Keypoints:
- Uganda Law Society challenges colonial courtroom traditions
- Judiciary says only the courts can determine courtroom protocol
- Debate resonates across Commonwealth Africa’s legal systems
COURTROOM etiquette rarely dominates the news. Most people never think twice about the words lawyers use to address judges or why advocates bow before entering a courtroom. Those rituals are simply part of the furniture of the law—noticed only when someone tries to change them.
That is precisely what has happened in Uganda.
A directive from the Uganda Law Society (ULS) telling lawyers to stop calling judges ‘My Lord’ and ‘My Lady’ has done more than challenge centuries-old courtroom convention. It has exposed a constitutional fault line between the country’s organised legal profession and the Judiciary, while reopening a debate that many former British colonies have quietly lived with since independence.
On the surface, the dispute concerns titles.
Beneath it lies a more uncomfortable question.
Who gets to decide when institutions inherited from colonial rule should change?
The answer matters not only in Uganda but across a continent where constitutions have been rewritten, political systems transformed and national identities reimagined, even as many courtrooms still look and sound remarkably similar to those left behind by the British Empire.
Not just about words
The Uganda Law Society’s directive is unusually direct.
Lawyers have been instructed to stop addressing judges as ‘My Lord’, ‘My Lady’, ‘Your Lordship’ or ‘Your Worship’. Instead, they are encouraged to use plain titles such as ‘Mr Justice’, ‘Madam Justice’, ‘Mr Judge’ and ‘Madam Judge’. The order also tells advocates to stop bowing before judicial officers, describing the practice as a symbol of subservience that no longer belongs in a constitutional democracy.
The Society argues that judges do not derive authority from aristocratic language or inherited ceremony. Their authority, it says, comes from the Constitution and the rule of law.
Its language is striking.
The executive order describes the traditional forms of address as ‘feudal and colonial honorifics’ that elevate judicial officers above citizens ‘who are in reality their employers’. It goes on to declare that advocates and litigants should ‘stand upright and speak as free citizens’, presenting the reforms as part of a wider effort to ‘decolonise justice and restore dignity to the people’.
Whether one agrees with that analysis or not, it reframes a debate that has often been dismissed as symbolic.
The Law Society is arguing that symbols matter because institutions communicate values not only through judgments but also through ritual.
That argument immediately attracted attention.
The Judiciary draws its own line
The Judiciary’s response was measured but unmistakable.
Speaking to the BBC, Judiciary spokesperson James Ereemye said the courts would continue to require established standards of courtroom decorum and rejected any suggestion that an outside body could determine judicial protocol.
His objection was less about the proposed titles themselves than about constitutional authority.
Uganda’s Judiciary, he argued, is an independent arm of government. Decisions about courtroom practice should therefore emerge through recognised institutional processes, not directives issued by professional associations.
That distinction is easy to overlook.
It is also the reason this story has become far more significant than a debate over etiquette.
The Uganda Law Society regulates advocates and represents the legal profession. The Judiciary controls court procedure and the conduct of proceedings. Those responsibilities overlap, but they are not the same.
Both institutions claim to be defending the integrity of Uganda’s justice system.
They simply disagree over who should lead reform.
Ironically, neither side is arguing against judicial independence. The Law Society says colonial language sits uneasily with constitutional equality. The Judiciary says constitutional independence depends on preserving the courts’ authority over their own proceedings.
In many respects, they are talking past one another.
The empire still echoes in African courtrooms
To understand why this dispute resonates so widely, it helps to understand how little courtroom culture has changed since independence.
Like many Commonwealth countries, Uganda inherited English common law together with its rituals.
Judges wore robes.
Lawyers bowed.
Courtrooms echoed with Latin phrases and aristocratic forms of address that had travelled from Westminster through Britain’s imperial administration.
When independence arrived, governments understandably focused on constitutions, elections and nation-building. Courtroom etiquette attracted little political attention. Continuity offered stability, and stability inspired confidence in legal systems that were already under pressure.
Those habits gradually became tradition.
For younger generations of lawyers, many no longer felt particularly British.
They simply felt normal.
That may explain why the Uganda Law Society’s directive has provoked such a strong reaction. It challenges customs that have become embedded not because people consciously defended them, but because few questioned them.
Now they are.
Africa is asking the same questions
Uganda may be making headlines, but it is hardly alone.
Across much of Commonwealth Africa, governments have spent decades rewriting constitutions, strengthening democratic institutions and replacing the visible symbols of colonial rule. Streets have been renamed. National flags have changed. School curricula have been rewritten to reflect African history rather than imperial narratives.
Courtrooms have proved different.
They remain among the most conservative public institutions, where continuity is often valued as highly as change. In many countries, a lawyer stepping into court today would encounter rituals that would have been instantly familiar to advocates practising half a century ago.
That is not necessarily because judges oppose reform.
Rather, the courts have traditionally viewed stability as one of their greatest strengths. Public confidence depends not only on the quality of judicial decisions but also on the perception that justice is impartial, predictable and insulated from shifting political or professional pressures.
It is against that backdrop that Uganda’s debate has attracted such close attention.
Different countries, different paths
South Africa offers perhaps the clearest example of how inherited courtroom traditions can evolve without triggering institutional conflict.
Following the end of apartheid, the country’s legal system underwent profound constitutional transformation. In 2007, the Supreme Court of Appeal issued a practice directive discouraging the use of feudal forms of address such as ‘My Lord’ and ‘My Lady’, preferring that judges be addressed simply as ‘the Court’.
The change mattered.
So did the way it happened.
It came from within the Judiciary itself, allowing reform to be presented as part of the courts’ own constitutional evolution rather than a challenge from outside.
