No bribe, no bike: Boda riders crushed by police extortion
On a typical morning along Kampala road, just opposite the Boulevard building and next to Posta Uganda, the human cost of corruption is on display.
Under the shade of a mango tree, a boda boda rider kneels beside his motorcycle, tears streaking down his dusty cheeks.
“I don’t have a single coin, Afande,” he pleads. “I’ve worked all day, please let me go this once.”
But the traffic officer shakes his head and walks away—only to return moments later with another boda rider in tow. Without a word, the officer chains the first rider’s motorcycle to the door of a nearby police post.
The second rider whispers into the officer’s ear, pulls some cash from his pocket, and discreetly slips it into the officer’s hand. Within seconds, his bike is released. For Uganda’s boda boda riders, this is not an unusual scene.
It’s a quiet but relentless ritual repeated at dozens of intersections across the capital—a daily dance with extortion that has turned traffic enforcement into a shadowy revenue stream. For these men, working to survive in a rapidly urbanizing city, the real road hazard isn’t the traffic. It’s the law.
A SYSTEM BUILT ON SURVIVAL AND FEAR
Boda bodas are the lifeblood of Uganda’s urban transport system. In Kampala alone, these motorcycle taxis move millions of people every day, offering quick, affordable transport through the city’s notorious gridlock. But beneath the convenience lies a fragile and largely informal industry.
Many riders lack proper licensing, registration, helmets, or reflectors—technical violations that, in the eyes of law enforcement, become leverage for quick cash.
“We ride every day knowing we could be stopped at any moment,” says Ssemwogerere, a 34-year-old rider. “And when that happens, don’t argue—just pay what you have or risk losing your bike.”
What should be formal, lawful enforcement has mutated into routine street-level extortion. Instead of issuing tickets or following due process, officers snatch keys—sometimes while the bike is still in motion—then wait for a bribe.
“Once they have your keys, you’re finished,” says Robert Kalyango, a rider in downtown Kampala. “You can beg, but unless you pay, your day is over.”
BUSINESS, NOT JUSTICE
Riders say payments can range from Shs 30,000 to over Shs 100,000 depending on the location, the offense, or simply the mood of the officer.
“This isn’t traffic enforcement. It’s business,” says Dan, another rider who declined to share his full name out of fear of retaliation. “The officers don’t run around. They stand at junctions, wait for their targets, and rake in money. Some of them make over Shs 200,000 a day.”
The extortion peaks during festive seasons when demand for transport and desperation among officers soars. Some riders claim certain officers make up to a million shillings a week from bribes alone. No receipts are given. No paperwork is filed.
There is no record—just the silent transaction between fear and authority. And those who dare to question or report these practices often find themselves targeted.
“If you complain, they’ll come after you,” says Steven Nduga, a rider in Lungujja. “They’ll mark your face and make sure you suffer the next time.” Uganda’s Traffic and Road Safety Act outlines clear procedures for managing traffic violations.
But riders say those procedures are ignored in favor of faster, off-the-books methods that en- rich individuals but erode trust.
“It’s quicker and more profitable to take keys and create panic,” says a legal officer from a local human rights organization.
“They know these riders are living hand-to-mouth. It’s exploitation at its worst.” And it’s systemic. With no receipt or official citation, there is no appeal. The rider cannot challenge the bribe. There’s no hotline that works, no Ombudsman with real teeth.
“We get arrested for riding without helmets during the day,” says Kalyango, “but you’ll see police officers riding without helmets or reflectors themselves. It’s hypocrisy.”
For most boda riders, every shilling counts. On a good day, they may earn Shs 30,000 to Shs 50,000—after deducting fuel and food. “When they take Shs 20,000 or more, they’re not just punishing me,” says Hussein, a 40-year-old father of three from Bweyogerere.
“They’re stealing from my children. That’s school fees, medicine, food.” Hussein recalls one instance where he had to borrow money just to get his motorcycle back after refusing to pay a roadside bribe.
“I didn’t work for two days. I got into debt for two weeks.” Such stories are common. Many riders have been forced off the road entirely, selling their bikes or taking up low-wage jobs simply to escape the stress.
THE INCENTIVE TO EXPLOIT
Experts suggest that low police pay and lack of internal oversight fuel this crisis. With traffic officers earning modest official salaries, informal payments are an irresistible supplement.
“Traffic enforcement has become a shadow economy,” says an anti-corruption researcher in Kampala. “When officers can make more in a day than they do in a month, the system breaks down.” And the public knows it.
The 2020 National Integrity Survey by the Inspectorate of Government and Uganda Bureau of Statistics found that 70 per cent of Ugandans believe the police are the most corrupt institution in the country. Among them, the traffic division ranked worst—with 67 per cent of respondents naming it as a hotbed of bribery.
A 2022 Afrobarometer survey went further: 77 per cent of Ugandans said they believed “most or all police officers” are corrupt— making it one of the least trusted institutions in the country. For those outside the system, these abuses are glaring.
Sharon Nakiwanuka, a hawker in Kiyembe, recalls overhearing a traffic officer speaking loudly in a restaurant.
“He got a call and asked someone which police station the woman was in,” she says. “Then he called again and said, ‘Put me through to the stupid woman who burned a child.’ After a few minutes, he said, ‘Release her.’ Just like that. That’s power.”
Sharon shakes her head. “After that, no one can convince me there’s a clean officer in this country.”
WHAT RIDERS ARE ASKING
For Most boda boda riders are not demanding special treatment. What they want is dignity—and fairness. “If I’m in the wrong, give me a proper fine,” says Kalyango.
“I’ll pay. But stop treating us like criminals.”
Among their demands are:
• Clearly marked and regulated checkpoints
• Receipts for all fines issued
• A centralized, anonymous complaints hotline
• Fair and affordable licensing procedures
• Community-police forums for dialogue and accountability Some local councils have begun collaborating with boda associations to streamline registration and safety training.
But without national policy reform, the culture of extortion continues unchecked.
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