A sneak peek into City Hall court and the bizarre cases

It is another day at Kampala Capital City Authority (KCCA). Employees are pacing up and down the corridors of City Hall with one primary aim: to make sure the city runs like a well-oiled machine. If Kampala was the heart of a living organism, these employees would be the red blood cells, making sure oxygenated blood is continuously sent out to replenish the body, while the deoxygenated blood is sent to the lungs for repair. This might be a loose comparison to a large extent, but the bizarre cases at City Hall Grade One Magistrate’s Court are a close likeness to deoxygenated blood.

Pickpockets and a brave woman
It is about 12:30pm on a Friday. Three pickpockets stand in the dock. They are all males in their early 20s. No lawyer is representing them. Across the courtroom, a small-bodied female complainant stands in the dock, showing slight agitation. She accuses the three of grabbing her handbag around Kyebando on the Northern Bypass.
The petty crime happened around 9:30pm. She had just stepped off the 14-seater public taxi when a group of four young men appeared from nowhere and wrestled the handbag away from her.
Ordinarily, the victim would be happy to walk away unharmed. But this lady was brave enough to follow the boys into the dark alleys of Kalerwe. Those are the loose details of the case.
The boys take turns to cross-examine the complainant. The questions are aimed at disputing the claims. If her bag was grabbed by four boys, how come only three are here? One ran away. If the robbery happened at about 9:30pm, how was she able to recognise them in a dark street? She says she recognised all of them by the clothes they were wearing and because they did not try to run away. She had enough time to take note of so many details.
The tiny suspect with the big nose is called Tabuley. It is obvious that he is the mastermind. From what the complainant gathered from the police, he had just returned from prison by the time of the crime. She has the police statement to show for it.
The tall handsome one looks like he is barely 18 but he says he is 20. He is the most confident one and asks the most questions. He would make a good lawyer if he were to take that route. The complainant pinpoints him as the one that grabbed the bag. Like an experienced lawyer, he asks her how she can be so sure when she just said that the street was dark.
She says she recognised him from tie and dye pair of pants with shiny flings at the bottom. As opposed to many claims that he denies, he does not deny this one. His silence sends the people in court into muted laughter. What is even more suspicious is that he has no more questions. The magistrate is writing vigorously in his book.
They are sent back to the holding cell down the hall. Their case is adjourned.
Several other young men are called to the dock one after another. Because of lack of witnesses, each one goes away as fast as they entered the dock. The cases are all adjourned.
The smell of prison
The easing on the drama is felt in the strangest of ways. A strong smell of urine and sweat mixed with other bodily wastes wafts in the room. It is as if someone is seated in one of the anterooms with an oversized bicycle pump, thrusting the foul smell into the courtroom. The only explanation can only be that while the drama of the three pickpockets was unfolding, the brain tended to focus on the eyes and the ears. In the absence of any serious drama, the elephant in the room (the smell of suspects) becomes as evident as a neon sign at midnight.
Utility
Mr Justus Katungi is a businessman in Kampala. He says one day, he received an urgent call from a friend who told him that he had been arrested for walking through the grassy-patch in the street. They were fining him a hefty Shs600,000. Mr Katungi rushed there and paid the fine. Had he not, the friend would have been taken into custody. The usual fine for offences like that is Shs40,000 but according to an official at the court, if you resist arrest or annoy the personnel in any way, the amount increases exponentially.
Lucky day
It is a lucky day for one of the prisoners. He is called to the dock. The stocky young man hobbles in and raises his right hand. A witness in his case is also called. None appears. Three more calls and nothing. Silence! As a matter of fact, no witness has ever been able to come to testify against him the entire time he has been on remand. The magistrate dismisses his case on those grounds. The prisoner’s facial expression is a fusion between a smile and a mope. Clearly, he is been conditioned to hide any emotions. But as he walks away, he seems to say, “Phew, finally I go home”. It’s obvious that he is very hungry and his lips are cracking with thirst but he is bursting with joy.
The domestic worker
Mr Fred Matuvu, is a 68-year-old witness from Kulambiro in Nakawa Division, Kampala. He is a businessman in the construction industry. The man in the dock was his domestic worker. He recounts his case:
“Earlier this year, my window was broken. Thieves entered in and my 50-inch Samsung TV, the curved type where the picture is so good; it is almost in 3D, was stolen. Laughter. A woofer and a sound bar [were also stolen]. In the morning, my wife and I called the police. The OC himself and the LC1 chairperson came. Because the scene of the crime was near the road, the sniffer dog could not work. So the police brought a fingerprint expert. He did his investigations and collected data. Before he left, he instructed me to report anyone I might suspect to the police. That way, he would return to compare the finger prints.
