Kasese raid: CDF Gen. Katumba didn’t know, Rugunda was ignored

In a wide-ranging, 5,000-word conversation, former Kasese District Woman MP and opposition stalwart Winnie Kiiza reflects on her political journey, her years in parliament, and the rotating cast of prime ministers she worked with along the way.

From her beginnings as deputy Opposition Whip to her groundbreaking role as Uganda’s first female Leader of the Opposition, Kiiza offers rare, firsthand insight into the country’s legislative inner workings and what it was really like dealing with those at the helm of government business in parliament.

For 15 years—from 2006 to 2021—Kiiza sat across the aisle from some of Uganda’s most powerful leaders. She watched political tides shift, alliances crumble and decisions made that would shape the country’s trajectory for years to come. Through it all, she remained a steady voice for the opposition, rising steadily through its ranks with a combination of grace, grit and unflinching resolve.

Now, in this in-depth Q&A, Kiiza recounts what it meant to serve in an often-hostile political environment, how different prime ministers handled the legislative process, and the unwritten rules that governed the tense dance between opposition and executive power.

This is not just a story about one woman’s political journey—it is a rare window into how Uganda’s parliament operates behind closed doors, how personalities shape policy and how political conviction survives in the face of immense pressure.

Through Kiiza’s reflections, we come face-to-face with the human side of power: the compromise, the conflict, and, at times, the quiet defiance that defines Uganda’s democratic journey.

Which prime minister did you work with during your first term in 2006?

It was Apolo Nsibambi (RIP). He was an excellent timekeeper. He always arrived early—often before the speaker—even for plenary sessions.

He used to say, “I don’t understand how people agree to meet at a particular time and then fail to show up.” We knew him for his punctuality, almost to a fault. During my first term, I served on the Presidential Affairs committee. Whenever we were scheduled to meet the prime minister, he always showed up on time and never delegated.

That alone influenced the rest of us on the committee to keep time whenever we were dealing with him. Nsibambi was more of a civil servant than a politician. Everything with him was about procedure and rules.

Anything outside of that wasn’t his domain—and I think that may be why he chose to retire early. Remember, 2006 was the first parliament under the revived multi-party system. Through it all, Nsibambi stayed pragmatic.

His answers in parliament were precise and concise. He didn’t meander into political rhetoric; he wasn’t trying to impress anyone. He just wanted to be true to himself. The most political thing you’d hear him say was, “As a government, we are in charge.”

How did Nsibambi relate with members of the opposition?

Until his retirement in 2009, Nsibambi had a soft landing for everyone. He was always willing to guide you—something I believe came from his time as a lecturer at Makerere University.

He would tell us, “You’ve come here as a politician, but you must remember there is life after politics.” He was a real civil servant—he simply followed the rules. If there were procedures to be followed, he stuck to them. He also respected his word.

I remember during the early years of multi-party politics, there was a concern about whether opposition members like Gen Mugisha Muntu and Dan Wandera Ogalo would be reappointed to the East African Legislative Assembly (EALA). Despite internal NRM pressure, Nsibambi honored the agreement with the opposition and ensured they went back to EALA.

Another memorable incident was when we raised concerns about the misappropriation of funds meant for Northern Uganda’s redevelopment. Various NGOs had donated money, but some district accounting officers were implementing one activity and submitting the same accountability to multiple donors.

While some NRM members dismissed our claims, Nsibambi took it seriously. He asked us for a detailed report—and he acted on it. Some officials lost their jobs; others were ordered to refund the misused money.

If you had an agreement with Nsibambi, you could trust that something would be done. If he later encountered a roadblock, he’d personally call you and explain why things couldn’t proceed as planned. That level of integrity happened across many issues.

There was also a time I raised a question during the Prime Minister’s Question Time. I wanted to know who was responsible for approving Ugandans for jobs in international institutions like the United Nations.

Were these opportunities open to all Ugandans or only to those aligned with the ruling party?

Later, he called me and said, “My daughter, that question leans too political—I can’t answer it right now.” I asked the same question to his successors, Amama Mbabazi and Ruhakana Rugunda, during their respective tenures. Neither of them gave me an answer.

How did he handle the 2009 Buganda riots?

I believe Nsibambi’s biggest challenge at the time was managing the tension between the central government and the kingdom of Buganda. He understood Buganda’s historical and political importance and recognized that the kingdom had a legitimate role to play in the national conversation.

When the 2009 riots broke out, largely sparked by the government’s decision to block the Kabaka from visiting Kayunga, Nsibambi condemned the violence. But some of us in the opposition quietly wondered whether his strong stance came not only from his role as prime minister, but also because he himself was a Muganda.

He found himself at the intersection of loyalty to the state and affinity for his cultural roots—and that could not have been an easy place to stand. At the time, our shadow cabinet appointed Beti Kamya, then minister for Human Rights in the opposition, to handle the matter in parliament.

