Manning Kampala streets: The tale of a law enforcement assistant

The mere mention of Kampala Capital City Authority(KCCA) law enforcement assistants, or agents, evokes gory images of mean-looking, muscular men running after street vendors like a predator does its prey, ruthlessly arresting them and bundling them onto vehicles, before they drive away like maniacs.

Sometimes they are demolishing structures, kiosks in shanty neighbourhoods of Kampala, caring less what those structures mean to various lives that either dwell or earn a living there.
All the above are plain facts but here comes a disclaimer: “It’s not all that we do; actually the public has chosen to look at us like that but we even do ‘good things’.”

So who dares to convince us that there is a humane heart beneath those thick layers of chest muscles? Haven’t we heard enough from the KCCA spokesman? So let us hear from the proverbial horse’s mouth—one of the men who scare the hell out of those stubborn street vendors, a KCCA a law enforcement assistant, as he shared his story.

Because he is not authorised to speak to us about his job, we chose a pseudonym Moses Ouma to protect his identity.

How he joined

“So, how did you get into this job?” was my first question. I was wondering why such an energetic, handsome young man, with admirable eloquence in English, chose such a ‘despicable’ job!
“I was jobless and my friend told me about an opportunity to work with the KCCA law enforcement team,” Ouma narrates the advent of his journey in a Sunday evening interview after a long church service.

“I took my paperwork to a certain office and in two days, I was called for training.”

After two weeks, Ouma had got the job.
“We trained in chaka-mchaka (to make us know one another and bond); client care, human rights, among others,” he adds.
After two years of service, they went to Bihanga Military School of Ballistics, Ibanda District for more training for five months.

“Wait a bit, did you just mention client care and human rights among your course units?” I prodded. “With all the brutality you unleash on the streets?”
“That’s your view that we are brutal but we aren’t, necessarily so,” he responds with the composure of a seasoned criminal defence lawyer.

“Actually under client care and human rights we learn that our job is more technical than physical; before you arrest someone, you must talk to them, try understand their situation, show them that they are in the wrong and that arresting them is only a job, not a passion…”

He says they help many people who come for directions to various places, others want advice regarding physical planning and it is the men in “black and yellow” who lead them to the relevant offices.

He also talks of averting road accidents by, say, arresting misbehaving boda-boda cyclists. Unfortunately, he says “people will always want to see us from only the rough side.”
But why are scenes of KCCA agents grabbing poor women, their tomatoes rolling down the streets as children fall from their backs in a scuffle so common?

“Law enforcement is very tricky and such scenes are sometimes inevitable; no one wants to be arrested,” he says. “Yet we have the right to use reasonable force to get the job done. But we sometimes get derailed by circumstances such as a policeman who shoots and injures people in a scuffle when he did not intend to harm anyone.”

Typical day

A typical busy day does not come every day but when situations dictate, it could even spread into sleepless nights. He recalls the 2014 demolition of illegal structures on the railway line. Approximately 20km stretch through Banda, Namuwongo, Ndeeba to Nalukolongo.

“It was hectic; we spent two sleepless nights, and in a dangerous atmosphere.”

But on normal days he reaches office by 6.30am.
“We do parade drills, our supervisors review our previous performance, especially the errors we made (such as manhandling people) and show us how we ought to have avoided them, before they brief us on what next,” Ouma explains.

“By 8am when we hit the streets, the early birds [hawkers] are already taking advantage of our absence. We persuade them to leave before we arrest them.”

In case of arrest, one is taken to City Hall with his or her property. They are allowed to call a relative or friend. In the charge room, they record a statement which is sent to the officer-in-charge, who then sends it to the prosecutor. The prosecutor takes it to court. In court, the judge can pardon the offender or fine him between Shs40,000 and Shs500,000, before release.

Ouma works six days a week, with one day-off. If you are the type who needs “some order” in the city, do not blame KCCA for the mess on the streets at night. With the intervention of politicians in response to the vendors’ outcry, the Authority ceased night operations, to allow the vendor enjoy the night sales. Hence, Ouma’s working day—except when he is deployed to monitor noise pollution at nightclubs—ends at 6.30pm.

Craziest moment

Prostitutes fighting for customers on William Street, taxi conductors and passengers fighting over Shs100, motorists hooting recklessly; street preachers and herbalists shouting to everyone; vendors scattering at the sight of KCCA operatives, as they scream ‘obusajja buubwo’, are just some of the many crazy scenes in Kampala’s downtown.