Later that day, this young man here [the man in the dock], who was my domestic worker for two years prior to the crime, disappeared from home. I stayed outside waiting for him at night. He came to the gate and knocked. But they refused to open for him at my orders. He went to the back and jumped the fence. Upon landing in, he was shocked to see me. I took him into the house and asked my wife to call the OC and the LC1 chairperson. The OC came with two officers. As they were interrogating him, all of a sudden he charged like an animal. He jumped and crushed my glass door in a bid to break through and run. The officers then grabbed him.”
There is a pause as the pictures of the damaged door are being inspected by the state attorney and a team of professionals. The magistrate uses this time to update his handwritten notes. Magistrate: “Did you shutter the door?”
Man in dock: “No.”
The magistrate signals the complainant to continue.
“That night, the police took him and put ‘in the hands of the CID’. Your worship, the officer is here, he can be my witness.”
This comes as shock to the magistrate and to the rest of the judicial officers. The CID officer is not supposed to be in court. The state attorney seems uncomfortable. The magistrate calms the state attorney down and calmly asks the officer to walk out. He quietly leaves the courtroom. The magistrate signals the complainant to continue.
“A few days after the arrest, the young man was given police bond at Kira Road Police Station. I thought it unfair and reported the matter to higher police authorities. I even reported the matter to the mayor of Nakawa. And like I feared, immediately after the police bond, he disappeared.
“During that time, he threatened my wife in several phone calls. He told her that they would punish us for this. Several other unanimous calls were made to my wife. The police tried to contact him, in vain. We had to use other means to re-arrest him. That is all I have to say about that.”
The suspect does not have much to respond to. He stands in the dock looking down. The expression could be interpreted as humility or guilt or both. He also looks prayerful but his eyes are cold - unflinchingly fixed on the complainant. When he answers the magistrate (through an interpreter), his answers are single syllable words; mostly automated nos.
When his time comes to cross examine the complainant, he comes off uninterested and bored. At best, his words are emotionless and unmoving.
“Why did you beat me?” he asks. “I am 68, how can I fight with a 30-year-old young man?” He looks around for approval from everyone before he continues. “I couldn’t beat him even if I wanted to. The only time he got roughed up was when he tried to run from the house in the presence of the police.”
After a few dead-end questions, he asks why the complainant didn’t want to pay his arrears of Shs840,000. In response, the complainant says, “Young man I am not the one who pays you. You know that it’s my wife who handles all the domestic workers and their payments.” Then he turns to the people in the courtroom, as if what he is about to say is for the benefit of everyone. “You know,” he smiles comically, “for a man to be on the safe side, you have to delegate all the domestic workers to your wife.” The magistrate laughs. He is joined by the people in the courtroom.
“Final judgment to be heard on August 20,” the magistrate says. The court breaks for lunch at 1:25pm.
Poor hawkers
At 2:15pm, three pickup trucks enter the back gate one after another. On board are armed police officers, KCCA staff and some vendors that have just been arrested. Baskets of bananas and other merchandise are carried off the trucks, straight into the court. Shoes, yoga mats, belts, etc. Obviously, most of the vendors ran away, leaving their merchandise to be confiscated. Only a handcuffed man and frail-looking woman dismount.
The mute hawker
When the court reopens at 4:21pm, a hawker is called to the dock. Court learns from those who arrested him and his mate that though the man is mute, his hearing is perfect. He was arrested a few days ago hawking mats and he does not deny the accusations. But he asks for forgiveness in sign-language. The magistrate laughs and it is obvious that he has soft spot for the poor soul. He fines him Shs200,000, payable in a month after which he is released.
The frail banana vendor
You would think the magistrate would be lenient in other special cases that follow this one. But you are wrong. One of those people is 22-year-old Sanyu Rose. She has just been arrested with a basket of bananas on Entebbe Road. She is young, frail and a single mother of a one-year-old. She is obviously deficient of options. But the state attorney says the cases of such nature are rampant and asks for a deterrent. Within about two and a half minutes, the magistrate passes the final judgment: “I have considered the circumstances of the case. I sentence you to two weeks in prison or a fine of Shs80,000. Your bananas will be eaten by the inmates.”
15-year-old vending food
The saddest case was that of Deus Anyijuka. He is 15 but he looks 12. He was arrested vending food on Luwum Street earlier in the day. He does not deny the charges. The magistrate convicts him, stressing that vending food without a licence is one of the more dangerous offences in the city as it poses health risks to the population. What he does not say is that the vendor was only a messenger. The source of the food is not mentioned. And that is as confusing as it is sad. The child is fined Shs200,000, which he says he does not have. The magistrate sentences him to a month in prison at Kampiringisa. With a lawyer, this boy could have walked free or got a lighter punishment. But alas, such is a luxury many in City Hall Court cannot afford.