By lilSatoshi13,
Rukungiri
To my people.
To the sons and daughters of Ankole and Mpororo.
To those who still sit in silence while history is written in the blood of others.
I write this not to expose crimes, but to expose contradictions.
I don’t claim purity. But I do claim responsibility.
I was raised here, taught this language, and shaped by this silence.
But I refuse to be quiet while that silence becomes complicity.
Every generation faces a decision. Ours betrayed it.
We watched while others bled.
We tweeted and posted while the nation cracked.
Now the country rots from the top, and we are next in line to inherit the ashes.
Wake up. The mission never left. It’s just waiting.
And time is running out.
Let me start with myself.
A friend I loved cut me off after I spoke out.
Not because I lied. Because I told the truth.
He said, “When the drones come, they don’t just take you. They take your friends.”
That fear is how this regime survives.
But I was done being polite in the face of injustice.
So I chose noise.
We, the Banyankore, need to confront what’s been done in our name.
The state has used our identity not to unite, but to dominate.
The regime wears our accent like armor and hides behind our silence.
While bodies fall in Buganda, Northern Uganda, Karamoja, and here at home,
they speak our tongue and call it stability.
This is not tribalism. It is class warfare.
The comprador elite, parasites in tailored suits,
have worn our tribe like a costume while they loot the nation.
And we let them.
Our silence gave them cover.
Our denial gave them power.
Our fear gave them time.
They don’t represent us. They represent capital.
Look at the so-called “labour export” industry.
While we scrape for scraps at home, our sisters are trafficked to Saudi Arabia and Oman.
They scrub blood off floors, sleep on concrete, and come home in coffins.
Meanwhile, middlemen in Kampala, tied to regime officials, profit from their pain.
This isn’t development. It is modern slavery.
They call it remittances.
We call it shame.
This is what the comprador elite do.
They don’t build the country.
They sell it.
Land. Labour. Loyalty. All up for sale.
They quote Pan-Africanism by day and kneel to imperialism at night.
They invoke the Constitution only when it serves power.
The same Constitution they defiled in 2005 and 2017 to serve one man, not a nation.
And now they govern speech.
They wield the Computer Misuse Act like a digital slave code.
Not to protect society, but to punish thought.
It doesn’t regulate harm. It regulates obedience.
Like the slave codes that once criminalized literacy,
this law punishes the act of knowing — and worse, of saying.
It is not a law. It is a leash.
But their Article 29 still exists.
Freedom of speech. Freedom of conscience.
And when law fails to defend the people, resistance becomes duty.
We are not outnumbered. We are out-organized.
To my fellow Banyankore, at home and abroad, listen:
You fear Muhoozi’s drones.
Fear the anger growing in Kampala’s ghettos.
In Masaka’s streets.
Where boys are being forced to learn Runyankore in his basement.
Where your cousins work themselves into the ground without knowing what’s coming.
You fear arrest.
Fear the Baganda youth already burying their friends.
We didn’t start this fire.
But our silence keeps it burning.
And when it spreads, it won’t ask who you voted for.
It will ask who kept quiet.
Some of you still believe the regime protects you.
It doesn’t. It uses you.
And when it falls — and it will — it will take you with it.
If this letter stings, ask why.
If you feel betrayed, ask who betrayed who first.
If you feel free, prove it. Speak.
I didn’t write this for applause.
I wrote it because I had to.
This is my noise.
What’s yours?
