The dust has barely settled on the recently announced parliamentary elections, yet one question hangs in the political air like smoke after a village fire: has the world moved on from Kizza Besigye? For a man who once bestrode Uganda’s opposition landscape like a colossus—commanding rallies that shook the ground, inspiring chants that echoed across hills, and giving the ruling establishment sleepless nights—the dismal performance of his new political outfit, the PFF, feels like a dramatic twist in a long-running political saga. It is as though the scriptwriters of Uganda’s politics decided to flip the page abruptly, leaving the protagonist trapped in Luzira on treason charges while his party stumbled at the ballot box.
Many had predicted a different story. In fact, some analysts whispered that Besigye’s imprisonment would act as a sympathy magnet, drawing voters toward his candidates the way iron filings rush to a magnet. After all, Uganda has a long history of rallying behind the persecuted. “A man in chains,” as the old saying goes, “often commands more attention than a man on a throne.” But this time, the chains did not glitter. The sympathy card, expected to be the ace up the PFF’s sleeve, turned out to be a joker.
The numbers tell a story sharper than any metaphor. Out of the entire country, the PFF managed to secure only two parliamentary seats—AOL Achan in Gulu City and Nakato Asinansi in Hoima City. Two seats. Not two dozen. Not two regions. Just two individuals standing like lonely trees in a political desert. For a party whose founder once pulled crowds that could fill stadiums, this outcome is nothing short of a political earthquake.
Even more striking is where the losses occurred. Kigezi—Besigye’s own home turf, the soil that raised him, the hills that once echoed his name—gave the PFF nothing. Not a single seat. The ruling NRM swept the region clean, “like a broom chasing dust out of a hut,” as one elder in Kabale put it. Buganda, the political heartbeat of the country, also shut its doors. And in Teso and Rwenzori—regions that once painted their ballots blue in Besigye’s heyday—the tide turned yellow again.
The fall of key party architects added salt to the wound. Ssemujju Nganda Ibrahim, a seasoned legislator from Kira and one of the most articulate opposition voices in Parliament, was felled. Buikwe’s Lulume Bayiga, another long-standing figure, also fell. Tooro’s Doreen Nyanjura, the former Kampala City Deputy Mayor and one of the most visible young opposition leaders, could not survive the wave either. It was a political harvest season in which the PFF reaped thorns instead of grain.
To understand this dramatic shift, one must revisit the Besigye of old—the man who, for nearly two decades, stood as the face of Uganda’s opposition. He contested four presidential elections, each time giving the ruling establishment a run for its money. His rallies were electrifying; his message resonated deeply with those who felt left behind by the system. He was, in many ways, the embodiment of defiance. “If you want peace,” he once said, “you must be ready to fight for justice.” And millions believed him.
But politics, like the seasons, changes. The winds that once blew in Besigye’s favor seem to have shifted. Some of his supporters argue that this shift is not organic but engineered. They insist that Besigye is being witch-hunted, that his imprisonment is politically motivated, and that President Museveni fears him. His wife, Winnie Byanyima, has repeatedly suggested that what exists between the two men is not just political rivalry but a personal feud stretching back decades. These claims, however passionately expressed, did not translate into votes this time.
Ugandan voters, it appears, were not persuaded by the narrative of persecution. Whether they believe the charges against Besigye are genuine or not, the ballot boxes suggest that sympathy alone is no longer enough to sway them. The electorate seems to have adopted a new political philosophy: “We vote for the present, not the past.” And in the present, the PFF did not offer a compelling enough alternative to the ruling establishment or to other opposition groups.
There had been speculation—some of it wild, some of it strategic—that the PFF would nominate Besigye for the presidency even while he was in prison. The logic was simple: a jailed candidate would galvanize support, attract international attention, and perhaps even force the state into a corner. But this never came to pass. Whether it was fear, caution, or internal disagreement that stopped the move, the result was the same: the party entered the elections without its most potent symbol.
In Acholi, the shift was particularly dramatic. During Besigye’s time as opposition leader, the region voted overwhelmingly for the FDC. It was one of his strongest bases, a place where his message of justice and accountability resonated deeply. Yet in this election, the PFF secured only one seat in the broader northern region—AOL Achan in Gulu City. The rest tilted toward the NRM or other political formations. It was as though the political river that once flowed northward had changed course.
So what explains this decline? Has the world truly forgotten Besigye? Or is something deeper at play?
One theory is that Uganda’s political landscape has become more fragmented. New players have emerged, new alliances have formed, and voters have more choices than ever before. The opposition is no longer a two-horse race between Besigye and the NRM. Younger leaders, new parties, and shifting regional dynamics have created a more complex environment. In such a landscape, nostalgia alone cannot win elections.
Another theory is that voters are fatigued. After two decades of hearing the same message of defiance, some may feel that the struggle has become repetitive, even stagnant. “A drum beaten too often,” a Luganda proverb warns, “loses its rhythm.” Perhaps the electorate wanted a new rhythm, a new message, a new face.
There is also the possibility that voters simply prioritized stability over protest. With economic pressures, global uncertainties, and local challenges, many Ugandans may have opted for what they perceive as the safer choice. Sympathy, while emotionally powerful, does not always translate into political confidence.
Yet it would be premature to write Besigye’s political obituary. History is full of leaders who fell, only to rise again. Nelson Mandela spent 27 years in prison before becoming president. Aung San Suu Kyi spent years under house arrest before leading her country. Raila Odinga has lost multiple elections yet remained a central figure in Kenyan politics until his death last year. Besigye’s story, too, may have another chapter.
But for now, the reality is stark. The PFF’s performance in the elections was dismal. The sympathy card did not work. The regions that once embraced Besigye turned away. The party’s architects fell. And the man himself remains in Luzira, watching from behind bars as the political world moves on without him.
Whether this is a temporary setback or a permanent shift remains to be seen. But one thing is clear: Ugandan politics has entered a new era, and the old formulas no longer guarantee success. As the saying goes, “The river that forgets its source dries up.” The PFF must now decide whether to reconnect with its roots, reinvent itself, or risk fading into political obscurity.
For Besigye, the question is even more personal. Has the world forgotten him? Or is it simply waiting for him to write the next chapter of his long and turbulent political journey?
Only time will tell.
The writer is the Assistant RCC for Nyendo Mukungwe- Masaka City
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