The riots had drawn a clear line between the ruling NRM and the opposition. It became obvious that Uganda’s political landscape was shifting—and not in a way that someone like Nsibambi, who had been more of a procedural civil servant than a political tactician, was comfortable with.

Personally, I think those riots might have played a role in his decision to retire early. The political gymnastics required to navigate that kind of crisis were a far cry from the rules-based governance he had been used to.

The Buganda riots, for me, felt similar to what we experienced in Kasese in 2016 after the general elections. In 2006, large sections of Buganda voted for Dr Kizza Besigye, the FDC presidential candidate.

That overwhelming support was misconstrued by some to mean that the Kabaka had thrown his weight behind the opposition, which was never explicitly stated. Tensions rose when a new cultural institution was created in Kayunga after the 2006 elections. Suddenly, the Kabaka could not visit that area because the government had installed a rival cultural leader.

That’s where the conflict began. It didn’t come from Buganda—it was bred by the state. Nsibambi was clearly uncomfortable with the whole situation, and many of us in parliament could sense it.

When we went to him to negotiate the release of those arrested during the riots and to push for calm, he was receptive.

He kept reassuring us, saying, “I am in touch with the Head of State, I am in touch with the Kingdom of Buganda, and I’m sure the situation will remain calm.” That’s when he began saying his now-famous phrase, “Of course, we are in charge,” which always followed our persistent questions about whether he truly was.

Even in that role, Nsibambi never pretended to be all-powerful. He understood the layers of authority above him—and I think that’s part of why he stayed laidback during political storms. He had served more comfortably under the single-party system.

With the return of multiparty politics, he found himself needing more political maneuvering than what civil service procedures could offer. That environment wasn’t his natural element, and eventually, I think it overwhelmed him. Still, he did what he could, within his limits. And I believe that’s why he chose to step down when he did—on his own terms, before politics could swallow him whole.

Was Amama the right replacement for Nsibambi?

We began 2010 with a new prime minister—Amama Mbabazi—as the country geared up for the 2011 general elections. At the time, I was serving as chairperson of the Government Assurances committee.

Most of my interactions with him were around unfulfilled government promises. From what I observed, Amama was unapologetically loyal to the regime— strategic, calm and calculated in how he operated.

He had this aura about him. He could have someone arrested without that person even realizing he was behind it. He made MPs feel like he knew each of them more intimately than they knew themselves.

He had a brief on everyone. He would bring up issues about MPs that even their colleagues didn’t know— probably a trait carried over from his days as a security minister. He wielded power subtly but forcefully.

When a vote was looming in parliament, Amama was present to ensure that NRM MPs toed the party line. In that regard, he served his political party very well. But unlike during Nsibambi’s tenure—when parliamentary motions were driven by real policy intent—Amama’s time felt more about political maneuvering.

(On a lighter note) Nsibambi was the kind of leader who sat and shared lunch with MPs. If he sensed tension or controversy, he would come over and ask, “Tell me, what’s the problem?”

He would quietly advise MPs like a father figure. Amama, on the other hand, carried himself with pomp. He was less accessible, more guarded. It often felt like he was reading from a detailed script about every MP. He knew who was going to retain their seat and who wasn’t.

He was hyper-aware of his surroundings— ever the security-conscious strategist.

Which parliamentary motions revealed his political style?

Two moments stand out. After the 2011 swearing-in ceremony, we had to elect Uganda’s representatives to the East African Legislative Assembly (EALA). Traditionally, there was a gentleman’s agreement to ensure all political parties and shades of opinion were represented.

That was how, under Nsibambi’s tenure, both Gen Mugisha Muntu and Dan Wandera Ogalo from FDC were returned to EALA. When Amama took over, we— myself as Chief Opposition Whip and Nandala-Mafabi as Leader of the Opposition—approached him with the same understanding: that all political parties and independents, as shades of opinion in parliament, deserved EALA representation.

FDC requested two slots, while UPC, DP, and JEEMA each requested one. Amama agreed, at least in principle, and said we would reconvene to finalize the arrangement. By that time, FDC had already conducted primaries and selected Anita Among and Augustine Ruzindana as candidates.

But Amama never returned for the follow-up meeting. Behind the scenes, he was striking separate deals with UPC and DP. They forwarded Mukasa Mbidde and [Christopher] Opoka as candidates.

Meanwhile, our meetings were postponed again and again. Suddenly, nomination day arrived, and it was clear—FDC had been sidelined. The rationale they gave was that the opposition had been represented already, since DP and UPC had their candidates, and an independent (Susan Nakawuki) was on the list too.

It was a political ambush. FDC was shut out, and Amama never followed through on the arrangement. Amama’s appointment as Prime Minister was clearly aimed at tightening party control. As NRM’s Secretary General, his loyalty was never in doubt.

