In Uganda today, it is no longer guaranteed that grief will be met with empathy. Increasingly, when a prominent figure (ruling government) or their relative passes away, the public reaction is not one of mourning, but of mockery, sarcasm, and scorn, often sharpened by political affiliation.

READ MORE

VIDEO: “Chozen Blood’s Ex Came Between Us,” Winnie Nwagi Drops Bombshell

Death, which once united communities in quiet reflection and solidarity, now exposes the raw fractures of a deeply divided nation. In recent weeks, this troubling pattern has once again come to the fore. First, the son of a well-known Ugandan businessman died in a tragic road accident.

Before his family could even process the loss, public commentary turned savage, with many questioning his legacy and celebrating his demise. Shortly thereafter came news of the passing of Cedric Babu, son of former EALA member Captain Francis Babu.

READ MORE

How Single Ugandan Mother of 3 Makes 3M Weekly at Home, This is a Real True Story!

What began as a plea for financial support for a heart transplant in the United Kingdom ended in death, and yet again, ridicule swiftly replaced sympathy. Some on social media openly celebrated the loss. Others weaponized it to criticize his family’s ties to the NRM. Across platforms, many felt no need to pause or reflect; there was only reaction, politicized and brutal.What has become of us as a nation when human loss is no longer sacred? When grief is reserved only for those who are politically convenient? This shift did not happen overnight.

READ MORE

“I Was Star-Struck,” MUK Guild President Churchill Ssentamu Breaks Silence on Museveni Moment

Uganda’s political landscape, marred by decades of state excesses, corruption, economic disparities, and unresolved grievances, has fuelled deep public cynicism. The ruling class is often perceived as having lived above the law, enriching themselves while ordinary citizens struggle daily. It is from this well of frustration that many now draw their bitterness. When the elite suffer, the masses are not moved; some even see it as poetic justice. Yet we must ask ourselves: how far should that bitterness go? Does justice lie in mocking a family at the hour of their greatest pain? Is vengeance by public laughter a substitute for institutional accountability? President Museveni and the First Lady recently issued a public apology, an unusual gesture in Uganda’s political theatre. They asked forgiveness from Ugandan,s especially from the people of Buganda, acknowledging past failures.

It was an act that could have opened the door to national dialogue. But the response, particularly online, was marked by scepticism, even hostility. Many refused to accept the apology, arguing that it was too late. This widespread unwillingness to forgive is not just a rejection of the message, it’s a signal that the wounds of this country run far deeper than words can reach.The holy texts that many Ugandans turn to whether the Bible or the Qur’an offer a consistent message: forgiveness is not just a virtue; it is a necessity for healing. “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy” (Matthew 5:7), and “The servants of the Most Merciful are those who walk upon the earth humbly… and when the ignorant address them harshly, they say words of peace” (Qur’an 25:63).

But today, even these teachings seem distant. Anger has become normalized. Our screens are filled with conflict, our tongues sharpened by despair. Social media has accelerated the decline of empathy. Pseudonymous accounts now drive public discourse. The so-called “digital in-laws” a term coined to describe online critics who act as moral police and courtroom jury simultaneously, have hijacked national mourning. They filter grief through political narratives, ridiculing those they see as oppressors or beneficiaries of the system. Grief is no longer personal. It is public, politicized, and judged .When former South African president F.W. de Klerk died, the reaction was divided but within the discourse, space existed for complexity.

Many criticized his past role in apartheid, but few ridiculed his death. South Africa chose to remember history while still upholding the dignity of death. Uganda could learn from that. Grievance and grace do not have to be mutually exclusive.What this nation needs now is not performative reconciliation or selective compassion. We need a deliberate dehumanization of one another. The healing of Uganda will not come from political speeches, nor from apologies broadcast on national television. It will begin when ordinary citizens reclaim empathy.

When we remember that behind every name trending online is a mother, a widow, a friend burying someone they loved. Forgiveness is not weakness. It is the strength to choose humanity over vengeance. And to forgive does not mean to forget wrongdoing; it means refusing to perpetuate cycles of cruelty that devalue life. Uganda’s future depends not just on political reform, but on moral repair. We must ask: what kind of country are we building, if we cannot even console the bereaved without asking who they voted for? It is time to put down our digital weapons and remember what binds us not as supporters of this or that party, but as people, citizens, neighbours, and fellow mourners on this brief journey through life. Let death remind us of what politics has made us forget: that every life has value, and that the ability to grieve together, even for our adversaries, is the first step in rebuilding a truly compassionate nation.