Ah, Kuje.
A place where the sun still rises in the east, where ordinary people wake up every morning to chase their daily bread, where mothers struggle, fathers labour and young people dream — and where, under the political atmosphere surrounding Kuje Area Council Chairman Samuel Danjuma Shekwolo, political allegiance has become a subject of fierce controversy.
Welcome to the new political gospel:
“APC OR LEAVE KUJE.”
What a magnificent idea.
Perhaps the next decree should be:
APC on Monday.
APC on Tuesday.
APC before breakfast.
APC after dinner.
APC in your dreams.
And if you dare disagree?
Well, apparently, you may be reminded that Kuje is not for everybody.
How convenient.
A public office, in this strange political imagination, has somehow transformed into a private estate.
Samuel Danjuma Shekwolo sits in office.
The party stands behind him.
And the ordinary citizen is apparently expected to stand outside the political gate, remove his political opinion and ask:
“Sir, am I permitted to live here?”
No.
Absolutely not.
Kuje is not Samuel Danjuma Shekwolo’s political inheritance.
It is not his family compound.
It is not an APC franchise.
It is not a private kingdom decorated with government offices.
And the chairman is not a king.
He is a public servant.
That distinction should not require a constitutional amendment.
But perhaps power has a funny way of making simple things look complicated.
Give a politician an office and suddenly the chair becomes a throne.
Give him political supporters and suddenly disagreement becomes disrespect.
Give him authority and suddenly criticism becomes an offence.
And before long, democracy begins to sound like this:
“Agree with me.”
“Praise me.”
“Support my party.”
“Or leave.”
Ah, democracy!
What a beautiful thing.
Everyone is free to speak — provided they say the right thing.
Everyone is free to disagree — provided they disagree quietly.
Everyone is free to vote — provided they vote correctly.
Everyone is free to live in Kuje — provided they first pass the political loyalty test.
What next?
A political immigration desk at the entrance of Kuje?
“Good morning. Political affiliation?”
“APC.”
“Welcome.”
“Opposition.”
“Please, take the next exit.”
It sounds absurd.
But political intimidation always begins by making absurdity look normal.
And that is why the controversy surrounding Samuel Danjuma Shekwolo deserves serious public attention.
There are accusations that critics are being pursued beyond public spaces and traced to their homes because of their criticism.
If politics has reached the doorstep, then democracy itself is being dragged through the mud.
Because there is something profoundly wrong with a political culture in which a critic begins to wonder:
“Will somebody come looking for me because I spoke?”
That is how silence is manufactured.
Not with one giant hammer.
But with little blows.
One warning.
One threat.
One intimidation.
One phone call.
One whispered message:
“Be careful.”
And slowly…
Slowly…
Slowly…
The people stop speaking.
The journalist stops asking questions.
The activist lowers his voice.
The opposition looks over its shoulder.
The citizen learns to swallow his anger.
And democracy?
Democracy sits quietly in the corner, bleeding.
This is how freedom dies — not always with a gunshot, but sometimes with a frightened silence.
And the APC should be listening.
Very carefully.
Because political parties cannot campaign on democracy at the national level while grassroots politics is consumed by allegations of intimidation.
You cannot shout:
“Power to the people!”
while behaving as though the people must obtain permission before exercising their power.
You cannot ask citizens for their votes today and expect their political freedom to disappear tomorrow.
You cannot say you represent the people while treating criticism as an attack on personal authority.
That is not democracy.
That is political entitlement.
And political entitlement is democracy’s most arrogant enemy.
Samuel Danjuma Shekwolo must remember one fundamental truth about political power:
The office is temporary.
The people are permanent.
The convoy will pass.
The people will remain.
The sirens will stop.
The streets will remain.
The political posters will fade.
The walls will still stand.
And one day, every politician discovers the oldest truth in politics:
Power is borrowed.
It is never owned.
Today, Samuel Danjuma Shekwolo occupies the chairman’s seat.
Tomorrow, someone else will sit there.
Today, APC may control the council.
Tomorrow, another party may.
That is politics.
That is democracy.
That is why no political party should behave as though history has signed a permanent tenancy agreement with it.
And Kuje?
Kuje belongs to its people.
To the APC supporter.
To the opposition supporter.
To the undecided voter.
To the critic.
To the journalist.
To the activist.
To the trader.
To the civil servant.
To the young man trying to survive.
To the mother trying to feed her children.
To everyone who calls Kuje home.
Nobody needs a party card to belong to their own community.
So let Samuel Danjuma Shekwolo govern.
Let him defend his record.
Let him answer questions.
Let him face criticism.
Let him convince the people.
But let nobody attempt to replace persuasion with intimidation.
Because when leadership cannot persuade, it threatens.
When it cannot answer, it attacks.
When it cannot defend its record, it attacks the messenger.
And when it becomes afraid of criticism, it begins to fear the people.
That is the tragedy.
And that is also the opportunity.
Because the people must remember:
You are not subjects.
You are citizens.
You do not owe politicians silence.
You do not owe political parties blind obedience.
You owe your conscience.
You owe your community.
You owe your country.
And above all, you owe democracy the courage to speak.
So let this be written boldly across Kuje:
«Kuje is not a kingdom.
Samuel Danjuma Shekwolo is not a king.
APC is not the constitution.
Criticism is not a crime.
Opposition is not rebellion.
And political disagreement is not an eviction notice.»
The people have voices.
Let them use them.
The people have questions.
Let them ask them.
The people have votes.
Let them decide.
And if political power becomes uncomfortable with the sound of citizens speaking truth to power, then perhaps the problem is not the citizens.
Perhaps the problem is the power.
Because eventually, every political throne becomes an empty chair.
And when the music stops…
the people remain.
Kuje remains.
History remains.
And history has a cruel habit:
It remembers the leaders who served the people.
And it remembers, even more painfully, those who tried to silence them.