The fire engulfed him in seconds. The searing heat, the crackling of flesh, the acrid smoke curling into the air—Benjamin Agaba’s act of self-immolation was not just a protest but a final, desperate cry.
Near the gates of Parliament, the flames danced wildly, consuming his clothes, his skin, his very existence.
Onlookers screamed. Some turned away, unable to stomach the sight of a man turned into a living torch.
Others rushed forward with whatever they could find—jackets, water, bare hands—but it was too late. The fire had already done its work.
Agaba, a fervent supporter of the ruling National Resistance Movement (NRM), had set himself ablaze after claiming the party had abandoned him.
The pain must have been unimaginable, but perhaps not greater than the betrayal he felt. The promises, the loyalty, the sacrifices—all met with silence.
He survived the flames, for a time.
Kiruddu Hospital in Kampala became his last battlefield, where he fought against his charred flesh, against the infection creeping through his wounds, against the weight of being forgotten.
His father, Benjamin Twinomugisha, watched helplessly as hope dwindled.
Officials came, cameras flashing, voices full of assurances. They swore the party would take care of everything. They swore Agaba’s suffering would not be in vain.
Then, they disappeared.
For weeks, his father scraped together whatever he could to pay for Agaba’s treatment.
When the pain finally won and Agaba succumbed to his injuries, the family was left with another brutal reality—the hospital would not release his body without payment.
Shs1.3 million stood between them and a proper burial, an amount they did not have.
“We thought they would help,” his widow whispered, grief heavy in her voice. “Now, we have no choice but to return to the village without him.”
The fire had burned Agaba’s body. The neglect had burned his family’s hopes. And now, even in death, the flames of his suffering refused to die.
