Three Years.

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Three years. I’d be joining Nursery school would have joined Nursery School today. I can almost hear myself sing all the nursery rhymes. I can almost feel myself sharing all my fancy day 1 food. Have been a giver since day 1, literally.


Approximately three years ago I moved on from Blogger to the fancier sister WordPress. And like they say, “the rest has been quite a story.”

I’ve made buddies, lost some *those that feel like you almost wrote about them, almost kissed and told, yet it was just imagination triggered by a moment some time back.

I’ve written nice pieces and better pieces, I’ve procrastinated once too much, I’ve been hit by the block. I’ve got past the 300 Follower Mark. I take pleasure in knowing that I can share with a number that big. And humbled for most read, and some reply, comment.

I pray and hope, even promise to write more. To be bolder, to swim beyond the reef and to write more. I promise to try to be Me.

 

Ayyy

Little Pretty Woman
Blessed with a bosom capped with twin peaks
Adorned with dark thick tipped nipples
Lance them by the edges of my mouth
Let it joustle with the thrust of my tongue

Take me deep into it
That little place they call sin
The enclave hushed by desire
Major Arcana cards held aloft
Where you’re High Priestess and I obey

Let me touch your thin veil of awareness
Where touch is forever more
Envelop me with your nether lips
Warm embraces the hedonist never forgets
Engulf me in swatches of sodden covers
Palpitating with a certain accord to the pink

Little curvy woman
Blessed with a derriere so bountiful
Juggled by the sway of your hips
Lay me on your altar of euphoria
Pierce me with the dagger of your eyes
Cleanse me with the taste of your lips

Even as the furnance that is my loins burns
Erecting the tower that is this meat
Babel reaching for the stars inside the slit
Veins filling the shaft with venom
Don’t cool it down for no remonstrance

Despite the flush of my cheeks
Teach me the ways of your castle
That I may lay my life down to defend
Be my Delilah, this strength I give away
This hair, eat away

Daughter of gods
Let me adjusting the bra that contours your bust
Let me take you from behind
Not like the dog I am, but a god
Let me into your infinite wetness
Across the waves of your ocean
Animate my desire in your well of creation

Impale me with your long sharp one
Bruises deep burgundy like fine wine
The colors you place onto my body
Soothen it with your warm wet tongue
And the littl whispers down my ear

Allow me to abseil those twin peaks
So I embrace their dark tipped cupolas
Grinding and winding down like an funambulist
Let me overturn your mound
Tending the sweet spot. Of pleasure
Tendrils convulsing the cradle that is your body
Hold on tight, this is us.No names, just pleasure

lovulets- Love and rivulets…

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I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
In the desert, where love wasn’t supposed to grow
Pinch sleep out of me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
Underneath the peeble by the river
Talk some sense to me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
As the bra and the panties hit the bedroom floor
Won’t you just pray for me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
Under the moonlight as she lit up to make clouds
And then she passed to me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
One knock on her one room door
And the eyes locked it up

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
Stood up
She picked the flower and gave to me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
At the hostel sinks
She sprinkled water at me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
It was handed to me
Mean guy shouldn’t have left her with me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
A jacket away
And she was truly the one for me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
Right in front of me
Remind me where it was supposed to be

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[#UGBlogWeek Day 2]: Life is the biggest School.

Imagine if you’d never enrolled into School? Where would you be now? What would you be?
Do you ever look back, and deliberate; hear you think, ‘School made me no better!
No better than you come. Than you are.

Yes, they woke us up at 5am in the morning to prepare for School, yes we peed in our pants and on the beds at Siesta time. We were young.
Alright, homework exhausted us so much. Only the dog would be happy with our homework. For reasons it never told me.
I know we saw neither sunrise, for it’d find us at school; nor sunset, for we’d be fast asleep after a smacking from the Mum or the maid to sleep after school.
I know we never ate breakfast properly for we had to rush to beat traffic jam. I know we never beat the traffic jam either way even. It wasn’t fair.

But I also know School helped us learn quickly, grasp every life hack, make friends, enhance our vocabulary. It helped us learn how to relate, socialise and most importantly how to play.
Up and down, on the See-Saw we played, round and round the Hoopla kissed our hips, we swung back and forth on that swing like Tarzan.
And then the bouncing castles, Lego, ballet and mostly the Tyre. Many a boy enjoyed that Moto GP like one-wheeler with sticks as handles and cow dung as grease, as fuel, as oil. You wouldn’t want to hit a pothole lest you swallow shit.

