How does a reporter in Uganda cover elections when the internet goes out?
Uganda opposition presidential candidate Robert Kyagulanyi Ssentamu, known as Bobi Wine, speaks to journalists after the government ordered an internet shutdown, at his home in Magere village, Kampala, Uganda, Jan. 14, 2026.
Hajarah Nalwadda/AP
Kampala, Uganda
At exactly 6 p.m. on Jan. 13, two days before Uganda鈥檚 presidential and parliamentary elections, the internet turned off like a light switch.
I was expecting the blackout. The government of President Yoweri Museveni, who has ruled Uganda for the past four decades, also suspended web services during the last elections in 2021 and blocked social media in 2016.
But although I was prepared for the internet to go off, the reality of it was startling. I felt as though I were looking at the world around me through a veil of fog, only able to see as far as my hands in front of me. As a journalist, I was suddenly unable to do research or file stories. On a personal level, I was cut off from family and friends outside Uganda.聽
Why We Wrote This
The frequency of internet shutdowns is growing. In 2024, there were 296 in 54 countries. That creates particular challenges for reporters trying to get stories out.
I鈥檇 simply have to find a way to do my job.
An eerie quiet
The next morning, I headed to one place I thought I might still be able to get online, a Kampala hotel frequented by government elites. I was nervous. A young white woman in jeans and a T-shirt, I was a conspicuous presence. I worried I was being watched. I responded to emails from my editors and then left as quickly as I could.
When the polls opened on the morning of Jan. 15, the internet still hadn鈥檛 returned. Armored tanks rolled down streets usually lined with cars and fruit vendors. Neighborhoods that typically buzzed with 鈥済ood morning鈥� greetings and the sermons of roadside preachers were so quiet that I could hear the trill of birdsong.
On the back of a motorbike, I rushed down roads littered with purple jacaranda flowers and torn-up pieces of campaign posters. At polling stations, I scribbled quotes into my notebook before feeding them to editors over a shaky phone line.
My fellow journalists and I helped one another as much as we could: sharing tips and information, speculating about where we might be able to get online, and calling to ensure colleagues had returned home safely. I felt bolstered by this support, but it did not take away fear entirely.
鈥淔reedom comes with responsibility鈥�
In the days that followed, there were rumors of arrests and deaths, but without the internet, there was little way to verify anything I heard. Normally, I would be able to scour social media posts and videos. I could not do that now.
Uncertainty continued to mount. When the camp of opposition candidate Robert Kyagulanyi 鈥� better known as Bobi Wine 鈥� claimed that he had been abducted in an army helicopter, colleagues and I telephoned each other, trying to piece together what had really happened. Then the story abruptly changed. Mr. Wine said his house had been raided, and he had gone into hiding.
Weeks later, his exact location remained unclear.
On Jan. 17, two days after the vote, the result was announced. Mr. Museveni had handily won a seventh term.
The next day, the internet returned. But at a press conference soon after, Uganda Communications Commission Executive Director George William Nyombi Thembo announced that social media would remain restricted.聽鈥淔reedom comes with responsibility,鈥� he warned.
I left the press conference still thinking over his words. My phone was not working unless I used a Wi-Fi connection, and even then, the network was weak. I headed back home to check my messages, thinking about just how fragile my link to the internet was, and with it, the world beyond Uganda 鈥� and how quickly it could be taken away.