### *The Stolen Box: Kampala, 2025*
It was the night before Uganda’s 2025 General Election. The vibrant streets of Kampala were buzzing with the kind of energy only a political season could bring. Posters of presidential candidates were plastered on every available surface, and loudspeakers blasted campaign slogans from every corner. For many, the election held the promise of change, the possibility of a brighter future after years of political tension and economic uncertainty.
For others, it was just another contest in a game that had been rigged long before the first ballot was cast.
Among the candidates, two figures dominated the conversation: the incumbent, President Peter Kizito, and his challenger, Amina Kamanzi. Amina, a former minister with a reputation for speaking out against corruption, had quickly gained a significant following, especially among the youth. They saw her as the voice of hope, a beacon for a new era of leadership.
But for some, Amina was too much of a threat. Peter Kizito had been in power for nearly two decades, and while his tenure had seen some progress in infrastructure and economic growth, it had also been marred by human rights violations, allegations of voter suppression, and heavy-handed tactics. His supporters, however, were loyal, swayed by his promises of stability and economic prosperity.
—
Eddy Nabwiso had never been involved in politics. A mechanic by trade, he spent his days fixing cars in a small garage just outside the city center. But in 2025, Eddy found himself swept up in a dangerous scheme—one that he had never imagined he’d be part of. He wasn’t a political ideologue, nor was he particularly fond of the Kizito administration, but the money he was offered made it hard to refuse.
Eddy’s cousin, who worked as a low-level official in the Electoral Commission, had called him in for a quiet meeting just days before the election. The message was simple: “If you want to make a quick buck, there’s an opportunity.”
The opportunity? To steal a ballot box.
—
It was a rainy Wednesday night when Eddy was handed the plan. The election was just hours away, and ballots had already started to be collected and secured in various polling stations around Kampala. But one box, in the district of Nakawa, had become a point of contention. The vote count in that district was crucial for the Kizito campaign. The numbers didn’t favor him, and if the tally stood as it was, the result in Nakawa could shift the entire election in Amina’s favor.
A small group of Kizito’s operatives had been monitoring the district’s polling stations, quietly attempting to sway voters, but they needed one last thing: control over the final result.
Eddy didn’t know all the details, nor did he need to. He was simply told to pick up the box, transport it to a secure location, and return it after it had been tampered with. It wasn’t complicated. He didn’t even have to alter the ballots—just remove the box, hide it, and then *replace* it with a different one when the coast was clear.
The night before the election, he would act.
—
Eddy arrived at the polling station around midnight, the area already dark and eerily quiet. The streets of Kampala were empty, save for the occasional boda boda whizzing by. He parked his old, beat-up car a few blocks away and walked toward the entrance of the polling station, his heart pounding in his chest.
There was a guard at the station, a young man who seemed distracted by his phone. The rest of the staff had left for the night, as they had done every election season, leaving just a few people behind to monitor the ballots and ensure everything was secure. Eddy had been briefed on the schedule, and at this hour, the place would be almost completely deserted.
He entered through a side door that had been left ajar, just as his cousin had instructed. The ballot box sat in a small room near the back of the building. Eddy looked around to make sure no one was watching, and then he grabbed the box, carefully moving it toward the back exit.
His breath was quick and shallow. His hands were clammy as he lifted the heavy box, its contents rattling slightly. He had no idea what would happen next—he only knew that this was his only chance to make the money he had been promised.
—
But as Eddy stepped into the alley behind the polling station, the weight of what he was doing began to hit him. This wasn’t a minor crime. It wasn’t a “small favor” for a cousin. It was election interference. It was stealing a democratic process. It was corruption at its worst.
He stopped for a moment, the ballot box still under his arm, and looked at the streetlights flickering ahead.
*Was it too late to back out?*
Suddenly, he heard footsteps. Two figures appeared in the alley—a man and a woman, both dressed in plain clothes. The woman’s sharp eyes fixed on Eddy, and her gaze flickered down to the box he was holding.
“That’s the one,” she said quietly.
Eddy froze. He didn’t recognize either of them, but they didn’t look like people from the Electoral Commission. They looked… like they were from somewhere else.
“You must be Eddy,” the man said with a knowing smile. “We’re here to make sure everything goes according to plan.”
Eddy didn’t say anything, unsure whether to run or to comply. His mind raced. Who were these people? What did they want?
The woman took a step forward and gently grabbed the box from his hands. “You’ve done well, but we’ll take it from here. Don’t worry, your payment is secured.”
Before Eddy could protest, they turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving him standing there, dumbfounded.
—
The next morning, the election was underway. The polling stations were filled with voters, the air electric with anticipation. Amina’s supporters were out in full force, chanting her name, waving banners, and showing their excitement for what they believed would be a victory for the people.
But in the hours that followed, something strange began to happen. The vote tally from Nakawa started to shift dramatically. Reports came in of irregularities in the count, strange discrepancies, and ballot boxes that had been “moved” overnight. Word spread quickly, and soon, there was talk of widespread tampering—one box in particular had disappeared from the station altogether.
Amina’s campaign was quick to accuse the Kizito camp of orchestrating the theft, and the public outcry was deafening. People demanded answers, and the tension in Kampala grew by the hour. Rumors flew, social media exploded with accusations, and international observers began calling for a halt to the counting process.
—
Meanwhile, Eddy was struggling with guilt. He hadn’t expected things to go so far. He didn’t know who the woman and man were, but now he understood—he had been nothing more than a pawn in a much larger game.
That evening, his phone buzzed with a text message:
*”You did your part. The money is on its way.”*
But the message brought him no relief. In fact, it made his stomach churn.
The box he had stolen—where had it gone? What had been done to it? He didn’t know, but he was beginning to realize the gravity of the situation.
The election results came in days later, but the controversy surrounding the Nakawa district never faded. International observers, opposition parties, and civil society groups demanded an investigation. The authorities claimed they were looking into the matter, but the damage had already been done. Trust in the system had been shattered.
As for Eddy? His role in the heist was never publicly acknowledged, but deep down, he knew that no amount of money could ever wash away the stain of what he had done. The stolen box, after all, had not only been a symbol of corruption—it had also stolen something much more precious: the faith of the people.
In the end, the election’s outcome was mired in dispute. Both sides claimed victory, and both sides were filled with anger and suspicion. The scars left on Kampala were deep—and so, too, was Eddy’s regret.