Imagine you hadn’t gone to School, not like home tutored but never stepped into school, never to be taught a thing. Who would you be? What would you be? I can’t imagine that.

I know School came with Kiboko (canes) as we grew up, with teachers drowning their sorrows on our sorry buttocks. It wasn’t fair, we didn’t deserve that smacking. Did we? I mean they could have talked to us nicely and we’d have hid their call.
That’s the biggest lie we told ourselves and continue to. Spare the rod and spoil the child.
And you know some of us came in all types, Naughty, Mild Naughty, Super Naughty and Possessed Naughty.
For us the latter, they had to exorcise those demons at whatever cost. They occasionally told me not to take it personal, they were not giving me a beating at that; but the devil inside.
And school had the most complicated, rather dedicated human beings; for that, spanking little children.

Amid the canes, the numerous books to read, the growing up, sibling fights and the hate towards the opposite sex.
School wasn’t bad. It was fun, well except when made to sit between two girls as a boy or the other way round; it was fun regardless.
We are a product of nature and nurture and the years before the moment we join Secondary School, determine the School you go to.
Generalisations are never wrong, people with the same traits tend to cocoon together. See even birds of the same feather flock together.

Now kids with the same number of canes consumed in elementary school, find themselves in the same school. You passed or you didn’t. You were caned or you weren’t. There is always a correlation there somewhere. So be happy you were caned straight into Gayaza, Ntare, Smack and all the traditional schools and that childhood friend found herself caressed into Hillside, Taibah, the Kitendes and International Schools out there. Traditional schools always enrolled those with the most cane medals. Again, generalizations.

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School becomes an open book. The book becomes life. And you start learning. And learn you do.
Life begins taking shape and your body too, the school fuses its values, culture into you. And you fuse the rest into you. Curiosity, adventure fueled by a transforming body and developing emotions lead you to a path. Hormones open up multiple paths.
You write your first love letter, you get your first kiss perhaps. Numerous heartbreaks and multiple hard-ons.
You begin making discoveries, you’re like the Pilgrim Fathers at this point. Your dick can spit, your clit can swell, and you get your first goose bumps, the goose bumps that come with hardened nipples and strange sensations, you’ve growing.

You begin metamorphosing and your school is the hammer that shapes your sword.
Depending on what school, you become something, head of this club; president of the other. Interact Club, Rotaract Club, Scouts and Guides and all.
You become something, some pick and choose who to be, what to identify as at this stage. You feel like the Alchemist, you get your nature mix with your nurture shake hard and find out the PH value.
You start liking girls, much as you are a girl too. And more girls in your school love girls too. Your school gets an Identity, as the Girl on Girl School.
Your school isn’t making you any better, and you aren’t making your school any better. Or any worse at that. You are just a product of circumstances.

You are who you are, more like who you want to be and what you have become. But it’s who you are, who you’ve discovered yourself to be. And your school has aided you in a way or the other. The exposure you’ve got isn’t the same as that others have got.
The first principles of Adult life are instilled and cemented in High School, College. You put meaning to who you are. You start learning what you are.
Are you a boy smooth with girls? A girl who loves the company of boys? Are you a loner? Introvert, extrovert? This, that?

Vacation comes in time to deny you some things and to increase your thirst for the very things and more.
Vacation balances the Demand and Supply curve. Vacation points you to one place, adulthood.

University. Nothing much goes on here in terms of learning, it’s the dormant stage in terms of Life as the biggest school that’s ever been.
You’re either too broke to chase what you want, or too busy to chase what you want.
You might party here, have fun there, and get born gain, but little changes about you. You learn nothing. It’s the John Snow stage of life.
You are already in the baby stages of Adulthood and Adults never learn. They live more and learn less.
School is as good as done soon as you graduate. On that day you look back cry for some as you give that speech, cut cake and possibly say; School made me no better, and this, my first degree is the end of School.

Life starts after you wear that gown. Work, Bills, Expectations, Aging and Deaths. Life.

UgBloc

[#UGBlogWeek Day 1]: It all starts in Kindergarten…

The theme for these 7 days of blogging as a Ugandan Community, is/will be ‘Schools made us no better‘. We shall embark on this journey of What did we Learn? What did we enjoy? Sit tight, belt up and buy a helmet too.


Three years, pronounced as phi-ri, si-ri or phu-ree depending on where you were born, how you were raised or if your maid could construct an English sentence.

Three years, that’s exactly one year after you’ve left that succulent breast. When you’ve stopped wetting your pants, have started seeing the potty as that for babies.

