As secretary general, he is responsible for many of the day-to-day activities of NUP. And being the party that the state loves to hate, you never know what is going to happen. Things can get out of control very fast and without warning. For two days recently, The Observer shadowed Rubongoya to witness first-hand how his typical day looks like.
The day started at his Kavule office and ended there. Rubongoya says his day starts anywhere between 4 am and 5 am with phone calls.
“It’s very easy to get me around that time, but after 7 am, I get so many phone calls that sometimes I end up not picking,” Rubongoya says.
Because of the so many phone calls and perhaps as a security measure [WhatsApp calls are generally more secure], Rubongoya takes few direct calls. In fact, there is a code he sometimes puts in his phone that does not allow direct calls to filter through, in order to not disrupt WhatsApp calls.
But he receives a notification that someone was trying to call him. So, those he deems important, he calls back. Rubongoya says about 80 per cent of all calls are from people requesting for financial support – mostly victims of state repression, and party leaders across the country. About 10% are politicians eyeing seats in the next election.
About 5% of the calls come from those who want to go abroad – mostly those living in fear for their involvement with NUP politics. According to him, it is only about 5% who call him for other matters critical to their cause. This kind of breakdown is not different from the people who seek to see him physically.
On the two days The Observer followed Rubongoya around, his secretary had already scheduled more than ten appointments by 9 am. There are groups of young people who want to emigrate to Western countries, looking for recommendation letters supporting their asylum applications. I ask him what he does with these many young people seeking to leave the country. Rubongoya says they have a process of verifying those seeking these letters.
“You really must have been part of us and have a genuine threat to your life. If you are not, we won’t recommend you,” Rubongoya says.
He, nonetheless, admits that this is one of the most difficult things to do as a party.
“On one hand, we still have a lot of work to do here that needs everybody’s contribution. But on the other hand, you know for a fact that if some of these people don’t leave, you are endangering their lives especially when we have people who have spent four years in prison and others who have paid the ultimate price. Almost every week, there are new NUP supporters being abducted and tortured. So, if someone has secured their visa and wish to apply for asylum, you may have to recommend them,” Rubongoya says.
In his office, Rubongoya meets different people with different concerns. Students from universities seeking party financial support to field candidates, other political party leaders seeking to have political cooperation with NUP, prospective candidates for political positions badmouthing their opponents, suppliers of political party regalia, journalists looking for comments arising from statements made by officials from the ruling party, among others.
Although Rubongoya limits phone calls, those he receives are quite many and I was able to listen in on the kind of conversations he has.
“Hello SG, my name is…they haven’t sent money for the school fees for this term,” one caller who was injured during the chaos in the 2018 Arua by-election says on phone.
Rubongoya promises they will send. Two minutes later, another caller from Kitalya prison in Katabi calls to say that the human rights lawyer from the party had not visited him, despite promises. Immediately, Rubongoya calls the lawyer and grills him on why he has not visited this prisoner who was arrested when he was demonstrating during the Non-Aligned Movement summit in Kampala.
“Hello SG, the court hearing has ended, the state attorney didn’t come; so, the matter has been adjourned but we are stranded, we need transport back to Kampala.”
On the call was one of those attending the High court at Gulu in a case filed against the people accused of allegedly stoning President Yoweri Kaguta Museveni’s car in the infamous Arua by-election.
“Hello, Counsel, I was able to raise part of the school fees for the kid at university, but I’m left with Shs 1.2 million and also Shs 750,000 for the other kid. I need assistance,” a wife of one of the 18 NUP missing persons, calls. “Currently, we don’t have money, but let Shifrah organise to send you Shs 500,000,” Rubongoya tells the woman. Shifrah is the welfare officer who regularly keeps in touch with the families of victims.
Political prisoners are a big part of Rubongoya’s daily drill. When he is not in court, he is trying to mobilize resources for bail or visiting the different prisons across the country. In a month, he can visit up to six times. He is now known to many prisons warders many of whom are really happy to see him.
On the two days I shadowed him, he visited Murchison Bay and the Women prison, both at Luzira. On the first day, the journey aborts because it rains hard and long, yet Uganda Prisons Service’s standing orders prohibit visits while it is raining. The following day, Thursday, he visits again; there is an urgent matter to solve.
A prisoner named Saanya (real name Muhuydin Kakooza), the guy who usually shouts his protests during the Court Martial hearings, has been broken. The close-to-four years Saanya has spent in prison have taught him that belligerence against the Court Martial might not be the best way of ever getting back his freedom.
State operatives have asked him to admit guilt and in return be given a light sentence and then be released. Like the other prisoners, the state has promised that if they plead guilty, they will be given money, houses and security upon release.
The problem is, Kakooza now has to accuse Bobi Wine of profiteering from their misery. In recordings taken by Presidential Advisor Full Figure [Jennifer Nakanguubi], Saanya even apologizes for being misled by Kyagulanyi. Unfortunately for Saanya, these confessions have not yielded a quick return.
The Court Martial is still taking its sweet time, leaving his sustenance in balance. See, NUP had put the prisoners on monthly stipends and also made sure that they were not short on supplies such as food, sugar, soap and other necessities that the Prisons system does not provide. So, Saanya wanted to “clear his name” because he had been misled into admitting guilt. Rubongoya listens patiently to his about-turn.
