The Great Hoodwink: A Dramatic Discourse On The Betrayal Of The Revolution

President Yoweri Museveni inspecting a guard of honor (left)

By Isaac Christopher Lubogo

I am no politician. I seek no office, wear no party colors, and pledge allegiance to no movement. I am simply a man whose soul is restless, whose conscience will not let him stand idly by as his nation bleeds.

We were told—no, assured—that they came as liberators, bearers of a new dawn, emissaries of democracy who, with sacred conviction, had marched through the trenches, the jungles, and the valleys of despair to redeem our nation from the clutches of tyranny.

They stood before us, in their fatigues, their boots caked with the dust of our war-torn land, their words like a hypnotic lullaby to a people weary of oppression. They swore by the heavens that the old order of strongmen and their insatiable lust for power had been buried in the rubble of their revolutionary triumph. “Africa’s problem,” they preached, “is leaders who overstay in power!” And oh, how we cheered! How we chanted! How we beat our chests in triumph, believing that history had finally turned a page.

But look around you now. What do you see? The great deception laid bare!

They have become the very thing they once condemned, and worse. They do not just overstay—they entrench themselves like a parasite sucking the lifeblood of a nation. They do not merely ignore democratic principles—they mock them, distort them, and turn them into instruments of control. They hold elections, but with invisible shackles, ensuring that no contender breathes freely. They allow opposition, but only the kind they manufacture, castrated and choreographed to play the role of an eternal loser.

They swore that they would never allow power to be hoarded in the hands of a few. Yet, they have recycled the same faces, the same decayed minds, the same stale ideas—men and women who, long past their prime, cling to power as though it were their divine birthright. They rule, not by the will of the people, but by the force of unspoken agreements, secret oaths, and the ever-present shadow of the gun.

And yet, we believed them.

Why? Why did we fall for their gospel of change? Why did we not see through their elaborate theater of deception? Was it the way they spoke, their words soaked in the honey of revolution? Was it the wounds they bore, the staged humility, the pretense of sacrifice? Or were we so desperate for salvation that we embraced the first hand that reached out, only to realize too late that it was the same iron fist in disguise?

And now, they mock us. They tell us that change has only one name, one face, one lineage. They refuse to make elections fair, because they know fairness would dismantle their empire. They refuse to level the playing field, because they know competition would expose their frailty. They refuse to let go, because power is their oxygen, and without it, they would wither into the dust of forgotten lies.

When we speak, they silence us. When we resist, they crush us. When we dream, they turn our dreams into nightmares.

And yet, they expect us to believe that we are free.

No! We were hoodwinked! We were bamboozled! We were taken for a ride on the long train of deception!

But the tides of history are unforgiving. They have swallowed empires, dethroned kings, and swept away those who thought themselves gods among men. The arrogance of absolute power is always its downfall.

And so, I ask: When shall we awaken from this long sleep of submission? When shall we stop believing the lies of men who have betrayed even the very words they once spoke?

For how much longer shall we be prisoners of their revolution?

THE DYING EMBERS OF A REVOLUTION: A NATION IN RECKONING

The hour is late. The signs are all around us—etched in the scars of the struggling, whispered in the cries of the hungry, painted in the flames of desperate men who would rather set themselves ablaze before Parliament than suffer the slow, suffocating fire of injustice.

And yet, they do not see. Or perhaps, they see, but choose to ignore.

They sit atop their thrones, veiled in silk and gold, drowning in the luxuries of their deception, while below them, the streets seethe with the rage of the forgotten. They have built for themselves fortresses of wealth, armored in privilege, convinced that the voices of the oppressed are but distant echoes lost in the winds of time. But can they not hear? The winds have changed.

The people stir. The hungry grow impatient. And when hunger sharpens the soul, it leaves no room for fear.

Look at them! Look at the youth, who now march in formation, their bodies hardened by the weight of broken promises, their minds sharpened by the blades of betrayal. They ask themselves, if those before them could pick up arms and seize destiny, why not them? Were the old revolutionaries forged from divine fire, or were they simply men who refused to kneel?

Look at the mothers, whose tears no longer flow. Even sorrow, when stretched to its limits, turns into resolve. They no longer weep—they watch, they listen, they remember.

Look at the fathers, whose hands once built the very nation that now despises them, the same hands that now tremble, not with age, but with the weight of unfulfilled dreams.

And look at the leaders—do they not see the storm brewing? Or do they believe that power is eternal, that their seats are immune to the tide of history?

They once spoke of revolutions. They glorified the struggles of old, sang songs of liberation, and filled our ears with tales of sacrifice. But they have forgotten that revolutions are not owned. They are not chained to names or faces. They are not preserved in bullet-riddled books or frozen in statues of past warriors.

Revolutions are alive, breathing, growing—and when they are betrayed, they rise again.

How blind must a man be to see flames licking at his doorstep and still believe he is safe? How arrogant must a ruler be to see his people marching towards the precipice of rebellion and still believe they are merely walking in circles?

Uganda groans under the weight of its contradictions.

They tell us we are free, yet we are shackled.
They tell us to vote, yet they choose the victor before the battle begins.
They tell us to speak, yet they silence those who dare to say the truth.
They tell us to be patient, yet their patience has expired when it comes to looting the nation dry.

Can they not see the writing on the wall? History is not merciful to those who mistake silence for obedience, nor to those who mistake patience for surrender.

The fire is lit. The people remember. And history always has the last word.