Probably your Parents have birthed one more youngling and you love it, it’s so young and cute, so adorable. Or you don’t you pinch it.

 

Three years is when you start waking up at 5:30am, eyes closed. Shower, eyes closed. Feed, eyes closed. Dressed, eyes closed and tossed into the back of the car. Guess what, still eyes closed.

You wake up at the gate of your School Office as Pa or Ma continues to Work Office or back to Home Office.

Three years is when you start waking up at 6:00am, eyes closed. You bathe cold water, eyes wide open. Or sometimes when Ma remembered to keep hot water in the flask, that’s if you have; a bit warm water is what you bathe, eyes closed.

Soon your eyes are very much wide open, you have to sit and feed as your Ma prepares your siblings too.

Also the noise your siblings are making, can’t spare you.

You begin the walk to school, hands help by your big sister; adoringly running behind her to keep up with the pace, or occasionally carried like the baby you are.

Ma sees you off till you close that dangerous Death Valley, those dark bushes. Sweater or no sweater, whatever. The good parents can’t afford, but love you.

And your day, your life as a School Children starts. Welcome to School Jail.

 

For me it was around 22 years ago, in a nursery school called Kindergarten. It had a name but I forgot its name. I’ll check my report cards. And I still have all my report cards, with me in a folder at my place in the bedroom.

I don’t remember much but I know I had shoes, and a new red sweater and a kabooni, a small container. I can’t tell whether my siblings had what I had though. But from stories, I’ve grown up to hear, they walked on foot sometimes. Not because they didn’t possess shoes, but because Sunday Best, also because most of the other kids didn’t own a pair.

We weren’t the Cool Kids, but we had caring parents.

 

I was young, adorable, naughty, sweet and playful. None has changed really, apart from age perhaps.

I had a friend called Marvin, he was my good good friend, but sometimes he didn’t share his bicycle. But his Mum loved me and that was good enough to make us friends, brothers at that.

Marvin, the Marvin Rukanga was in Middle Class as he was slightly older and bigger than me. I was in Baby Class. At break time, I always went to check on him. And they say i was bright, so the middle class teacher who loved me like, well like love love love was like I could study with Middle kids, and I did.

 

One morning as I was migrating from Baby to Middle Class, a girl; whose name or form i can’t remember stopped me, blocked my path and later the door to class. See she was big, bigger than all the girls her age.

I might forget her name, but I will never forget her bloody nose. Little me punched big girl in the face and big girl saw stars and a little red. She nose-bled. She cried, I thought rather had a feeling that big girls didn’t cry unless their hearts were breaking. And her heart hadn’t been punched, just her nose; I even doubt she had a heart.

 

The whole school, Baby Middle Top was paralyzed, news reached the staffroom; since it was break-time and all staff was having tea with Hotloaf buns as we ate whatever we had packed in our little containers.

An Assembly was called, the whole school assembled right there and little me and the crying girl in front, she was sobbing like she’d lost her purse with her Campus tuition and salon money in it.

I almost felt pity for her, almost walked to her to rub the little tears from her eyes, only that I had earlier gifted my ka small handkerchief to another girl who’d puked all her break.

 

A small argument broke out, my Baby Class teacher, the Middle Class teacher were on the Opposers side, the Headmistress on the proposers side.

Motion: Amanya beat this Girl.

My teachers thought I was Angel reincarnated, my Headmistress thought I was Dracula Reloaded.

And I had no Amicus Curiae, so Ma’am Headmistress with her closing statement, “If he didn’t beat her, who did, did the nose punch itself, or did we admit ghosts?”

 

The Sentence wasn’t passed, but the verdict was clear. And I felt the sentence drip down my pants, warm at first and very cold later. It was full of shame too, and a beating heart. Madam Headmistress had given me the slap of my life, and everyone was laughing at me like the sucker I was. I could swear that Ma’am Headmistress had overnight turned Slapmistress.

 

The guilt, the shame, the pity and the wetness, the betray and the lost trust. And that wet patch.

That was my higlight of my Nursery School Experience. And since then, I’ve never laid a finger, rather a hand on a girl. The finger I’ve laid ofcourse, but that’s a story for another time.

That’s how I became a Women’s Rights Activist bordering on Feminist.


School made me no better in becoming better, but I sure made School better for my friends.

UgBloc

I don’t want to want.

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Abraham: The Noun Project.

