In case you didn’t know, there is a woman from Buruli named Katushabe who is claiming a large piece of land in Amolatar as her own. This first made news shortly after the COVID-19 lockdown. Recently, however, the story resurfaced when reports emerged that she had written yet another letter to the local authorities, reiterating her rather outrageous demand.

I have decided to write her an open letter to help place her claim within its proper historical context.

Here is the letter:

Dear Katushabe, Greetings to you, my sister. I hope this letter finds you in good health and peace of mind.

I felt I had to write to you after hearing about your letter and your intentions regarding the community on the Kyoga peninsula. Your words brought back a memory that has never really left me, and I believe sharing it might help us both reflect on where we stand as a people.

A few years ago, I was traveling from Kampala to Amolatar, through Zengebe to Namasale, by taxi and ferry. It was one of those long, dusty journeys where you share the road — and the air — with strangers. On this trip, I witnessed something that stayed with me.

The taxi conductor and driver had failed to deliver a package they were supposed to drop off at Namasale. The client called them, furious, demanding answers. I do not speak Luganda fluently, but I could catch a word here and there. In that moment, I heard the conductor and driver speak with such politeness and humility, promising the client that his package would be safe and would surely be delivered the next day.

But just a few moments later, something else happened. A passenger inside the taxi complained about overloading — too many people squeezed into the seat. The very same conductor who had just been so apologetic turned harsh and dismissive: “Wot kede motoka ni ka pe itye iwitnyo aber,” he snapped — “Use your own car if you are not comfortable.”

It was as if two different men were speaking. The politeness I had heard moments before was gone. Then, later, when another passenger missed his stop and protested, he was met with insults and ridicule.

As we traveled on, I began to notice a pattern: passengers who spoke Bantu languages were treated more gently, while the typical local passengers — the ones you could tell were simple farmers by their appearance — were spoken to roughly, with little patience. I remember thinking to myself, “This had better be an isolated case, or this is not good for us as a society.”

That memory came back to me when I heard about your letter to evict a community from what you believe to be your land. I could not help but ask myself why this steady, aggressive push against a people who are, by nature, peaceful and welcoming, keeps reappearing through history.

You see, this is not new. The people of Lango, and especially those in Amolatar, have faced similar pressures for generations. Perhaps it is because we seem so laid-back, so disorganized, that some think we are easy to push aside. I am Lango myself, and I confess — sometimes our ways can be baffling even to me. We quarrel with each other over the smallest things, a man can own land and still live in poverty, and we often make choices that seem contrary to common sense.

But do not mistake that for weakness. Our history is full of examples where outsiders tried to subdue us — and failed.

Did you know that Jervoice, one of the earliest British District Commissioners in Lango, once tried to turn all of what is now Amolatar into a Bantu settlement? He attempted to force the Lango to move north of Lake Kwania so that others could take their place. The people resisted, and his plan failed. Even when he softened his position and proposed dividing the land — north for Lango, south for Bantu — fierce resistance broke out, and that plan too was abandoned.

Then there was Semei Kakungulu, the famous Muganda chief. Around 1896, with the support of the Buganda authorities, he invaded the area hoping to carve out a personal kingdom stretching from Amolatar to Soroti, Katakwi, even as far as Kumi. But the Lango were not easily subdued. His raid was disastrous, and he was forced to withdraw.

Later, a Muruli man named Kabagambe came fishing in the area, but seeing the disorganized state of the locals, he began dreaming of founding his own kingdom in the Kyoga peninsula. The British did not like this and sent a Muganda agent, Bumbakali Kamya, to keep him in check. Within three months, Kamya and sixteen of his followers were killed by the Lango. Kabagambe realized his dream would not survive here and left for Jinja.

Kakungulu tried again in 1899, setting up forts and plundering villages, but his forts were constantly attacked. By the end of that year, he had withdrawn completely to Kumam.

Even after that, the British appointed Musabira, a Munyara, to govern Kabulubulu, but he too died after a clash with the Lango.

Our history is full of such stories. And yet, we Lango remain a welcoming people. We share our food and our homes. We are slow to anger, but when anger comes, it does not pass quietly.

Have you ever heard of Abili Obangkwon? He was one of our greatest warriors. When Emin Pasha tried to annex Lango into Egypt, Abili sought the help of a fortune-teller from Bululi itself. Together they launched a resistance that wiped out almost all of Emin’s 300 soldiers — only ten survived to tell the tale.

Katushabe, I write all this to say: I have no hatred for the Baluli. I even count some among my friends. But you are attempting the impossible. To displace a whole community from its ancestral land is not something that can be done without leaving deep wounds — wounds that may never heal.

Let bloodshed remain a thing of history. There are better paths to coexistence. We can choose, understanding, and respect instead of force and self agrandisement.

 Yours sincerely, Ongwen Laodog

Ongwen Laodog

email: [email protected]

Whatsapp: +256751227228

Mobile: +256785345614