In a move that surprised absolutely no one, Yoweri Museveni, the great waltzer of Ugandan politics, has been sworn in for a seventh term. The ceremony was a masterclass in political theatre: a stage full of smiling MPs, a military band that played on key, and a presidential oathing hand that seemed to have been dipped in superglue. Meanwhile, the UK, the world’s premier supplier of disappointed expressions, issued a stern warning about “democratic backslide,” a phrase that has become as meaningless as a chocolate teapot in the Ugandan context.
Museveni, now in his 80s, appears to have discovered the political equivalent of immortality: a constitution as pliable as hot toffee. The opposition, as is tradition, denounced the whole affair as a sham, but their voices were drowned out by the sound of government printing presses churning out celebratory banknotes. One cannot help but marvel at the sheer audacity of a man who has been in power for so long that his original voters are largely deceased or senile.
Yet he persists, a political cockroach in a nuclear winter. The UK’s warning, delivered in the stiffest possible upper lip, suggested that this was not the “free and fair” election they had hoped for. But let’s be honest: the UK’s hope in African democracy often resembles a man hoping for a gin and tonic in a desert.
It’s a nice thought, but you’re going to die of thirst. The swearing-in was a spectacle of absurdity, a carnival of the absurd where the only thing missing was a clown car. The president, looking as cherubic as ever, promised to continue his “revolutionary” policies, presumably until his own revolution is staged by his grand-nephews.
In short, the UK warned, Uganda shrugged, and Museveni danced. The only thing backsliding here is any shred of democratic credibility, but who’s counting?
