By Adonis Byemelwa
The closer Uganda moves to January 15, 2026, the more the election feels less like a single day and more like an extended test of nerves, not just for politicians and security agencies, but for ordinary citizens watching the signal bars on their phones as closely as they watch the campaign trail. Internet access, something once taken for granted, has quietly become one of the most charged issues of this election season.
Talk of restrictions began as whispers, then grew louder as data slowed in some areas and vanished entirely in others. The official line has been careful and technical: no “blanket shutdown,” only monitoring, only precaution, only security.
That language may satisfy regulators, but on the ground, it translates into confusion. A journalist refreshes a browser again and again, unsure whether a page will not load because of weak coverage or a deliberate block. A trader hesitates before accepting mobile money, wondering if the transaction will go through or hang indefinitely.
Memories of past elections hover heavily over these moments. Ugandans have been here before. In 2021, firm denials were followed by days of digital silence. People remember scrambling for radio updates, relying on rumours, and losing income as online services froze.
That history shapes how today’s assurances are heard. “It is not paranoia if it already happened,” said one media worker in Kampala, shrugging as he packed a power bank “just in case.”
Life in Uganda now runs through the internet in ways that were unimaginable a decade ago. Mobile money is not a convenience; it is the backbone of daily commerce.
When connectivity stutters, market stalls slow down, delivery riders idle, and families struggle to receive remittances from abroad. The cost of even partial restrictions is immediate and personal.
A salon owner in Wakiso put it bluntly: “Politics comes and goes. The rent is every month. Internet problems hit us first.”
Government officials argue they are balancing those economic realities against the risk of election-related violence and online manipulation.
They point to viral misinformation, doctored videos, and inflammatory posts as real threats that require firm oversight. From that perspective, digital controls are presented as preventive medicine, unpopular, perhaps, but necessary to keep the peace.
However, the medicine itself is deeply contested. Critics say the cure often worsens the disease. When people lose access to trusted sources and real-time reporting, rumours fill the gap.
Word-of-mouth spreads unchecked, fear sharpens, and suspicion grows. The irony is brutal to ignore: measures meant to preserve stability can end up eroding confidence in the very process they claim to protect.
Opposition leaders have leaned into that contradiction, framing internet access as an election issue in its own right. Their argument is simple and resonant: transparency depends on connectivity.
Without social media, livestreams, and citizen reporting, it becomes harder to verify what happens at polling stations or during tallying. Even a technically sound election risks being viewed as illegitimate if it unfolds in digital darkness.
Civil society groups echo that warning, but their tone is less partisan and more structural. They speak of access to information as a democratic utility, like roads or electricity.
Shut it down, even briefly, and the damage goes beyond politics. It reaches education, healthcare communication, emergency response, and livelihoods. The election merely concentrates those effects into a shorter, more volatile period.
International observers are paying close attention. Uganda’s situation fits into a broader global pattern in which governments invoke security to justify connectivity restrictions during sensitive moments.
The record elsewhere is mixed at best. Internet shutdowns tend to attract diplomatic criticism, unsettle investors, and cast long shadows over electoral outcomes. For a country eager to project stability, the optics matter.
Adding to the unease are reports that alternative connectivity options, including satellite internet, have also been subject to restrictions. To tech-savvy Ugandans, that signals planning rather than improvisation.
“If even backups are blocked, what are we supposed to believe?” asked a software developer in Mukono. His concern was not ideological; it was practical. “I just want to work and vote in peace.”
Experiences, however, remain uneven. Some neighbourhoods report regular service; others describe intermittent blackouts. That inconsistency fuels anxiety.
Every dropped connection feels loaded with meaning. Is this a glitch, or the beginning of something broader? People swap screenshots, compare notes, and speculate, turning connectivity itself into a shared obsession.
Officials continue to stress legality and restraint. They insist there is no desire to punish citizens or muzzle debate, only to prevent chaos.
In isolation, that argument might carry weight. Placed against Uganda’s wider pre-election environment, marked by arrests of activists, limits on rallies, and heavy security deployments, it lands differently. Context matters, and this context is crowded with mistrust.
What emerges is not just a technical dispute, but a human one. The controversy over internet access has become a mirror reflecting more profound questions about voice, power, and control. Who gets to speak? Who gets to watch? Who decides when silence is justified?
With election day approaching, Uganda sits in a state of digital suspense. Phone screens glow brighter, notifications feel more urgent, and every successful connection brings a small sense of relief.
Whether the internet stays fully on or flickers again, its role in this election is already undeniable. Connectivity has become more than infrastructure; it is a measure of confidence, a signal of openness, and for many Ugandans, the thin line between participation and exclusion in a defining national moment.