A NATION ON THE BRINK: THE AGONY OF UGANDA’S MASSES

In the heart of Africa lies Uganda, a nation once hailed as the “Pearl of Africa,” now tarnished by the weight of its own afflictions. The land that should be flowing with milk and honey is instead drenched in the tears of its people, suffocating under the heavy yoke of poverty, debt, and crumbling infrastructure.

The Abyss of Poverty

Over 41.7% of Ugandans subsist on less than $1.90 a day, their lives a relentless struggle against the gnawing pangs of hunger and the cold grip of destitution. Despite governmental promises and international aid, the chasm between the haves and the have-nots widens with each passing day. The rural heartlands, where 84% of the population resides, are particularly afflicted, their fields barren, their hopes withering under the scorching sun of neglect.

The Chains of Debt

Once, Uganda’s debt-to-GDP ratio stood at a manageable 31% in 1987. But like a cancer, it metastasized, reaching a staggering 109% by 1992. Even after debt relief initiatives, the specter of indebtedness looms large, with the ratio climbing to 57.9% in 2022. The nation’s coffers are empty, its future mortgaged to foreign creditors, while the common man bears the brunt of austerity measures and economic stagnation.

The Mirage of GDP Growth

Official narratives tout GDP growth rates of 3.9% in 2017, rising to a projected 6.5% in 2020. But these numbers are a cruel illusion, masking the grim reality faced by millions. The so-called growth is but a tide that lifts only the yachts of the elite, leaving the masses stranded in the quicksand of unemployment and underdevelopment.

The Collapse of Health and Infrastructure

The nation’s health system is in shambles, unable to contain outbreaks like the recent Ebola resurgence, which claimed lives and prompted the UN to appeal for emergency funds. Hospitals are underfunded, understaffed, and overwhelmed, turning away the sick and the dying.

The roads, lifelines that should connect and invigorate the nation, are death traps. In 2019 alone, over 12,858 road traffic accidents were recorded, resulting in 14,690 casualties. Careless driving, yes, but also a testament to the government’s failure to maintain and regulate the transportation network.

The Mockery of “Peace”

And yet, amidst this sea of suffering, there are those who chant “jaja tova ku main”—a sycophantic chorus praising leaders who feast while the nation starves. Their bellies bulge with the spoils of corruption, their children sent abroad to bask in luxury, far from the squalor and despair that define the lives of ordinary Ugandans.

A Call to Conscience

How dare we speak of peace when the majority languish in misery? How can we celebrate progress when it is built on the broken backs of the impoverished? The time has come to peel away the veneer of false prosperity and confront the grotesque reality. The soul of Uganda cries out for justice, for equity, for a rebirth that honors the dignity of all its people, not just the privileged few.

WHEN A NATION WEEPS: THE BURDEN OF CONSCIENCE AND THE CALL TO AWAKENING

I am no politician. I seek no office, wear no party colors, and pledge allegiance to no movement. I am simply a man whose soul is restless, whose conscience will not let him stand idly by as his nation bleeds.

And Uganda is bleeding. Not from an invading force, not from an act of God, but from the cold, calculated betrayal of those who swore to protect it. The revolution that once promised us a new dawn has instead wrapped us in an unending night. The very men who decried dictatorship have become pharaohs of their own making. Those who once wielded the sword for freedom now sharpen it against their own people.

And they tell us to be silent. They tell us to accept it as fate. They mock our pain with their lavish feasts, their children in foreign lands, their bellies growing as ours shrink. They dare call this peace.

BUT HOW CAN THERE BE PEACE?

How can there be peace when a mother walks 20 miles to a clinic only to be told there is no medicine?
How can there be peace when fathers wake before dawn to chase jobs that do not exist?
How can there be peace when hunger carves our children’s ribs into xylophones of suffering?
How can there be peace when the youth—once the lifeblood of the nation—are drowning in hopelessness, forced to choose between exile, crime, or submission?
How can there be peace when those who rise to speak are met with bullets, teargas, and shackles?

This is not peace. This is the silence of a strangled people.

THE ILLUSION OF PROGRESS

They parade GDP numbers and infrastructure projects as evidence of prosperity. They point at bridges and roads as proof of development. But tell me, what is a road if it leads only to hunger? What is a bridge if it connects nothing but broken dreams? What is economic growth if it fattens only the few while the many starve?

A nation is not measured by the height of its skyscrapers, but by the dignity of its people. And in this, Uganda is in ruins.

THE DUTY OF EVERY TRUE CITIZEN

In times like these, neutrality is a sin. Silence is treason. To pretend not to see is to aid the oppressor. And to accept suffering as fate is to spit upon the graves of those who fought before us.

We must speak—for words are the first cracks in the walls of tyranny.
We must act—for a nation does not change through whispers, but through will.
We must demand—for power is not a birthright, it is a trust given by the people.
We must awaken—for history has shown that those who sleep in oppression wake up in chains.

And yes, the price is high. It always has been.

Socrates drank poison rather than betray truth.
Mandela gave his youth rather than kneel before injustice.
Joan of Arc walked into the flames rather than renounce her cause.
Martin Luther King Jr. stood before bullets rather than be silent in the face of oppression.

Freedom is never given. It is taken. It is fought for. It is bled for.

A MOMENT OF RECKONING

A reckoning is coming. History does not forget. The future will not ask us whether we were comfortable. It will ask whether we were complicit.

And when our children ask us, “What did you do when Uganda was gasping for air?” what will we say?

For me, I will say:

I spoke. I wrote. I stood.
I refused to be a bystander. I refused to be a coward. I refused to let my nation wither while I watched in silence.

Because if we do not stand now, when? If we do not fight now, who will?

Uganda is weeping. Uganda is calling.

And history is watching.