The small courtroom was hot with the crush of bodies and the air was thick with anticipation. It was still early morning. Hearings were not set to begin for another hour and a half, and already it was difficult to find seats.
It made sense, I thought, cramming tightly into one bench in the back. Lives across Uganda depended on this decision. I’d been working as a journalist in the capital of Kampala for more than a year, and had covered my fair share of court proceedings. But this felt different.
