When the results of Uganda’s January 15 presidential election were announced, confirming President Yoweri Museveni’s seventh term in office, the atmosphere across the country was tense rather than celebratory. At 81 years old, Museveni has extended his rule deep into a fifth decade, a feat few African leaders have matched. But the shadow over his latest victory is not just the magnitude of his tenure — it is the manner in which it was secured, and the hard-line figure who has emerged as the real power behind it: his son, General Muhoozi Kainerugaba.
Official figures put Museveni’s 2026 victory at around 71.6% of the vote, with opposition leader Bobi Wine — born Robert Kyagulanyi — trailing at roughly 24–25%. But for many Ugandans and international observers, the numerical result tells only part of the story. The election was marred by an internet blackout that began days before polling, a heavy military and police presence and repeated incidents of violence, arbitrary detentions and intimidation directed at opposition supporters.
The internet shutdown, ordered by the Uganda Communications Commission and lasting over four days, was officially framed as a measure to protect national security and curb misinformation. But critics argue it stifled independent media, hindered communication and public scrutiny, and played a decisive role in controlling the narrative on election day and during vote counting.
In the days after the vote, General Muhoozi, recently appointed head of the military and once known largely for his unpredictable social media presence, amplified a crackdown that rights observers have called brutal and systematic. In public posts and statements, he claimed that 30 opposition supporters had been killed and around 2,000 detained in the aftermath of the election, describing them as “terrorists” and “hooligans”.
Human rights organisations and at least one United Nations official have expressed alarm at the scale of repression, including allegations that detainees have been held in unofficial facilities and subjected to treatment that may violate international norms. Meanwhile opposition figures report repeated raids on homes, abductions and summary arrests. Bobi Wine’s wife, Barbara Kyagulanyi, was reportedly assaulted and hospitalised after soldiers searched their home in pursuit of her husband, an episode described by Wine as part of a broader campaign of intimidation.
Amid these actions, Kainerugaba’s rhetoric has grown increasingly extreme. At times he has threatened Wine directly, issued warnings that opposition figures would be treated as rebels, and even “banned” Wine from future elections — a claim that stunned observers and legal experts alike. More than rhetoric, his statements reflect a sweeping readiness to use state power to marginalise political opponents.
To many Ugandans, Muhoozi Kainerugaba embodies a new breed of power broker — charismatic to some, terrifying to others. Educated in Britain and trained at elite institutions, he has spent much of the past decade consolidating authority within the Uganda People’s Defence Forces (UPDF) and asserting a public political role that would once have been unthinkable for a serving officer.
Where Museveni has long relied on a network of patronage and party structures, Kainerugaba’s rise has been marked by a more personalised and militarised control. Tactical retirements of rival officers, substantial pay increases for rank-and-file soldiers and the strategic sidelining of potential challengers within the ruling National Resistance Movement (NRM) have eroded institutional checks on his influence.
This consolidation extends beyond the barracks and into the political arena. By depicting the opposition, especially Wine and his National Unity Platform (NUP), as dangerous and illegitimate, Kainerugaba has sought to cast his father’s 40-plus years in power as a bulwark against chaos — a narrative pitched to older voters who recall the instability of Uganda’s earlier decades. But for younger Ugandans, especially those under 30, his rise resonates as a threat to democratic aspirations and generational change.
Analysts liken his leadership style to that of a hard-right strongman: fiercely outspoken on social media, prone to making hyperbolic threats, and unapologetic in his pursuit of power. At times controversial even before 2026 — including remarks threatening violence against opponents and fraught commentary about foreign policy — his public persona has oscillated between bravado and menace.
Yet some political commentators point out a dissonance between his online persona and interactions in private. To old-hand journalists and diplomats, he is described as methodical and strategic, suggesting a calculated architect of power rather than an impulsive troublemaker. It is this combination — ideological zeal and calculated authority — that has so unsettled Uganda’s political class.
The politics of Yoweri Museveni, who first came to power in 1986, reflect a long arc from youthful revolutionary to entrenched autocrat. Initially celebrated for stabilising a country ravaged by dictatorship and civil conflict, Museveni’s early years promised reform, reconciliation and economic development. Through the 1990s and early 2000s, he positioned himself as a champion of peace in a region frequently beset by turmoil.
However, over time his governance style evolved — or devolved — into a personalised and resilient system of control. Constitutional amendments that removed term limits and age caps epitomise this shift, allowing him to perpetuate his tenure indefinitely. Similarly, the co-optation of the judiciary and electoral institutions has diminished checks and balances, making opposition challenges more difficult and less credible.
Museveni’s enduring grip has attracted both praise and criticism. On the one hand, Uganda has maintained relative stability compared with some neighbours, and at various points attracted foreign investment and played a role in regional peacekeeping. On the other, critics argue that this stability has come at the cost of democratic space, human rights and political plurality — a trade-off increasingly resented by urban youth and civil society.
Moreover, Museveni’s political survival has become almost inseparable from military influence. The seamless integration of the army into political life — cemented by figures like Kainerugaba — has blurred the line between defence of the state and defence of regime survival. Military crackdowns on dissent, pervasive intimidation and repeated use of security forces during elections are now part of the electoral playbook.
Museveni’s economic record is a mixed tapestry of measurable gains and persistent challenges. Since 1986, Uganda’s economy has expanded significantly: from a GDP of roughly USD 3.9 billion to around USD 60 billion today, with projections suggesting further growth as the country prepares to begin commercial oil production. GDP per capita has risen, and poverty rates — while still high — have shown signs of gradual reduction.
Government-led initiatives such as the Parish Development Model (PDM) and targeted agricultural support programmes have been central to efforts to reduce poverty and stimulate local enterprise. Officials point to improvements in infrastructure, commercial agriculture and small business development as tangible successes of long-term planning.
Yet economic progress has not translated into broad social transformation. Income inequality remains significant, youth unemployment is stubbornly high, and reliance on subsistence agriculture persists in rural areas. Many critics argue that growth has been uneven and that economic gains have disproportionately benefited urban centres and political elites. Moreover, projects tied to natural resources, particularly oil, present both promise and peril: while they could expand the economic base, they also risk deepening corruption and creating new avenues for patronage if oversight is weak.
The internet shutdowns, such as the one imposed during the 2026 election, highlight another economic vulnerability. The abrupt loss of connectivity disrupted business operations, digital services, e-commerce and mobile money platforms — sectors increasingly vital to Uganda’s modern economy. Shut-offs slow commerce, reduce tax revenue, and undermine investor confidence, demonstrating how political manoeuvres can have immediate economic costs.
For millions of Ugandans, the 2026 election crystallises a stark choice: continuity under a deeply entrenched regime or the painful but necessary pursuit of political renewal. The sustained growth of a youthful population — more connected, more educated and more impatient for change — challenges the old guard. The iconic Bobi Wine movement symbolizes this generational shift: a call for transparency, accountability and representative governance.
Yet as Museveni tightens his hold and grips of power extend through figures like Muhoozi, the prospects for a peaceful transition appear remote. The brutal tactics used against opposition voices, the integration of military command into the political hierarchy, and the erosion of democratic norms suggest a country in which the military-political complex has supplanted institutional democracy.
As regional partners and global powers watch closely, Uganda’s future hinges on whether its political system can accommodate dissent and reform, or whether it will continue down a path where power is protected at all costs — even at the expense of the very citizens it claims to serve.
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