I want to stop wanting. I want to stop saying I want to do this, I want to do that.
I want to stop thinking I want to go here, I want to see this. I want to feel that.
I want to stop dreaming. I want to experience things, live some kind of life.
I want to stop wishing. Wash away the ifs, the maybes and the could have beens.
I just want to stop wanting.

You realise I’m still wanting as I’ve used ‘wanting’ twice minus this and ‘want’ thirteen times, plus this, with more to come.
I need to stop that and start living. Then I can say I have done this, seen this, and lived that.

Every night I close my eyes, my perfect life starts, dreams upon dreams, all nice and sweet.
There isn’t a night a nightmare has lingered around. It’s been a decade and counting.
Life is perfect, with my eyes shut. I want perfect with my eyes open as well.
There we are again, with wants; which are very well known to be insatiable. A bottomless pit.

We can want, we can crave, we can desire. We can choose to feed our needs or we can let them starve.
It won’t kill us, it won’t maim us. It passes, and normal prevails.
Normal prevails! No, that’s the winds that are procrastination and escapism.
It’s comfortable, it doesn’t itch, and neither does it hurt. That’s the normal.
But when it passes, when it all passes you by, that’s when you wake up.
That’s when you realise that wanting, and not experiencing isn’t living.
That’s when you get to know your normal is wanting and wanting isn’t enough.

It’s the normal that I’m fighting with, that normal, my normal.
My normal is a liar, my normal is a cheat. It’s the ugly devil in disguise.
My normal feels procrastination is the safest zone. Stall until it’s alarmingly close.
Stall until it’s about too late, and then, pass. “You can’t do it, it’s too late now.”
My normal thinks silence is the best cure, the best revenge, the harbinger of time.
They say time heals, right? If time heals, then silence feeds time.
Shut out everything deafening and let the tide pass, for with time it passes.

The life we ought to live isn’t in the shelter, it’s the tide.
Either you wet your hair, soil your hands and tighten your sails.
Or cower and lament after, wish upon the horses and want what you can’t get.
Watch as others build empires and wonder if they serve a different God.
You start questioning your destiny, your luck and everything around you.
You drown, for the storm knows no shelter, as you never learnt to navigate the tide.
Water through your nose, water in your lungs, you fill up.
You either realise you are dying and fight, or give up and sink.
The beauty about life is there’s always a saviour at the shore, waiting.
Family, Jesus, stranger or friend. You won’t see the saviour but they’ll see you.

I don’t want to first get on that ship to realise I should have done most of the work on land.
I don’t want to regret not having sifted through rubble and dust for the gem that is life.
I don’t want to be reminded I didn’t walk enough on the ground beneath my feet.
I don’t want to chase the moon and the sun when it’s too late.
I don’t want to want. I just want to live. And live I shall.

Dumbballs.

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Has a man approached you, opened his mouth and you’re like WTF? Well it can’t get any more dramatic than;

I recognise you.
Do you pray from Watoto North West?
Have you been to Cafe Javas Kampala Boulevhahad?
Did you audition for Big Brother Africa?
Could it be have been the last Blankets and Wine?
Did you intern with the Parliament?

I have seen you somewhere.
It can’t be Legends, is it?
Do you pray from All Saints on Sundays?
Are you the NTV lady?
The Ascot races, weren’t you in the adjacent tent?
I knew it, the MTN Marathon it is.

I recognise you.
I sat behind you in this High School class.
We are in the same Whatsapp group.
I play ball with your brothers.
We were on the same plane to Qatar.
The WestCoast Gym, I work out from there too.

I’ve met you somewhere.
Oh yes, it’s Iguana.
Is it you I met via Ekisaakate in Bristol?
Wow, I was at your christening, you’ve grown!
Monot Bar, must have been there.

I think I know you.
I don’t know from where.
I just have that feeling.
Nice to bump into you again.
I’m Amanya. You?

Being a man is treading the path to dumbville. Approaching a girl or starting up a conversation is your ticket.
Sometimes you need a pick up line, not a stanza, just a line. Sometimes you need God’s grace.
Some people are always genuine. Other people are sometimes genuine, other times not.
It’s dumb whichever way you look at it. Only that passion numbs dumb.

#UGBlogWeek: Day IV. Freedom of Expression and Go!

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Let me just type away my opinion and go.

Social Media has overtaken the Bar in connecting people of different backgrounds. Not even the Church comes close.
With the bar, #JamrockThursdays:
You’ll make genuine connections, have the best of conversations and for those that do Quiz Nights; learn a thing or two. You’ll get to realise that you really don’t know much and have a lot to learn.
You’ll leave as learned as you’re tipsy. The bar is the perfect connections pot. 🍺🍺🍺
But not all of us frequent the bars in search for the bitter, happiness and one more stranger turned acquitance. 
Comes in Social Media.