In terms of political strategy, he was the perfect choice to entrench the regime. Unsurprisingly, under his watch, the Public Order Management Act and other legislation aimed at consolidating power were championed. He surrounded himself with resources and carried himself with power.

His premiership was defined, in many ways, by the 2011 “Walk to Work” protests over the high cost of living. Opposition MPs and leaders faced brutality under his watch, and Amama didn’t seem bothered.

His stance was that if people didn’t want to be beaten, they shouldn’t protest. That was his attitude—unbothered and unmoved. Later, when we introduced the Citizens’ Compact on Free and Fair Elections in 2012, the NRM was initially involved in negotiations. But Amama ensured that nothing ever came to the table.

His logic was simple: “No political party legislates itself out of power.” And while there’s truth to that, leadership isn’t just about preserving power—it’s also about shaping a legacy. I remember cautioning him during debates on the Public Order Management Act, warning him that one day, the same laws could be used against him.

At the time, he laughed it off. I don’t think he ever imagined being on the outside looking in— until the day it happened.

Did Amama think his presidential ambitions could have a safe landing?

Amama fell on his sword in 2014. It all began when the NRM retreated to Kyankwanzi to choose its presidential candidate for the 2016 elections. That’s when Amama started positioning himself—openly signaling that he wanted to become the party chairman.

It was alleged that he had long been promised that he was next in line after President Museveni. He was reportedly given an “open cheque” on appointments. The president supposedly told him, “Appoint this person, I’ll appoint so-and-so, and you can handle the rest.”

As a result, many ministers owed their loyalty to Amama, believing he was their political benefactor. He projected the illusion of real power, even among his fellow ministers. Perhaps it stemmed from his close personal relationship with the president and his powerful position as NRM secretary General.

He seemed deeply consulted on major decisions, and when he spoke, it often felt like the president was speaking through him. Even during the Temangalo land scandal, when a majority report implicated him in a shady land deal involving public funds and the NSSF, he remained defiant.

The president defended him, and Amama carried himself as if he had nothing to answer for. It was as though he truly believed he was the next commander-in-chief. Tensions began to rise around 2013. By then, everyone knew Amama intended to run for president. Many expected him to resign as prime minister and focus on his campaign—but he didn’t.

Reports circulated that he had started consulting elders and key figures in the security circles. At first, he claimed the president would hand over power to him. But it eventually became clear that wasn’t going to happen. Then came that fateful NRM caucus meeting in Kyankwanzi.

Evelyn Anite, the Northern Youth MP, knelt before the president and begged him to stand as the sole NRM presidential candidate. That moment said it all. Amama’s hopes were dashed. We thought he’d break away and declare an independent bid. But he didn’t. Even more surprising, he signed the sole candidacy petition.

Many of us didn’t expect that. We thought he would say, “Now that the party has chosen a sole candidate, I’ll step aside and launch my own campaign.” But he didn’t. His signature on that petition was the beginning of his political decline.

That was when I realized Amama wasn’t as powerful as we once believed. He shrank before our eyes. When he was arrested in 2015, we reached out to him. At the time, we were floating the idea of a united opposition candidate, and Amama had expressed interest in joining us.

After the TDA (The Democratic Alliance) process didn’t favor him, he launched his own campaign under JPAM. That’s when the state came down hard on him. We visited him during his detention. We didn’t remind him, but we couldn’t help thinking about how, in 2011, he had passionately defended the Public Order Management Act.

He had once said it would never apply to him. But there he was, caught by the very law he helped pass. That’s why I always say: when you legislate, do so for posterity—not just for political expedience. As prime minister, I expected Amama to rise above that kind of petty reasoning.

How was the UPDF deployed to Somalia without parliamentary notification in 2007?

When the opposition raised concerns about the deployment, Nsibambi responded that he had consulted with the Leader of the Opposition, Ogenga Latigo, who had reportedly approved the mission. That was the first time we learned of such a consultation.

Nsibambi later messaged us and admitted he would double-check whether consulting the LOP instead of parliament was the right procedure. To his credit, Ogenga Latigo came clean.

He confirmed that he had indeed given his blessing for the deployment, saying it was in the country’s best interest. But that set a precedent. From then on, the government began deploying troops abroad without necessarily seeking parliamentary approval. Amama complicated matters even more.

He argued that the law only required the government to inform parliament—not to seek its approval—before deploying troops outside the country. The same argument was used when parliament passed resolutions.

He told us, bluntly, that parliamentary resolutions were “advisory,” not binding. According to him, it was up to the executive to decide whether to implement them or not. That’s when Parliament began to lose its authority.

Among all the Prime Ministers I worked with, I believe Amama was the only one who operated with a semblance of real power. But he used that power to entrench the regime—not to strengthen democratic institutions.

