It was one of those Kampala Fridays when the city seems to hum with mischief and unfinished debates. I met a peer, let's call him Anderson, over a bottle of something sparkling at Premium Liquor near Legends Rugby Club.
The evening had the right kind of breeze and the wrong kind of temptations. Anderson and I go way back to our university days, when political debates were currency and sleep was optional.
Not long after, two other comrades joined us: Rowland and Chrismel--both fellow veterans of campus activism. If our old selves could see us now, they'd say we'd traded protest placards for champagne glasses. But even with the bubbles rising, our talk soon drifted, as it always does, back to politics.
The topic du jour was NUP cards and the growing rejection of the so-called "seasoned politicians." Somewhere between the first and second bottle, a consensus began to form: the inevitable emergence of a third force in Uganda's political landscape.
Follow us on WhatsApp | LinkedIn for the latest headlines
We spoke of how, in the 1990s, Buganda politicians had dominated the scene, yet they too made space for a new crop: the Ssegonnas and Muwanga Kiwambis of this generation. Change, we agreed, is not a suggestion. It is a law of nature.
Look even at the police force today--you'll find young officers, hardly old enough to remember the liberation war, rising swiftly to the office of RPCs. The same story plays out in the army. On any given weekend, you'll find these young commanders holding court in some city tavern, speaking with the confidence of men who know it's their time to steer the ship.
This shift, we mused, isn't born of hatred or accusations of incompetence against the old guard. It's something deeper--the generational instinct to negotiate for space, to say, "We've listened long enough. Now it's our turn to talk." The army and the police seem to have mastered this art of succession. It is only the political class that remains, well... a little constipated with history.
Even the most charismatic opposition figures are beginning to feel the heat. Scroll through social media and you'll see the sentiment--polite, perhaps, but pointed: "Thank you for your service. Could you now step aside?"
We laughed at the irony--how political power in Uganda is like a stubborn inheritance. Everyone wants to pass it on, but no one wants to die first.
Just as Anderson was mid-sentence, making what he probably thought was a Churchillian point about generational renewal, one of the ladies at the next table leaned over to Rowland. "Gentlemen," she said, "how long are you going to stretch this discussion? The brown thighs are getting bored and cold."
Sign up for free AllAfrica Newsletters
Get the latest in African news delivered straight to your inbox
The statement landed like a parliamentary whip's gavel--debate adjourned!
In unison, we burst into laughter. Someone raised their glass and declared, "It's time for Ebisambi Ebyeru!" And just like that, the conversation that had started as a reflection on national renewal turned into a march--not to the State House, but to Oldies Night on First Street, Industrial Area.
As we drove off, I thought to myself: maybe this is what generational change really looks like--passionate arguments by day, smooth champagne by evening, and dancing shoes by night.
Because in Uganda, the guards may change, but the party never really ends.