I’ll only cover Twitter, Swarm[Foursquare] and Snapchat. The apps or forums I mostly use; apart from this app, WordPress.

Freedom of Expression and Social Media:
We are all given 140 characters, we are free to use them whichever way we want. Shakespeare didn’t invent the alphabet but rearranged the letters he had, to make the wonderful pieces he wrote.
We are to be Shakespeares in our own right or so we are made to believe the moment we get a text field.

With the 140, you write whatever comes to mind, whatever you feel like sharing; rants, observations, opinions, quotes, lyrics🎶, name it.
Be whatever you want to be; Influencer, BOT, troll, sex guru, motivational speaker or even Pablo.

See the thing is you’re free to write anything, you’re free to express yourself. You’ve got that ultimate Freedom of Expression with your precious 140.

And you type away. Say things you believe in, chat with people you want to, drop into people’s mentions, hit their DMs and wherever that leads.

That’s where human behavior comes in. The interactions made aren’t in a Vacuum, they involve other people; followers and followers of followers. Strangers and friends. Many people. Billions of people.

You’ll say things, and you’re totally free to say anything considering it’s with in the acceptable limits. *Leave Jews out of this. And don’t exploit minors.
Sad we never read the EULAs and the Terms and Conditions of any app/platform.

Then one day you say something you believe in, anything and you’re castigated by other people that don’t think or believe the same. Funny enough, they expect you to believe and accept what they say on the other hand.

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You’re homophobic and you’re branded an animal for that. But you strongly believe homosexuality is wrong. You were raised to believe so, your mum is a Catholic Nun, so…
They are homosexual and they believe it’s right. Love knows no barriers and everyone chooses to identify as whoever they want! 
And they want you to accept their beliefs, ditch yours and take up their beliefs. And you can’t say what you believe, only what they believe. Freedoms impinging on other Freedoms.

You’re a feminist and believe anyone who points out issues contrary to what you believe, is better off in hell and not in your mentions. If you think women should kneel, you’re less of a woman, self-defeating and saying things to please men. Much as you believe in equality, you’re the enemy, and deserve no seat at the table of womyn. “And don’t say another word, because you lack, intellectually.” You’re muted.

You believe your Soccer Team has the best manager, the best stadium, the best players and the best loos and whoever thinks otherwise should trip and fall out of your mentions. Or kindly see themselves out.

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You embark on the furnace journey to modor, you light a fire in your kiln and dish out blocks, you block this one and block the other. You unfollow and mute. But while doing this you don’t ever realize that another person could be doing exactly the same to you and others. And if each one blocked one. There would be no Social Media, that’d be more of Anti-Social Media.

You think that no one should have a right to be a fashionista, if they don’t have a DSLR Camera and a YouTube Channel. That their opinion and fashion sense is lacking if their Instagram has compact camera and android phone pics.

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You don’t realise that whatever story you choose to share on your snapchat, you’re free. Those cinema stories, the laptop series you’re watching, the sermons, voice notes and the stale jokes.
That whichever filter you choose. You have that freedom to express yourself, embrace it. And no one should set the standards and expect you to tag along.

That there’s Freedom of Expression and 7 billion people can’t have the same values, same views and the same lifestyle? You don’t get that.

Well, be yourself, share what you feel and mind no one. I know we all live for attention and those notifications we crave. It’s normal, it’s human. Share your posts and go.
Embrace the little freedom of expression you have.

Don’t self-censure, the government hates competition.

#UGBlogWeek: Day III. Freedom of Expression.

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Day 3 of the Freedom of Expression theme week. Well, my second post but more will be flowing in on a single day.
The last from the government viewpoint.

“Rights and Freedoms are inherent and not granted by the State”. By respecting and promoting the freedoms, the State is merely fulfilling its constitutional obligation and not doing anyone a favor.
The State shouldn’t hold citizens hostage with claims it “brought peace”, “brought back rights”. That is, if the State respects its citizenry.

Is Freedom an absolute concept? Or can it be relative and subjective?
Is it an all or nothing arrangement? You’re either free or you’re not, is it?

Freedom is not absolute. It is a relative and subjective concept. Freedom cannot be measured, the degree to which a person is or is not free can only be determined through comparison and that comparison is completely subjective.

