Vanishing Voices: The Disappearance of Arnold Mukose and the Price of Digital Freedom in Uganda

By PATRICK JARAMOGI

KAMPALA, Uganda March 31 [SHIFTMEDIA] On an ordinary morning in Kampala, a radio conversation about law, rights, and digital expression took a dark and deeply unsettling turn. What began as a civic discussion on the implications of a landmark court decision has now spiraled into a troubling human story—one that raises urgent questions about the rule of law, freedom of expression, and the growing climate of fear in Uganda’s digital space.

Arnold Mukose, Program Director at Digi Talk, is not a man unfamiliar with public discourse. Known among media and digital rights circles for his advocacy, Mukose had just appeared on Metro FM, where he spoke candidly about a recent Constitutional Court ruling that shook Uganda’s legal landscape. The court had nullified key provisions of the Computer Misuse Act—a law long criticized by activists, journalists, and civil society actors for curbing free expression.

Mukose’s “offense,” it now appears, was expressing excitement about that very ruling.

According to accounts from colleagues and his legal representatives, Mukose was abducted shortly after leaving the radio station. Witnesses say he was picked up by individuals believed to be police officers attached to Old Kampala Police Station. What followed was not a formal arrest, but a sequence of events that has since sparked outrage among human rights defenders.

Mukose was reportedly driven to his home, where security operatives conducted a search. The operation, however, was far from procedural. Reports indicate that individuals found at his residence were subjected to physical assault during the search.

 

Afterward, Mukose was taken back to Old Kampala Police Station—but that was not the end of his ordeal.

Human rights lawyer Eron Kiiza has since alleged that Mukose was handed over by police to unidentified military personnel—individuals he described in stark terms as “goons” known for torturing civilians. Since that moment, Mukose’s whereabouts remain unknown.

“He must be produced in court if he has a case to answer,” Kiiza told journalists in Kampala. “We cannot allow a situation where civilians are passed from police custody into the hands of shadowy operatives. That is not law enforcement—that is lawlessness.”

The disappearance of Mukose is not an isolated incident. In the same breath, Kiiza revealed that Norman Tumuhimbise (below)—believed to be the CEO of Digi Talk—is also missing. Security operatives reportedly raided Digi Talk’s premises in what witnesses described as a coordinated operation involving drones—locally infamous for their use in covert abductions.

 

Fearing for his safety, Norman is said to have gone into hiding. His absence only deepens the sense of unease surrounding the case, transforming what might have been dismissed as a singular incident into a broader pattern of intimidation targeting digital rights advocates.

At the heart of this unfolding crisis lies the controversial Computer Misuse Act. Enacted to regulate online behavior, the law has, over the years, been used to prosecute individuals accused of “offensive communication” and other vaguely defined digital offenses. Critics argue that such provisions have been weaponized to silence dissent, particularly on social media platforms where political expression thrives.

The recent Constitutional Court ruling striking down sections of the Act was therefore seen as a victory for free speech—a long-awaited correction in a legal framework that many believed had strayed too far from democratic principles.

For Mukose, who had been directly involved in challenging the law, the decision represented not just a legal win, but a personal vindication. His appearance on Metro FM was meant to unpack that victory for the public, to translate legal jargon into accessible language, and to celebrate what many hoped would mark a new chapter for digital freedom in Uganda.

Instead, it has become the prelude to his disappearance.

As the hours stretch into days without any official communication on his whereabouts, anxiety continues to mount among his colleagues, family, and the wider human rights community. Social media platforms have been flooded with calls for his release, while civil society organizations are demanding accountability from security agencies.

Kiiza has been particularly vocal, not only condemning Mukose’s abduction but also raising alarm over what he describes as a disturbing practice: the transfer of suspects from police custody to military operatives. Such actions, he argues, undermine the very foundation of Uganda’s justice system.

“If there is a case against Arnold or Norman, let it be handled in the open, in accordance with the law,” he insisted. “Summon them. Charge them. Produce them before a competent court. But do not subject them to torture in the shadows.”

The Uganda Police Force has yet to issue a comprehensive statement addressing these allegations. Silence, in this context, has only fueled speculation and fear.

For many Ugandans, the case strikes a deeply personal chord. In an era where smartphones and social media have become essential tools of expression, the boundaries of what can be said—and the consequences for saying it—remain dangerously unclear.

Mukose’s story is not just about one man. It is about the fragile space in which Ugandans navigate their rights, the risks that come with speaking out, and the uncertain line between lawful enforcement and abuse of power.

As dusk falls over Kampala, the questions linger. Where is Arnold Mukose? Where is Norman? And perhaps most importantly—what does their disappearance say about the state of freedom in Uganda today?

Until answers emerge, their silence will continue to echo louder than any words spoken on radio.