Walk into a Ugandan courtroom on a formal day and you may momentarily wonder whether you’ve wandered into a 17th-Century British theater production. There they sit-learned judges, sharp minds, weighty decisions and on their heads, a thick white wig that looks like they’ve survived several wars, two monarchs, and a very long sea voyage.
The question must be asked, gently but firmly: why are we still doing this? Judges began wearing wigs in England in the 1600s, a time when men of status believed that the more hair they appeared to have, the more important they were. King Charles II made wigs fashionable, and lawyers, never known to miss a trend that signals authority, followed enthusiastically. Eventually, the wig stopped being fashion and became tradition. It was said to promote impartiality. Once the wig went on, the judge became the law itself, not a mere mortal with opinions, moods, or a bad haircut. The wig was also helpful for hiding baldness, lice, and possibly inconvenient expressions.
So far, so very European. Through colonialism, Britain generously exported many things to Uganda-railways, English names, tea, and without consulting us, judicial wigs. Along with common law came the full costume, as if justice could not be administered without looking like powdered bread. Fast-forward to modern Uganda, air temperatures rising, courtrooms packed, power occasionally unreliable, and judges are still wearing horsehair wigs designed for cold English winters. One must admire their dedication. If endurance were a legal qualification, our judges would all be Supreme Court material. Are wigs necessary for justice to happen? This is where the wig begins to wobble.
Countries across the world administer justice perfectly well without wigs. Judges in Rwanda, the United States, Germany, South Africa, and many others manage to sentence criminals, protect rights, and interpret constitutions without once reaching for horsehair. Justice, it turns out, does not leak out of the courtroom when wigs are removed. No study has ever shown that a suspect confesses faster, a witness tells the truth more honestly, or a judgment becomes wiser simply because the judge looks like an 18th-Century aristocrat who misplaced his horse.
Is the wig a colonial relic? Let’s be honest, yes. Unequivocally. With receipts. The wig is not African, not Ugandan, and not culturally meaningful to the communities seeking justice in our courts. It was imported wholesale from colonial rule and then politely left behind, like an awkward houseguest who never got the hint that independence had happened. To the average Ugandan litigant, especially one encountering the justice system for the first time, the wig does not say ‘fairness’ or ‘accessibility.’ It says, this place is not yours. It creates distance, not dignity.
And let’s not ignore the cost. These wigs are not free of charge. They are imported, maintained, and replaced with public funds, money that could buy law books, computers, or even fans to cool the very heads wearing them. But tradition! Dignity! Gravitas! These are the usual defenses. Yet dignity does not come from headgear. It comes from integrity, independence, and competence. A corrupt judge in a wig is still corrupt. An honest judge without one is still honourable.
Uganda has already Africanised many institutions. Our doctors do not perform surgery dressed like colonial surgeons. Even the Church, once very European, now reflects local identity.
Why should the Judiciary be the last museum of the empire? This brings us, respectfully and optimistically, to Chief Justice Flavian Zeija. Chief Justice, congratulations on your appointment! Your appointment comes at a moment when Ugandans are asking hard questions about justice, trust, and relevance. Ending the use of judicial wigs would not weaken the courts, it would humanize them. Removing the wig would not remove authority. It would remove unnecessary costume drama. Let the law speak through reasoned judgments, not horsehair. Let justice be seen as Ugandan, confident enough to stand without borrowed symbols from another century.
Wigs had their moment. A long time one. A very long one. They have crossed oceans, survived empires, and endured Ugandan heat with admirable stubbornness. But perhaps it is finally time to thank them for their service and let them retire gracefully, quietly, and permanently. Justice does not need a wig. Uganda does not need a wig. And our judges, brilliant, capable, and modern certainly do not need to look like they are late for a royal portrait. Let the wigs go. The law will survive.