At the heart of Kampala’s ruthless traffic and pulsating city life, boda boda riders weave through streets, dodging potholes, buses and, sometimes, unfair judgment.
For years, they have been painted with a broad brush—as unruly, reckless, even dangerous. To many in the city’s middle-class, boda boda riders are seen as symbols of chaos on two wheels. Few parents openly encourage their children to take it up.
“It’s like they think being a boda boda rider is a curse,” says Simon Masereka, one of Kampala’s most recognisable faces in the industry, based at the Lugogo Shoprite stage.
But behind the stigma lies a different truth
Masereka, who has been in the business since 2018, sits atop his motorbike not just as a rider, but as a witness to the contradictions of city life. He remembers his initiation vividly.
“The first thing my colleagues told me was ‘kwebereramu’—to always be alert and cautious,” he says.
That lesson came painfully into play one day when a well-dressed man hired him for a trip to Nsangi.
“We agreed on Shs 15,000, and he said I should wait and take him back too,” Masereka recalls.
“He was polite, talkative… even clever.” But upon arrival in Nsangi, the client borrowed Masereka’s phone to make a call, stepped into a corridor, and never returned.
“I waited for over 30 minutes before I realised I had been cheated,” Masereka says.
It’s a moment that reveals the vulnerability riders often face—but also the survival instincts they must quickly develop. For Masereka and thousands like him, boda boda riding is more than a job. It’s a lifeline. Many enter the industry out of desperation, especially after failed job searches. Some are university graduates.
“I know riders who are educated, but when you see them now—dirty jackets, loud voices—you wouldn’t believe they ever studied,” he says.
“Each job changes you in some way.”
But it’s not just the grime and noise of the city that shape their behaviour. The mental toll is heavy.
“You wake up with no table money. Your wife looks at you and gets demotivated. You feel useless,” he explains.
“That’s why some riders lash out. It’s not always about being undisciplined—it’s about frustration, pressure, and pain.” Still, the boda boda industry is lucrative for those who manage their income wisely.
Riders who invest in their bikes and track their finances often earn more than salaried workers. But for those who don’t, the hustle becomes an exhausting cycle—one they can’t escape, and which often attracts scrutiny from the public and police alike.
The misconduct of some riders only reinforces public distrust. They are often the first suspects in cases of phone snatching, traffic violations and even mob justice. And with many operating outside formal systems, accountability becomes elusive.
According to Uganda Police’s 2024 annual crime report, 5,144 people died in motorcycle-related incidents—a seven percent increase from 2023. Motorcyclist fatalities alone rose by over 13 percent.
The report also recorded over 7,300 cases of mobile phone theft, many linked to snatching by riders. To tame this growing concern, the government initiated a registration exercise in 2022, supported by the ministry of Works and Transport, which slashed the cost of obtaining a rider’s license from Shs 400,000 to Shs 150,000.
Yet out of an estimated 150,000 riders in the city, only 30,000 registered. The initiative was part of a 2019 resolution by the National Security Committee to better manage and monitor the sector. But the lack of compliance shows just how fragmented and informal the industry remains.
As Uganda edges closer to the 2026 general elections, the boda boda community could again become a political wildcard. In the past, many have been co-opted into political campaigns or used for mobilization, often without protection or recognition.
Without a reliable tracking system or robust leadership, they risk being pulled into murky power plays once again. For Masereka, the future of the industry depends on more than just enforcement. It requires empathy.
“People need to understand what we go through. It’s not always about bad character. Sometimes, it’s just life being hard,” he says.
In a city where boda boda riders are often seen as the problem, Masereka’s story is a reminder: they are also people with stories of struggle, dignity, and perseverance—navigating the traffic not just of roads, but of a society that’s yet to fully see them.
