Look, I get it.

You hear “2026 elections” and your immediate response is to check your savings account, stock up on airtime before the inevitable internet shutdown, and mentally prepare for another season of politicians competing for who can say the most unhinged things about gay people on NBS. Your survival instinct isn’t whispering “civic duty.” It’s screaming “STAY HOME. STAY SAFE. STAY OFFLINE.”

And honestly? That’s not irrational. That’s Tuesday in Uganda.

The Political Playbook: A Tragicomedy in Three Acts

This happens every election cycle like clockwork!! A government politician needs to distract from corruption, inflation, or the fact that there’s no water in the pipes again. What’s the solution? “The gays are coming for your children!” Thunderous applause. Standing ovation. Problem solved, at least until next month’s scandal.

Then the opposition politician steps up. They need to prove they’re “electable” and “not too radical” and definitely not one of those Western-influenced troublemakers. So what do they do? “I’m not like those gay-loving Westerners! I’m a real Ugandan!” Concerned murmuring from the crowd, followed by applause. They’ve proven their credentials.

And then, in the final act, both sides come together in beautiful bipartisan harmony to pass laws that literally get us killed. Everyone goes home feeling accomplished. Democracy in action, folks.

We’re not constituents in this play. We’re convenient boogeymen. Political piñatas. The thing you hit when you need points with the crowd. When your entire political strategy depends on having a common enemy, guess who gets volunteered for the role?

The Violence Isn’t Hypothetical

Let’s be extremely clear about why queer Ugandans aren’t exactly rushing to polling stations with civic pride. Elections in Uganda don’t just come with democracy—they come with violence , they come with hate speech that gets amplified like it’s the national sport, broadcast on every radio station and shared in every WhatsApp group until it feels like the entire country is competing for who can say the most creative slur about gays.

Then there are the internet shutdowns. You wake up one morning and suddenly you’re cut off from safety information, from your community, from your emergency contacts. The government flips a switch and you’re alone, navigating a hostile environment without your lifelines. And let’s not forget the armed forces at polling stations, because nothing says “free and fair elections” like wondering if the person with the gun is cool with your existence.

When the options are “risk your safety to vote” or “stay home and survive,” choosing survival isn’t apathy. It’s intelligence. It’s pattern recognition. It’s learning from every election cycle that’s come before.

So Why This Article?

Great question. Honestly, I asked myself the same thing three times while drafting it. Why are we telling people to engage with a system that treats them like target practice? Why are we encouraging participation in a process that’s literally dangerous?

Here’s the uncomfortable truth that keeps us up at night: We’re a constituency whether they like it or not.

Every LGBTQ Ugandan represents a vote. A voice. A citizen who pays taxes—yes, even us imaginary people pay taxes, wild right? The Anti-Homosexuality Act can try to legislate us out of existence, politicians can pretend we’re not real people, but our citizenship isn’t actually up for debate. We’re here. We’ve always been here. We’re not going anywhere.

And here’s the thing about being treated like you don’t exist: the less visible we are, the easier we are to erase. When we disappear from the political process entirely, when we become truly invisible, we stop being even a theoretical concern. We become abstract. Hypothetical. Easy to ignore.

The Audacity of Participation

I’m not going to lie to you with some inspirational poster nonsense about how “your vote is your voice” and “democracy depends on you!” This isn’t that kind of article. This isn’t a feel-good story about the power of civic engagement.

Your vote probably won’t make the Anti-Homosexuality Act disappear. It probably won’t stop politicians from using us as punching bags in their campaign speeches. It definitely won’t prevent the internet shutdown—seriously, stock up on airtime NOW, friends. Learn from history.

But here’s what it might do, and stay with us here because this is where it gets interesting: it might make us a factor they have to consider. When politicians see that queer Ugandans and our allies actually show up—even in hostile conditions, even when it’s dangerous, even when it would be so much easier to stay home—we stop being abstract concepts they can say anything about. We become numbers they have to do math around. We become a constituency that exists in their calculations.

Every registered voter is evidence. Every ballot cast is documentation that we are here, we are citizens, we are not going anywhere no matter what the laws say. And beyond one election, this matters for building infrastructure. Knowing which candidates are least terrible, understanding the process, having networks for sharing information safely—all of this creates foundation for the future. For the next fight. For the long game we’re all playing whether we like it or not.

Okay, But How Do We Do This Without Dying?

Valid concern. Critical concern, actually. So let’s talk about the practical reality of participating in a hostile system while keeping yourself alive, because that’s the actual challenge here.

First, check your voting status now, while there’s still internet. Do you even know if you’re registered? Where your polling station is? Don’t wait until election season chaos begins and the internet is down and everyone is panicking. Handle this boring administrative task now, in the calm before the storm.

Research candidates’ positions quietly. You don’t have to announce it on social media. You don’t have to make yourself a target. But know who’s campaigning on “jail the gays” versus who’s at least not actively trying to kill us. Yes, the bar is that low. Welcome to Uganda. Look through their other issues, is healthcare a priority to them? How about that road in Kasangati that’s taken ages to complete? What are they doing to make this economy bearable or even better? 

And here’s the most important part: safety is the priority, always. If your polling station feels unsafe, don’t go. If the neighborhood is violent, don’t go. If you wake up that morning and something feels wrong, trust your gut and don’t go. Your vote matters, but your life matters infinitely more. There is no participation prize worth dying for.

Consider bringing a friend, or going with allies. There’s strength in numbers. There’s also safety in not looking like you’re alone and vulnerable. And have an emergency plan—know where you can go if things get dangerous, have contacts you can reach when the internet goes down, prepare like you’re going into hostile territory because you might be.

The Punchline (Because This Is Still Uganda)

The bitter irony is that this  article is encouraging political participation in a country where being gay is illegal, where elections are violent, and where every politician treats us like political currency instead of humans. I’m  asking you to engage with a system that fundamentally doesn’t want you to exist.

But you know what’s even more bitter? Letting them win by default.

We’re not asking you to be heroes. We’re not asking you to sacrifice your safety for abstract principles about democracy and civic duty. We’re asking you to consider that our silence, our invisibility, our absence from the political process—that’s exactly what they’re counting on. That’s the easiest possible outcome for them.

So here’s the assignment, and feel free to grade yourself on a curve: Find out your voting status. Know where your candidates stand on issues that matter to you—spoiler alert, most of them are terrible, but some are slightly less terrible and that actually matters in practice. Make a safety plan that accounts for violence, internet shutdowns, and hostile polling stations. And then vote, if you can do it safely.

And if you can’t? That’s okay too. Survival is resistance. Staying alive to fight another day is valid. Protecting yourself is not cowardice, it’s strategy. Not every battle is worth fighting, and you get to decide which risks are worth taking.

But for those who can show up, even in the midst of chaos, violence, and politicians who wish we didn’t exist? Let’s be the constituency they can’t ignore. Let’s be the numbers they have to calculate. Let’s be present in a system that wants us absent.

See you in 2026. Assuming the internet is back on.