But Ouma says nothing is crazier than those women who undress to avoid being arrested.

“They know that when they are naked, no one will get near them because if you arrest them and by any chance those pictures leak to media, the story will be: KCCA agents undress vendors.”
Remember the video that went viral on social media in November showing KCCA arresting a woman with two children? Ouma insists that woman was very problematic, usually undresses and the children she had were not hers. She just acted the scene. But all the law enforcers involved were suspended and could even have their contracts terminated.
“So to avoid losing our jobs, we let the shameless, crazy women be.”

Worst moment and black spots
Ouma recounts the most terrifying experience: “That Agaba incident was bloody… we survived by God’s mercy,” he sighs with audible fright.

“The eviction was almost done but the area councillors incited an already angered population… the mob rose against us and the shooting just made matters worse.”

In that January 2012 bloody incident, a mob turned against KCCA for evicting occupants of Port Bell land in Luzira. Police officer Santos Komakech and KCCA physical planning director George Agaba, shot (purportedly) in self-defence, killing one person and injuring others.

“We pleaded for mercy, and thankfully, as some were baying for our blood, others came to our rescue—‘naye bano bakola bukozi’ (these are working on orders)—they said in our defence,” Ouma recalls.

Any place with agitated people can be dangerous. Of all places, Kisekka Market is a black spot. You must fear for your life whenever you are deployed there.

He has a big scar on his hand, an effect of wounds he sustained on duty, which cost him some money and time to heal because by then KCCA could not cover their medical bills. Currently, it does.

Don’t they need protective gear such as helmets, knee pads, and gloves? “That can only be pushed by the supervisor, who does not seem to see it as priority,” he says.

But danger can catch you anytime, anywhere. Ouma tells me of his colleague who was attacked off-duty in the Old Taxi Park.
He was not in uniform but people had mastered his face. They hit his head with hammers. Three months on, he has not recovered and struggles with blurred vision.

“Ironically, some people (such as shop owners), whose business interests we protect, also rebuke us yet some vendors defend us.”

He cites another recent incident, when street children who were hawking on Dewinton Road battered his colleagues, but guess who saved them? Other hawkers.

regrets
If what Ouma says is what he exactly does, then we need more of such people in the force.
“I prefer talking to someone, understand the story behind his coming to the streets, why he finds it hard to leave, and by the time I arrest him, I will have convinced him that just as his job is selling from the streets, mine is to ensure he vacates the streets,” he says. “And I’m not ready to lose my job.”
With his precision, he sometimes faults himself. These two incidents make a serious dilemma. When he attempts to arrest boda-boda cyclists riding on a pavement, the cyclists end up knocking down people, as they try to escape.
In another incident on Jinja Road a boda-boda cyclist riding on a pavement knocked down a pregnant woman. “I was across the road and I wish I had calculated the situation better, I would have saved her,” he regrets.

Any beautiful moments?
“Of course, when my salary is wired to my account,” he says. “ Also, when someone commends me for the good job done. We are used to derogatory remarks such as “Oba mbwa mmwe mufa ddi? (I wish you dogs die) but it is encouraging when once in a while someone thanks you for keeping order in the city.”
Upon this, I asked him if he would recommend a friend or relative for such a job.
“Why not? It’s crazy to leave your peaceful job for one full of risks but if the friend or relative doesn’t have a job, I would straightaway connect him,” he said, with a smile.
On how long he would stay on this job, Ouma said: “When I joined, I thought I would do this job for just a while (and move on) but it’s now five years and as long as I don’t have a better job, I’m still here.”

We need media sympathy
“Our job is very tricky, so we need the media to bridge that gap between us and the public,” he says. “For instance, when we impound a vendor’s property, then he lies between the tyres of our vehicle such that it doesn’t move, we must use some force to remove him.”

He says the media sometimes ignores such stories, because they understand the situation.

Some are arrested but in attempting to escape they are knocked down by other vehicles. Others just fight to resist arrest. Whichever way, Ouma prays the media cooperates and sensitises the masses on the need for a clean and orderly city, which KCCA is trying to enforce.

But for now, as people have become used to being arrested and released, they will always return to the streets, which makes to them much more business sense than languishing in markets. Therefore, Ouma and colleagues, as law enforcers, are still assured of employment.