Nestled in western Uganda, Hoima is more than just a dot on the map—it’s a living archive of Africa’s layered past. Long before European colonizers arrived, the Bunyoro-Kitara Kingdom thrived here, with Hoima as its cultural and political heartbeat. The Babiito dynasty ruled for centuries, fostering trade networks that stretched to the East African coast.
But the 19th century brought catastrophe. British imperialists, hungry for control, dismantled Bunyoro’s sovereignty through bloody wars and exploitative treaties. The infamous 1900 Buganda Agreement carved up the region, leaving Hoima’s people marginalized. This colonial trauma still echoes today—in land disputes, tribal tensions, and the struggle for historical justice.
Fast-forward to the 21st century, and Hoima is ground zero for Uganda’s oil boom. The discovery of 6.5 billion barrels of crude in the Albertine Graben has turned this quiet town into a battleground for global interests. China’s CNOOC, France’s TotalEnergies, and Western financiers are all jostling for control, while locals ask: Who really benefits?
Multinational corporations aren’t the only players. Uganda’s government has forcibly evicted thousands in Hoima to make way for oil infrastructure. In 2022, protests erupted when families in Kyakaboga were displaced without fair compensation. “They promised us schools and hospitals,” one farmer told reporters. “All we got was bulldozers.” These clashes mirror Africa-wide struggles—from the Niger Delta to Mozambique’s gas fields—where resource wealth fuels inequality, not development.
Western nations lecture Africa about renewable energy while bankrolling Hoima’s oil projects. The East African Crude Oil Pipeline (EACOP), set to export Ugandan oil via Tanzania, will emit 34 million tons of CO2 annually. Yet European governments, now pivoting to “green” policies, still fund fossil fuel extraction abroad. The irony? Hoima’s farmers, who contribute almost nothing to global warming, face worsening droughts linked to climate change.
Hoima District hosts over 120,000 refugees, mostly from South Sudan and DR Congo. The Kyangwali Settlement is now a semi-permanent city, with generations born in exile. While Uganda’s progressive refugee policies are praised globally, reality is messier.
Locals complain that aid groups prioritize refugees over host communities. “We share our land, our water, even our schools,” said a Hoima shopkeeper, “but where’s our support?” Tensions flare as food rations dwindle—a symptom of donor fatigue amid Ukraine and Gaza crises. Meanwhile, far-right politicians in Europe point to Uganda’s model while slamming their own borders shut.
In Hoima’s internet cafés, a generation is waking up. Young Ugandans use TikTok to expose corruption (#StopEACOP trends weekly), while authorities hit back with internet shutdowns. The paradox? The same oil money funding repression also builds highways and stadiums—buying just enough loyalty to keep the system intact.
With formal jobs scarce, Hoima’s youth hustle. Motorcycle taxis (boda-bodas) outnumber cars; street vendors trade everything from SIM cards to solar lamps. These informal networks keep the economy afloat but exist in legal limbo. When police crack down on “unlicensed” traders, it’s not about order—it’s about controlling who gets to survive.
Amid the chaos, Hoima’s elders fight to preserve traditions. The Empango festival, celebrating Bunyoro’s kingship, draws crowds in vibrant busuuti dresses. But Western pop culture creeps in—kids idolize Burna Boy more than their own folklore. The question lingers: Can Hoima modernize without losing its soul?
Runyoro, Hoima’s indigenous tongue, is fading. Schools teach in English; government offices ban local languages. Activists push back with radio shows and folktale apps, but the tide is strong. Across Africa, linguistic imperialism continues—another colonial hangover.
When Ebola struck Hoima in 2022, responders raced to contain it. But the outbreak exposed a grim truth: clinics lacked basics like gloves, while rich nations hoarded vaccines. The same pattern repeated during COVID-19. “We’re always last in line,” a nurse muttered, sterilizing needles for reuse.
War, displacement, and poverty have left invisible scars. Hoima’s lone psychiatric ward overflows with patients—many traumatized by violence. Yet mental health remains taboo, overshadowed by more “urgent” crises.
Walk Hoima’s red-dirt roads, and you’ll see contradictions everywhere. Solar panels glitter on huts near oil rigs; teenagers debate politics on smartphones charged by diesel generators. This town, like much of Africa, is caught between empires old and new—fighting to write its own next chapter.