Kiteezi Crisis One Year Later: Fresh Garbage still piling Up

Updated by Faith Barbara N Ruhinda at 1152 EAT on Wednesday 13 August 2025

“Under a pale moon on the night of August 9, 2024, most of Kiteezi slept in uneasy silence.”

By dawn, parts of the village had vanished. In the early hours before sunrise, the towering mountain of garbage that had loomed over Kiteezi for decades—a man-made hill of rotting waste, plastic, and industrial debris—collapsed without warning.

The landslide buried homes, flattened gardens, and claimed lives in an instant. For years, residents had lived in uneasy coexistence with the Kiteezi landfill—Kampala’s main dumping ground since 1997—aware of the risks, yet with few alternatives.

Residents had grown used to the stench, the swarms of flies, and the occasional small slide of soil and rubbish after heavy rains. But no one expected the hill to collapse with such sudden, devastating force.

A year on, Kiteezi is still mourning its dead—and searching for a future.

On paper, much has happened since the landslide. President Yoweri Museveni pledged emergency support: five million shillings for each life lost, and one million for every survivor. Relief trucks were dispatched. Cabinet approved billions for landfill stabilization, drainage repairs, and even the acquisition of a new dumping site.

But on the ground, the reality tells a different story. The road into Kiteezi remains a patchwork of potholes. Garbage trucks still arrive daily, dumping fresh waste onto the same unstable ground. Families displaced by the collapse continue to live with relatives or in cramped, temporary rentals—still waiting for the compensation many say never came.

They had grown used to the stench, the swarms of flies, and the occasional small slide of soil and rubbish after heavy rains. But no one expected the hill to give way with such sudden, brutal force.

A year later, Kiteezi is still struggling to bury its dead—and to imagine a future.

On paper, much has happened since the disaster. President Yoweri Museveni pledged emergency funds: five million shillings for every life lost, and one million for each survivor. Relief trucks were dispatched. Cabinet approved billions of shillings for landfill stabilization, drainage clearing, and even the acquisition of a new dumping site.

But on the ground, the picture is far less promising. The road into Kiteezi remains riddled with potholes. Garbage trucks still arrive daily, unloading fresh waste onto the same unstable ground. Many of the families displaced by the collapse are still sleeping in cramped rentals or sheltering with relatives—waiting for the “compensation” they say never came.

“President Museveni, you have given out money everywhere,” said Joshua Ariho, whose home was destroyed. “But we who had homes in Kiteezi are now sleeping on the streets.”

For Ariho and others, the past year has been a blur of grief and bureaucracy, marked by unanswered questions: Who is truly responsible for the collapse? Why wasn’t the landfill relocated, despite years of warnings? And after so much public money was allocated, why do so many still feel forgotten?

The Kiteezi landfill was never meant to last this long. Established in 1997 on 36 acres of land, it was designed as a temporary solution to Kampala’s growing waste problem.

Within a decade, the Kiteezi landfill had already exceeded its capacity. By 2023, the Kampala Capital City Authority (KCCA) Public Health Directorate was issuing public warnings: the growing waste mountain had become dangerously unstable.

Their recommendations were clear—either relocate the landfill or expand it onto an adjoining four-acre plot. Land had already been acquired in Mukono District for a modern waste facility, but the project stalled. Kiteezi remained the city’s only dumping site, taking in an estimated 2,500 tonnes of garbage each day.

When the collapse finally came, Kampala Lord Mayor Erias Lukwago called it “a tragedy that was bound to happen.” President Museveni was more blunt: “Who allowed people to live so close to such a hazardous heap?”

The disaster might have sparked calls for better safety protocols—but it also unearthed deeper dysfunction within the city’s governance.

In August 2025, Mayor Lukwago appeared before Parliament’s Committee on Commissions, Statutory Authorities, and State Enterprises (COSASE), where he made a startling allegation: KCCA officials had stolen the landfill’s weighbridge—a critical tool for monitoring waste volumes—and smuggled it to Rwanda.

“I have the Auditor General’s report,” Lukwago told the committee. “It showed our weighbridge at Kiteezi was stolen by KCCA officials.”

KCCA’s legal director, Frank Rusa, confirmed that the Directorate of Criminal Investigations is actively investigating the case.

For residents of Kiteezi, the alleged theft is more than a scandal—it’s symbolic of a broken system, where corruption and neglect have turned a public health hazard into a deadly catastrophe.

Today, life in the shadow of the garbage hill goes on. The air still smells of rot and decay. But for many, the landfill remains their only means of survival.

Men, women, and children comb through the mounds of fresh waste, salvaging plastic bottles, jerrycans, and containers to sell to recycling companies—risking their health for a few thousand shillings a day.

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