COMMENT | DERRICK KYATUKA | It’s the WhatsApp notifications that do it. Another photo. Another name. Another last-seen location. And suddenly every parent pauses, heart racing, asking the quietest but loudest question: could my child be next?

In Kampala and across Uganda reports of missing children feel disturbingly frequent. Every few days, another emergency notification circulates through family groups and neighbourhood chats.

The latest is that of Abraham Mpirwe Tumwesigye, who went missing from his home on December 12 in Ddungu Zone, Kawempe Division. His story is not just a headline; it is a mirror reflecting a fear many families are living with daily.

This is not about panic. It’s about pattern. And patterns demand attention.

We have reached a point where parents hesitate to send a child to the nearest shop for soap. Where holidays, once a season of laughter, now come with anxiety, because children are left at home with helpers, guardians, or sometimes alone as parents hustle to survive.

Where communities whisper about dark motives and sinister explanations, born from grief, uncertainty, and unanswered questions.

When children go missing and some are later found dead, the nation’s soul is shaken. In the absence of timely information and visible justice, rumours fill the silence.

This is dangerous, not because people are irrational, but because fear thrives where trust is thin. What we need now is not hysteria, but honesty, clarity, and action.

First, child protection must move from rhetoric to reality.

Uganda has laws, institutions, and policies meant to protect children. But protection does not live on paper it lives in neighbourhoods, schools, police posts, health centres, and homes.

It lives in how quickly a missing child report is taken seriously. In how professionally investigations are handled. In how openly authorities communicate with the public. Silence creates space for speculation; transparency builds trust.

Second, parents and guardians are not to blame, but they are central.

The economic pressure on families is real. Many parents leave early and return late, doing everything they can to put food on the table. But these realities make vigilance even more necessary. Knowing who your child is with.

Teaching children not just obedience, but awareness, how to identify danger, who to trust, where to run, how to speak up. Child safety conversations should be as normal as reminding them to do homework.

Third, communities must reclaim their role.

We used to know our neighbours. We noticed when a child wasn’t around. We asked questions. Community vigilance is not about mob justice or suspicion; it’s about care.

Local leaders, religious institutions, landlords, boda boda stages, market vendors, and residents all form the invisible safety net that can either catch a child or let them fall through.

Community sensitisation matters. Not once. Not during crises only. But continuously. Children should be taught about abduction risks in age-appropriate ways.

Caregivers and house helpers should be vetted and supported, not left isolated with responsibility they are unprepared for.

Fourth, security agencies must be visible, human, and responsive.

Every missing child case should feel urgent not just to the family, but to the system. Fast response, proper documentation, use of technology, and coordination across divisions are not luxuries; they are necessities.

Equally important is how officers treat grieving families. Compassion is not weakness, it is professionalism.

Finally, this must remain a people-centred conversation.

This is not about politics. Not about seasons. Not about fear-mongering. It is about children, our children, whose lives are precious, whose futures are non-negotiable.

When a child disappears, it is not just a family that loses sleep; it is a country that loses its sense of safety.

We cannot normalize missing children. We cannot scroll past their faces and move on. A society is judged by how it protects its most vulnerable, and right now, Uganda must look honestly at itself and choose to do better.

Let us speak up. Let us watch out for one another. Let us demand systems that work. And above all, let us remember: protecting children is not someone else’s job. It is all of ours.

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Derrick Kyatuka. The writer is a humanitarian Communicator