We Keep Dying Like Chicken: Uganda's Roads Are Killing Us, and We Have the Data to Stop It

 Fifteen people boarded a bus in Kampala on a Tuesday evening. By 9:30pm, they were dead. Not in some freak, unforeseeable accident, but in the same way people have died on the Kampala–Gulu Highway for years: a driver speeding, a swerve to dodge a pedestrian, a head-on meeting with a trailer. Twenty-eight more were injured. The names have since been read out by police, filed, and, if the pattern holds, forgotten by everyone except the families left behind.

                              

This is not one tragedy. It is entry number one on a registry, a registry that already runs twenty rows deep with barely nine months of dates attached to it. Elephants struck on unlit highways. Buses overtaking buses into oncoming traffic. A trailer parked without hazard lights was rammed by a coach that never saw it. Forty-six people were killed in a single chain-reaction crash near Kitaleba. Uganda loses an average of fifteen people a day to its roads. Fifteen. Every single day. That is not an accident rate; it is a slow-motion massacre we have simply stopped flinching at.

And here is the uncomfortable truth: the numbers do not lie, but we are not listening to them. Every crash in that registry has a location, a time, a cause, a vehicle type. Bobi Trading Centre. Lapok Mor Village. The Pakwach–Olwiyo–Karuma stretch. These are not random dots on a map — they are recurring coordinates of failure. When the same highway produces fatal crash after fatal crash, that is not bad luck repeating itself. That is a system publishing its own diagnosis, in blood, and nobody is reading the chart.

                                               

Under the global Safe Systems approach, the assumption is simple: humans will always make mistakes, so infrastructure, vehicles, enforcement, and emergency response must be engineered to stop a mistake from becoming a funeral. Uganda's highways fail this test at every layer: no median barriers to stop an overtaking error from becoming a head-on collision, no shoulder space for a swerving bus to recover, buses without seatbelts or rollover protection, and ambulances that arrive too late or not at all. Every actor in this chain — bus owners pushing drivers to run at night, police enforcing sporadically, planners building narrow roads for speeds nobody obeys, a health system without a rapid trauma response has been reckless. Not maliciously. Institutionally. Repeatedly. Predictably.

The tools to fix this already exist in the data itself. A live, mapped crash registry cross-referencing highway segment, time of day, vehicle type, and cause would show regulators exactly which kilometre markers need median barriers first, which routes need speed cameras before the next holiday weekend, which bus companies have the worst safety records and should lose their licenses. Data-driven road safety is not a foreign concept; it is why fatality rates fell in countries that treated crash data as an early-warning system rather than a funeral record.

Uganda does not lack information. It lacks the will to act on it before, not after, the fifteenth body of the day. Until that changes, the highway will keep writing its own obituary column, one bus at a time.

Relatedly, before I could complete writing this piece, a bus carrying children from Kampala to Jinja was knocked down by a train on the rail path. You cannot keep making these up, even if you wanted to. You would get tired.