What was your experience working with Ruhakana Rugunda?

I honestly thought Ndugu Ruhakana would decline the appointment, especially since his brother-in-arms, Amama Mbabazi, had been publicly humiliated. But he accepted it. When Rugunda came in, he carried himself more like a diplomat than a politician.

He wanted to please everyone—and when you try to please everyone, you usually end up disappointing everyone. It was hard to tell when he meant “yes” or “no.” Every issue brought to him, he promised to “investigate.”

He would say, “You are correct, my brother. You are absolutely right.” Then someone else would come with a conflicting concern, and he’d say, “You are absolutely right,” too. He was reluctant to offend either the government or the opposition.

I became Leader of the Opposition when Rugunda was already prime minister. His appointment, in my view, was meant to appease the people of Kigezi after Amama was pushed out. Museveni was clever in that way—replacing one Mukiga with another so that no one could claim betrayal.

Amama hadn’t yet publicly declared his presidential ambitions, but it was clear he was preparing to. And when the NRM caucus introduced the sole candidature motion, I believe it was really meant to humiliate him.

Let me be clear: Amama’s exit marked the end of a truly powerful prime minister. He believed he could succeed Museveni, and he did everything possible to keep the president in power—perhaps hoping to be rewarded with the top job.

Under his tenure, violence against dissenters intensified. He defended it in parliament. He was directly involved in supervising efforts that targeted civil society—he was there during the rise of Gen [Kale] Kayihura’s clampdowns, the terror of Boda Boda 2010, and the violent response to the 2011 Walk-to-Work protests. He justified it all.

What was the government’s initial response to the 2016 Kasese palace raid?

When I heard that the situation in Kasese was getting tense, I was in Kyenjojo, heading back home. The Omusinga had invited all Kasese MPs to a security meeting between government representatives and district leaders.

The invitation came the night before the raid, and the meeting was scheduled for midday. I called Rugunda to ask what was going on.

He told me, “No, no, no, no, no. It can never happen—not the government I serve in as prime minister. Let me find out and get back to you.” While waiting for his feedback, I also reached out to the then Chief of Defence Forces, Gen Katumba Wamala. I told him about the Omusinga’s meeting and asked what was happening on the ground.

Gen Katumba said he hadn’t been briefed either but promised to check. Rugunda eventually called back and told me, “There is nothing going to happen. Go ahead with your trip. Just tell the Omusinga to remain calm. Let me also try to reach him.”

Whether he did or not, I don’t know. Later, Gen Katumba called to confirm there was indeed a heavy deployment, but he had not been informed of the reason. When we reached Hima in Kasese, Hon [Atkins] Katusabe (MP, Bukonzo West) called to tell us the palace had been set ablaze.

I called Ndugu immediately. He asked if the king was alive. I said yes and told him Omusinga had been taken to the police station. I wasn’t sure whether it was for his protection or if he was being treated as a suspect.

Ndugu told me, “Run to the police. I want to speak with the king. Take him to Margherita Hotel—I’ll foot the bill and ensure his safety.” But when I got to the station, the officers said he couldn’t speak to the king. Even the police commissioners referred me to Kayihura’s personal assistant, Baroza, who said he wouldn’t take the Prime Minister’s call.

That’s when I realised the truth—my Prime Minister had no real power. He had simply been used to defuse tensions in Kigezi after Amama’s ouster. I looked at Rugunda and saw someone completely helpless. In contrast, Amama had the full backing of the president.

When we tried to censure him over the Temangalo scandal, President Museveni personally rallied support for a minority report to block it. Amama stayed in office because the president wanted him there.

Among all three Prime Ministers I worked with, only Amama wielded actual power.

How did the negotiations for the Omusinga’s release play out?

By the time we tried to negotiate for the King’s release, it was clear the prime minister had no power. Any real decisions were made by the President. That’s why, in December 2016, I joined area MPs, religious leaders, local government representatives, and members of the Kasese community to meet with President Museveni directly.

We had no choice. First, the raid on the palace had happened without the Prime Minister’s knowledge—even though he sometimes chairs cabinet meetings. Second, when a senior police officer refuses to talk to the Prime Minister, that tells you everything you need to know about who is really in charge.

What’s your take on Nabbanja’s post-2021 tenure?

She entered Parliament in 2011 with an RDC’s mindset—defending government on all fronts. I first encountered her seriously during the 2012 district woman MP by-election in Kasese, where I was a candidate. I can confess, she’s a mobiliser.

But when she became prime minister, she came into a system that had already been hollowed out. There was little left for her to do. Her appointment was Museveni’s way of showing that anyone could be prime minister. She had allegedly threatened to rally her people against the NRM if she wasn’t given a serious role. So, she was made commissioner of parliament, then minister, and eventually prime minister.

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