Kenya has taken a less formal route.
When Willy Mutunga became Chief Justice in 2011, he deliberately broke with some of the symbols traditionally associated with judicial office, taking his oath in a business suit rather than the customary wig and ceremonial attire. His decision reflected a broader effort to make the Judiciary appear more accessible after the country’s constitutional reforms.
Yet Kenya, like Uganda, still largely retains traditional courtroom language.
Ghana has followed a similarly cautious path. Superior court judges continue to be addressed using colonial-era honorifics that many lawyers regard as expressions of respect rather than privilege. Nigeria has also preserved longstanding courtroom customs, despite periodic debate among academics and constitutional lawyers over whether such traditions still reflect the values of a modern republic.
Elsewhere, including Zimbabwe and Malawi, conversations about wigs, robes and courtroom ceremony emerge from time to time but rarely develop into organised institutional reform.
Uganda therefore occupies unusual territory.
It is attempting to change courtroom culture from the Bar rather than from the Bench.
That alone makes the outcome worth watching.
More than a symbolic dispute
It would be easy to dismiss the controversy as an argument over language.
That would overlook what both sides are actually defending.
For the Uganda Law Society, the issue is legitimacy. It argues that citizens should encounter a justice system that reflects constitutional equality rather than inherited social hierarchy. If judges derive authority from the Constitution, it asks, why should they continue to be addressed using titles rooted in Britain’s aristocratic past?
The Judiciary approaches the question from a different direction.
Its concern is institutional independence. Courts have historically determined their own procedures, etiquette and practice. Allowing an external organisation—even one representing officers of the court—to redefine courtroom protocol could, in its view, blur constitutional boundaries that exist to protect judicial autonomy.
Neither argument is easily dismissed.
One emphasises democratic symbolism.
The other emphasises constitutional structure.
Both claim to strengthen public confidence in the justice system.
That is precisely why the debate has become so compelling.
Respecting the office, not the office-holder
The Uganda Law Society’s case is not the only constitutional argument in play.
For UK-based Ghanaian lawyer Rev. George Asomaning, courtroom etiquette is less about hierarchy than about recognising the constitutional office judges occupy.
‘Courtroom etiquette that aligns with constitutional principle demonstrates respect for the office rather than merely the individual who occupies it,’ Asomaning told Africa Briefing.
He argues that judges derive their authority from the Constitution and the law, not from inherited privilege. In that context, bows and formal titles acknowledge the institution of justice rather than the individual occupying the Bench.
Asomaning captures that distinction in a simple phrase: ‘Respect the office, not the office-holder.’
Lawyers, he notes, routinely challenge judges’ rulings in higher courts while continuing to observe courtroom etiquette. The two are not contradictory. One reflects professional disagreement with a judicial decision; the other affirms respect for the constitutional role of an independent Judiciary and the rule of law.
His argument illustrates why the debate has become so finely balanced. For the Uganda Law Society, inherited courtroom rituals symbolise hierarchy and colonial legacy. For others, the same traditions reinforce impartiality, civility and public confidence in the administration of justice.
Symbols or substance?
The discussion does not end with courtroom protocol.
For some lawyers, the bigger question is whether changing titles and traditions will make the justice system work any better.
Accra-based Ghanaian lawyer Samuel Owusu Afriyie believes symbolic reforms should be judged alongside the practical realities of delivering justice.
‘The first question is what they replace it with. Will they use appellations from Buganda? For me, titles are not that important. What matters is the content of justice and the sanctity of the administration of justice. Those changes can be made, but the question is whether the rules that govern that society are fair. Will wearing an African grass skirt make the delivery of justice better?’ he told Africa Briefing.
Afriyie’s point reflects another strand of legal thinking across the continent. Symbolic reforms may have value, but they should not become a substitute for substantive reform. Public confidence in the courts depends less on what judges are called than on whether justice is delivered fairly, efficiently and independently.
Taken together, the views of Asomaning and Afriyie highlight the complexity of the debate. One sees courtroom etiquette as an expression of constitutional order; the other asks whether changing inherited traditions should take precedence over improving the quality of justice itself.
In that sense, Uganda’s dispute extends well beyond courtroom etiquette. It has become a wider conversation about how African legal systems should balance symbolic decolonisation with the harder task of strengthening judicial independence, improving access to justice and maintaining public confidence in the rule of law.
What happens next?
The immediate outcome remains uncertain.
The Judiciary has yet to issue a formal nationwide practice direction responding to the Uganda Law Society’s proposals. Until it does, individual judges may respond differently when advocates appear before them using the new forms of address.
Whatever the courts ultimately decide, the conversation has already escaped the courtroom.
Law societies, judges and constitutional scholars across Africa are now discussing a question that has lingered quietly since independence: which inherited legal traditions continue to serve the administration of justice, and which survive simply because no one has challenged them?
Uganda has become the first country in recent years to place that question so squarely before the public.
It is unlikely to be the last.
Courtroom language rarely captures national attention.
Yet in Uganda, a debate over two familiar words—’My Lord’—has become a lens through which to examine something much larger: how post-colonial democracies modernise institutions without weakening the authority that gives those institutions their legitimacy.
That conversation will almost certainly outlast this particular dispute.
Whether the Uganda Law Society’s directive is eventually embraced, modified or rejected, it has already achieved something significant. It has compelled one of Africa’s oldest institutions to explain not only how justice is delivered, but why its traditions endure.
In the end, that may prove to be the real legacy of this controversy. Not the disappearance of a title or the abandonment of a bow, but a continent-wide conversation about who has the authority to redefine the symbols of justice—and when the time has finally come to do so.