“I would understand if you wanted to just make a deal with the regime to get out of prison. We advise against it because you cannot trust the Museveni regime, but as human beings; we understand the frustration and desperation. But why not be like your other colleagues? Have you heard them mudslinging the president?” Rubongoya says, referring to Kyagulanyi.
He tells Saanya that if he wants to change his plea, he should do so without telling lies and trying to undermine the party which has done everything to support them with lawyers and other needs.
At this point, three people among the many NUP political prisoners have changed their pleas to guilty after being promised a better life. The other two, tell Rubongoya that they are just tired of prison. Close to four years on remand has taken a toll on many of them. [Since that visit, the number of those who have capitulated and are pleading guilty has now increased to 17.]
OLIVIA LUTAAYA
Leaving the men’s side, Rubongoya then visits the now famous Olivia Lutaaya; the sole woman NUP political prisoner still at the Women’s prison. The first thing she tells Rubongoya is that she is tired and confused.
“I don’t know what to do anymore; people have come to me and asked me to plead guilty and also implicate the president. They have promised to release me and also help me financially. I’m tired of prison,” Lutaaya tells Rubongoya. She has also spent four years on remand.
“There is nothing as hard as being a prisoner on remand; you are here without knowing what is going to happen next; you would rather they sentence you and you know how long you are going to be here,” Lutaaya says.
In response, Rubongoya tells her they trust she will do the right thing. Her only crime was to publicly show support for Kyagulanyi. At Luzira, we also find Patricia Katanga, one of the daughters of the now infamous Kantagas. She has come to see her mother Molly, who is also on remand, accused of killing her husband last November.
Unlike the other guests who see prisoners from the office of the deputy officer in charge, Patricia is allowed to go through the prison wards gate. We refrain from asking why, because we are just here as any other visitor, not journalists. After about 30 minutes, Rubongoya leaves, but not after reassuring Lutaaya of the unwavering support from the party and promising that although he was leaving some money on her account, her monthly stipend would also come.
The party also looks after the families of most of these prisoners in many ways, including paying school fees. While he drives back to office now at around 3 pm, Rubongoya receives another phone call. This time from a relative of one of the boys arrested when Kyagulanyi was in Bulindo.
They were looking for money to pay surety for him to be released on bail; it was less by Shs 150,000. Rubongoya asks his assistant to call the party accountant and ask him to find the money for them. At office, no sooner has he alighted than a man in his 40s approaches him to ask for assistance to join Law Development Centre for his one-year bar course. He needs Shs 2m to start studying. He is a boda boda rider who has been an active party supporter escorting Kyagulanyi to many places.
“How do you manage all these financial needs for all these people?” I ask him. At the risk of appearing insensitive, I also ask him why the party feels obligated to help such people and particularly those in prison?
“We would really be bad people if we abandoned them in their worst moment. We know these guys personally; many of them were arrested during party activities; surely, that is the least we can do to support them,” Rubongoya says.
In addition, he explains that if people are injured or arrested and they are not helped, that decreases the morale of other activists and supporters.
“That is the strategy of the state. By engaging in all these arrests and abductions, the state firstly wants to keep us very busy on welfare and court issues instead of concentrating on more strategic matters. Secondly, they want to discourage participation.”
Because of the amount of work involved with these victims, NUP has a welfare officer, a human rights officer and a lawyer who all sit at the headquarters, in addition to other lawyers who do not sit at the party offices.
Rubongoya explains that NUP runs under ten departments including mobilisation; organisation and party building; election management; policy and research; legal and human rights; training and leadership development; arts, culture and sports; diaspora and international relations, etc.
He supervises the heads of these departments. On other days, he has to attend meetings and conferences outside the office, and at times he has to go upcountry and visit NUP leaders in different places. I ask if he gets time for his family.
“Yes, but not so much time. At times you have to leave home early morning before children wake up and return much later in the night when they’re asleep. But this is what it takes. You must be willing to sacrifice.”
One of his greatest regrets is that he paused his PhD studies in 2018 because of the demands of this work.
“It was always my dream to get my PhD by 35, but I had to pause it and first concentrate on this work.”
Does he envisage a role in competitive politics?
“It is something we are still discussing with colleagues and you will know when a decision has been made,” Rubongoya says, before he is interrupted by another phone call, this time from London inquiring about their imminent trip to visit party supporters in the United Kingdom.
“It would be good to take on an elective leadership role firstly to serve the people. Secondly, some leaders tend to think we (party officials) are being hard on them with high expectations simply because we do not occupy elective positions. Maybe it would be good to occupy those roles and set those expectations in practice,” Rubongoya says, reminding me that he took a shot at the East African Legislative Assembly and held numerous student leadership roles while at Makerere University.
His influential role and workaholic nature has earned him enemies. Some have publicly expressed their dislike of him by even casting doubt on his opposition to the NRM, while others continue working clandestinely to undermine him.
“Of course, it sometimes hurts that some comrades lead a charge to discredit you, but this doesn’t stop us from marching forward. You have to keep your eyes on the ball. I have a role to play and as long as I occupy this position, I’ll try to give it my best.”
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