In a move that combines the diplomatic finesse of a brick through a stained-glass window with the subtlety of a flatulent rhino at a garden party, the Ugandan authorities have seen fit to bar former Kenyan Justice Minister Martha Koome from crossing their border. The official reason? A 'national security concern' so vague it could be used to describe the plot of a Michael Bay film. But we all know the real truth: this is a political game of chess played with live grenades.
Let's rewind. Ms Koome, a woman whose career in law suggests she might have once accidentally prosecuted a cactus for loitering, was apparently deemed too hot to handle by the Kampala regime. She was booted off a plane, presumably before she could distribute any inconvenient leaflets about 'rule of law' or 'human rights' – those dreadfully middle-class concepts that so upset the strongmen of our continent.
Now, I'm no geopolitician. I'm a man who once tried to order a gin and tonic in Mogadishu and ended up negotiating a hostage release. But even I can see this is a spectacular own goal. This isn't just a snub to one woman; it's a diplomatic two-fingered salute to the entire East African Community. It's Kenya and Uganda playing a game of 'my dictator is more dictator than yours', and the only losers are the people who just want to get on with their lives without having their passports treated like confetti at a revolution.
What's the real fear here? That Ms Koome might expose the Ugandan government's latest scheme to silence dissent? That she might remind them that laws exist outside of presidential decrees? Or is it simply that she once beat President Museveni at golf and he's never forgotten the indignity? I suspect the last one. Dictators are notoriously sore losers. I once saw Robert Mugabe cry into his tea after losing a game of Monopoly, and he never spoke to me again.
The irony is positively Shakespearean. A justice minister – a personification of law and order – is denied entry by a regime that has made 'law' a synonym for 'what we say it is'. It's like banning water from a swimming pool. It's like telling oxygen it can't come to the party. It's the kind of bureaucratic absurdity that would make Kafka say, 'Bloody hell, that's a bit much.'
And what of the East African dream? The grand vision of open borders, free trade, and the free movement of people? Well, it looks like that dream has been replaced by a nightmare in which you need a letter of recommendation from God himself to cross a river. This is a setback, yes, but it's also a symptom. It's the sound of regional cooperation crumbling under the weight of petty egos and paranoid security states.
In the end, the only thing more worrying than this incident is the silence. The tepid statements from diplomats who wouldn't call a fire brigade for fear of offending the arsonist. The quiet shuffling of feet as journalists are told to look the other way. But not me. I'm going to shout this from the rooftops, preferably after a few gins. Because if we can't laugh at the madness, we're doomed to be governed by it. And as any decent satirist knows, laughter is the only weapon left when the truth has been kidnapped.
So here's to Ms Koome, wandering the no-man's-land between Entebbe and Nairobi, a symbol of the justice we claim to hold dear but trample on daily. And here's to the East African Community: a beautiful idea with a knife in its back. I'd offer you a drink, but I suspect the border guards have already confiscated it.
