Flavian Zeija’s November 21 celebration: A spectre on our national conscience

Chief Justice Flavia Zeija

In Rukungiri, three sons of the same soil tell different stories about Uganda.

Flavian Zeija sits at the top of the Judiciary. Kizza Besigye has spent nearly two years in detention, and court proceedings have been marked by denied bail applications and deteriorating health.

Videos and testimonies of a tortured Sam Mugumya are everywhere, and yet his lawyer’s habeas corpus applications continue to fall on deaf ears. On November 21, Zeija will celebrate his first year as Chief Justice in the very district they all call home.

There will be food, singing and thanksgiving. But what does it mean to celebrate the head of the Judiciary while fellow sons of the same soil are caught up in questions about freedom, detention and justice?

A certain hymn has been replaying in my mind recently; it lives in the bones of many Ugandans, but in western Uganda, more intimately. We sing it in churches, at weddings, funerals, and thanksgiving services.

Someone starts, another joins, and soon the whole gathering is singing. Tukutendereza Yesu and particularly the chorus, which is almost all that is sang, *Tukutendereza, Yesu. Yesu oli Mwana gw’endiga; omusaayi gwo gunna zizza, nneebaza Omulokozi. *(Jesus, Lamb of God, your blood has cleansed me; I thank you, my Saviour).

And yes, it’s always sang in Luganda; a Runyankole-Rukiga translated version has just been adopted, but it’s not yet familiar. There is something beautiful about our faith. We gather around one another in joy and sorrow.

When one of our own succeeds, we welcome them home, share food and sing together. But what happens to our faith when the singing ends? What happens to our humanity when we leave the church tent?

Zeija’s journey from Nyarushanje to one of the highest offices in the country is remarkable. Yet public office is more than personal achievement. The Judiciary should be where citizens turn when other institutions fail them; where the ordinary person can demand that the powerful respect the law.

His appointment in January 2026 attracted criticism from sections of the legal profession. His previous service as Principal Judge and Deputy Chief Justice also raised concerns about judicial independence and interference.

These questions matter because his office carries a duty to protect the rights of every Ugandan. In our communities, when one of our own succeeds, we slaughter a goat, cook enough food for everyone and sing until evening. This is part of our African heritage.

Our joy is shared. So should our sorrow. We sit with the bereaved, visit the sick and contribute towards school fees, funerals and weddings. We understand that nobody lives for themselves alone.

Yet we seem to have narrowed this sense of community to family, clan and political allegiance. We welcome the bishops. We stand when politicians arrive. We clap, eat their rice, take pictures and sing Tukutendereza Yesu.

Then we return home and complain about corruption, injustice, police brutality and the disappearance of fellow citizens. We know how to celebrate the powerful. Have we forgotten how to stand with the powerless?

Behind every Sam Mugumya are families waiting for answers. They want to know where their loved ones are, what has happened to them, and whether the institutions meant to protect them will deliver justice.

As Tiondi asks in *House Boy: Who are we? *Who are we when families searching for missing relatives must plead for answers while celebrations proceed without acknowledging their suffering?

Who are we when we condemn injustice in private but applaud the powerful in public? We seem to lack the ability to feel another person’s suffering as a matter of national concern. African consciousness must mean more than wearing traditional clothes, praising our ancestors or speaking proudly about Ubuntu.

It must mean recognising another person’s humanity, even when their suffering is politically inconvenient. A nation is a community too. We cannot claim to value one another while treating the suffering of fellow citizens as somebody else’s problem.

The East African Revival placed repentance and changed lives at the centre of faith. Yet we can sing about being cleansed while refusing to confront the wrongs around us. We can praise God with one breath and excuse injustice with the next.

That is the assault on our national conscience: celebrating public power while ignoring the suffering that should make those entrusted with public responsibility pause and reflect. Zeija’s office belongs to the nation.

Its meaning cannot be separated from whether ordinary Ugandans can trust the Judiciary to protect their rights. This is not about hating Zeija or supporting Besigye and Mugumya. It is about whether every Ugandan’s life, freedom, and dignity matter, regardless of politics.

Otherwise, Tukutendereza Yesu becomes just another song. Our African values become decorations for ceremonies, and our nationalism becomes a performance. It is frightening that we have become comfortable with injustice.

In fact, comfortable enough, singing Tukutendereza while it all happens.

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The writer is a researcher with Agora Center for Research

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