By Buregeya Rodney Edgar 

I still remember the exact moment I realised what I had signed up for. I was standing in Katonga Hall at Hotel Africana, clutching a stack of case files and trying to recall the correct protocol for calling a case. In the same room, seventeen universities were preparing to argue one of the most sensitive constitutional law questions in Uganda today. And I, a first-time moot court clerk, was about to become part of the machinery that would make it all run. 

Long before I stepped into the competition room, the weight of the moot problem had already settled on me. The theme, “Reproductive and Gender Justice in Uganda: Navigating Constitutional Rights, Public Interest and Social Values,” was far from abstract. The fictional State of Ngetta stood accused of failing to provide essential reproductive health services and establish a legal framework enabling young women and girls to access these services. The respondents defended age and parental consent requirements as legitimate protections for children. 

As a clerk, my job was not to argue either side, yet I found myself drawn into the arguments in ways I had not anticipated. The questions the mooters raised about maternal mortality, consent and the State’s constitutional obligations were questions that Ugandan courts continue to grapple with. I was not just facilitating a competition. I was watching the next generation of Ugandan lawyers wrestle with the future of reproductive justice in their country. 

The Machinery Behind the Moot 

People often think of a moot court competition as a matter for oralists and judges. The clerk’s role may be largely invisible to outsiders, but it is an essential link that holds the whole competition together. I was responsible for facilitating the smooth running of proceedings, calling cases, managing time and keeping the lines of communication open between the bench, the registry and the teams. 

It sounds administrative, and it is, but it is also deeply legal. When a judge asks for a case file, the clerk must know which file, which volume and which page. When a team’s time is running out, the clerk must signal without disrupting the flow of argument. When a panel retires to deliberate, the clerk must ensure that every mark sheet is accounted for and that the integrity of the process is safeguarded. 

There were moments when I felt like a stagehand in a theatre, unseen but essential. Then there were moments when a judge would look at me and say simply, “Call the case,” and I would remember that the theatre of law is not theatre at all. The procedures, discipline and decisions of the courtroom carry real significance, even in a simulated setting. 

The Atmosphere of the Courtroom 

Nothing prepared me for the intensity of the preliminary rounds. The room was not a real courtroom, but it carried the same gravity. The mooters, many of them in their twenties, stood before judges who had spent decades on the bench. The panel for the final round comprised Supreme Court Justice Hon. Lady Justice Catherine Bamugemereire, retired Justice Hon. Stephen Martin Egonda Ntende, Court of Appeal Justices Hon. Geoffrey Wilfred Kiryabwire and Hon. Lady Justice Eva K. Luswata, and Hon. Lady Justice Aisha Naluzze Batala. 

The fact that judges of that calibre gave their time to a student competition told me something about how seriously the Ugandan judiciary takes this moot. 

I watched oralists who had clearly spent months preparing. I watched them stumble, recover and regain their footing. I watched judges challenge them with questions that had no easy answers, and I saw courtroom discipline, professional dress, decorum and punctuality upheld as essential professional standards. 

As a clerk, I had the privilege of seeing the competition from a vantage point that few others had. I saw the nerves before a round and the relief afterwards. I saw the quiet conversations between teammates in the corridors. I saw the judges’ faces as they deliberated and the seriousness with which they approached their deliberations. This was not a game to them; it was a rehearsal for the real work of constitutional advocacy in Uganda. 

What I Learned About the Law 

The 13th CEHURD Moot was, for me, a crash course in a kind of law that does not always get taught in a lecture hall. I learned that the best oral advocates do not simply recite prepared submissions; they argue, listen to the bench and adapt. They know when to press a point and when to concede one. 

I learned that the most compelling submissions were not necessarily the longest. The judges at the final round were clear about this:

“Identify two or three key arguments and lead with them. Ground everything in law and decided cases. Paraphrase the facts rather than reading them.”

These were practical lessons that I will carry into my own career as a legal practitioner. 

I also learned something about the relationship between health and human rights that I had not fully grasped before. The moot problem was not hypothetical in any meaningful sense. The issues it raised, including access to emergency services, the legal framework for adolescent reproductive health and the tension between parental authority and young people’s autonomy, are live questions in Uganda. The CEHURD Moot provides a platform for future lawyers to examine these questions and prepare to address them through the law. 

The Human Side of the Bench 

Perhaps the most unexpected part of my experience as a clerk was the humanity I witnessed. There was the judge who, after a particularly tense round, took a moment to commend a mooter for their composure under pressure. There was the team that lost a round but still stayed to watch the next one, notebooks open and ready to learn. There was the quiet pride on the face of a coach whose students had demonstrated how far they had come. 

And there was the moment, after the final round, when the results were announced. Islamic University in Uganda, Females Campus, was declared the winner, having competed against sixteen other universities. The room erupted. The winning team’s joy was genuine, but so was the disappointment of the runners-up. I stood at the edge of it all and felt something I had not expected: gratitude. Gratitude for having been part of something that mattered. 

What it Means to Be a Clerk 

I did not argue a single case at the 13th CEHURD Moot. I did not draft a memorial or deliver an oral submission, but I was there. I was part of the machinery that allowed the arguments to happen. I was, in my own small way, a custodian of the process. 

CEHURD recognised the contributions of the law students, coordinators, clerks and judges who made the 13th edition possible. That recognition matters because the law is not shaped only by those who argue and those who judge. The administration of justice also depends on those who help keep the process honest, orderly and fair. 

I came into this moot competition as a first-time clerk, uncertain of what to expect. I left with a deeper understanding of the law, a profound respect for the advocates who argued their cases and a renewed commitment to the kind of legal work that CEHURD exists to promote. 

The 13th Annual National Inter-University Constitutional Law Moot Court Competition was more than a competition. It was a reminder that the law, at its best, is a tool for justice. I am grateful to have been behind the bench, witnessing that pursuit unfold. 

About the author 

Edgar is a Legal Clerk at the Center for Health, Human Rights and Development (CEHURD).