Freedom is also a diverse concept. It can be applied to personal, social, political, economic, academic, and religious spheres. A violation in one or more areas does not negate freedoms in the others. Nor does freedom in some spheres excuse violations in others. We can’t look at freedom as black or white, whole or nothing concept.

Does that mean infringements won’t occur at the hands of the very government erected to protect our liberties? Of course not.

Sadly the country I live in, the continent I live in and to an extent the world we live in infringes alot on freedoms.
And my country Uganda has mastered the art of infringing on freedoms and getting away with it scot free.

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Bills have been passed, Acts signed. And the rights of a free man eroded.
Freedom of Expression has suffered the most with a great deal, if not all of the recent Acts of Law curtailing expression in general and dissent in particular

•The Anti-Terrorism Act (2002).
•The Regulation of Interception of Communications Act (2010).
•Uganda Communications Act 2012
•The Public Order Management Act, 2013
All these Acts have limitations on nearly all the Freedoms a Ugandan is meant to enjoy. And heavily infringe on Human Rights.

And incidents of mass abuse of rights have occurred in the light of day, most with impunity.

• In October 2014, Central Broadcasting Services (CBS) radio journalist Ronald Ssembuusi was convicted of criminal defamation over a 2011 story implying a connection between a former Kalangala district chairman and the theft of solar panels that the African Development Bank had donated. Ssembuusi was sentenced to pay a fine of 1 million shillings ($375) within a month, or serve one year in prison.

• Broadcast media regulations issued in March 2014 required all outlets to provide one free hour of prime air time per week to government officials so they could promote government policies and programs; however, the regulations have not been enforced.
Independent journalists and media outlets are often critical of the government, but in recent years they have faced substantial, escalating government restrictions and intimidation, encouraging self-censorship.
Journalists often face harassment or physical attacks by police or ordinary citizens while covering the news. And some are banned from covering certain events.

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• The restrictions on internet access, and online media. Social Media has been shut down, not once but twice in 2016. During the 2016 contested Elections, Social Media and Mobile Money Services were shutdown, effecting an order from the UCC citing security reasons.
It was once more shutdown in May 2016, on the day of the swearing in of the President. A trend that is sweeping through other despotic states in sub saharan Africa.

• The government has reportedly sought to increase surveillance of internet and mobile-phone communications in the context of antiterrorism campaigns, as permitted under the 2002 Antiterrorism Act and the 2010 Regulation of Interception of Communications Act. Under the latter, all mobile-phone users were required to register their SIM cards with the government by August 2013, after which unregistered cards were deactivated.
And earlier the revelations of the Operation Fungua Macho, an operation by security and spy agencies to spy on the prominent opposition figures and the talk of a plan to procure a pornography detection system left the country in disbelief.

• In March, police in eastern Uganda blocked two demonstrations organized by the opposition pushing for electoral reforms. Police claimed the politicians had not sought permission from the inspector general of police, as required under the new law. Eventually the rallies were permitted, but those seeking to protest against the current electoral laws often face unclear procedures and prolonged delays when seeking permissions.

• Former Prime Minister John Patrick Amama Mbabazi a presidential aspirant at the time was stopped from going to Mbale to consult his supporters and detained at Kiira Road Police Station till the sunset when he was released without caution or charge.

• In June 2015, two men were arrested for smuggling two pigs into parliament as a protest against high youth unemployment rates. The two were charged with criminal trespass and conspiracy.

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• In August 2015, police arrested 20 members of the Uganda National Students Association for holding a protest at the Ministry of Education, which police deemed to be an unlawful assembly. The same month, police arrested seven young men in Kampala who were peacefully demonstrating against unemployment.

• The closure of two newspapers and a radio station in 2013 and new ad-hoc policies introduced by the minister of information negatively impacted media’s operating environment. Station managers and journalists report fear of reprisals if programs are highly critical of the government.

• In March 2015, a regional police commander stormed the studios of Guide Radio in Kasese, western Uganda, and stopped a program in which the leader of the opposition Forum for Democratic Change was participating. The police commander claimed to be under orders to stop the program because it was “inciting violence.”

• And there has been frequent break ins into offices of Civil Society Organizations, NGOs and Law firms, with fingers pointing to organised raids from government security operatives.

• Nalufenya, Kasangati, Moroto and Kiira Road Police stations have become infamous for having a negative correlation with liberty.

These and many infringements have been carried on against the Freedoms that the government swears to protect and to uphold. This begs the question.

Is there Freedom of Expression in Uganda?