those who pushed and elbowed their way in first get to eat well. The rest? They watch, clap, and go home hungry. Or as the elders would say, “When the drum of politics is beaten, even the deaf learn to dance.”
Why? Because in Uganda, politics is no longer about policy—it’s about position. It’s not about transforming the country; it’s about transforming your account balance.
Should political positions be the escape route for professionals who failed to find jobs in their field? Is it still “leadership” when you enter politics not to lead, but to escape poverty? How can a nation prosper when brains are trained for medicine but get wasted on manifestos?
The truth bites. And it bites harder when we realise we’ve normalised a culture where politics isn’t the highest form of public service, but the quickest shortcut to private gain.
Yet, there is still a sliver of hope. A generation of thinkers, doers, and dreamers still believe politics can be about change—not just cheques. But they are few, and often drowned out by the drumbeats of those who’ve mastered the rhythm of populist games.
Until we shift the culture from politics as a personal profession back to politics as public service, the trend will continue. The next generation of surgeons, scientists, and innovators may just end up as chairpersons of parliamentary committees on “Innovation,” discussing 5G technology they’ve never used—because it’s not about what you know, it’s about where you sit.
So here we are: Uganda, a land of educated minds… and politicised dreams.
And you, dear graduate reading this, ask yourself:
Do you want to change the system—or just benefit from it?
A Concerned Graduate Watching from the Sidelines
