What gives a man the right to grab you at Capital Shoppers Nakawa?

What happens when a simple act—holding a rail—becomes an excuse for violation? What does it mean when a corporation tells you your safety is less important than its profit? And what are you supposed to do when they look you in the eye and say, "We are untouchables"?

This is not a complaint. It is evidence.

It was early evening on December 27, 2025. The day after Boxing day. A busy time. I entered Capital Shoppers Supermarket in Nakawa, Kampala, opposite Makerere University Business School. My purpose was simple. To shop. The process of entry was routine. I approached the escalator to ascend to the upper shopping floor.

At the bottom of the moving stairs, a man was seated. His position suggested authority, or a purpose. As I stepped onto the escalator, my hand moved instinctively toward the right-hand rail for balance. His hand moved faster. He did not wave. He did not point. He grabbed my breast. The contact was deliberate, a violation dressed as instruction. Since when does a broken rail justify a groping hand?

His words followed the act. You should not touch the right rail. He said it was broken. He claimed the rail was covered in cellotape and that touching it would throw you off, move you backwards instead of propelling you forward. The explanation was a secondary assault. It sought to reframe a sexual violation as a safety briefing.

I stepped back. The cognitive dissonance was immediate and sharp. Two facts presented themselves with equal, glaring urgency. A man had just placed his hand on my body without consent. And the management of a major supermarket knowingly operated a faulty escalator, a mechanical hazard, without adequate warning or repair.

I examined the rail. A strip of cellotape was indeed wound around it. That was the totality of the safety measure. No sign at the base of the escalator. No cautionary notice reading, ‘Faulty right rail, please hold left side’. No attendant with a whistle or a flag to direct customers verbally. Just a man seated in a chair, who chose physical violation as his method of communication.

My next action was logical. I called the police. I dialled the number. There was no response. I called again. And again. The line rang into a void. The institutional response, the formal channel for reporting a crime, was a silent one. It was my first practical lesson in the disconnect between civic expectation and on-ground reality.

Management arrived. Their explanation was a masterpiece of misplaced priorities. They acknowledged the escalator was faulty. They said they could not service it because this was a busy period. Christmas. Customers kept coming in. The subtext was not hidden. Profit over safety. Continuous revenue was more critical than immediate repair of a machine that carried hundreds of people per hour. Let us be clear. This was a choice. They chose money. They chose to risk your body on a faulty machine. What does that tell you about your value to them?

Then, they addressed the assault. “Oh, he did not mean to touch you.” The phrase was a dismissal wrapped in absurdity. He did. His hand made contact with a part of my body that is not touched by strangers. Intent is irrelevant. The act is the fact. This defence opened a darker line of questioning. How many other women had he touched, or groped, over the days or weeks this escalator remained in its defective state? Was this his established, sanctioned method of crowd control?

Their request was telling. “Please do not call the police.” The concern was not for my distress, nor for the correction of a hazardous environment. The concern was for containment. For the avoidance of scandal. Then came the statement that crystallised the entire encounter. “Even if you report us, we are untouchables. This supermarket belongs to people in power so police cannot help you.”

I let the sentence hang in the air. Think about that word. Untouchable. It is a word that dissolves contracts, consumer rights, and bodily autonomy. It is a word that builds walls. Have you heard it before? It was not a boast. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the calm certainty of those who understand the system. It was the core revelation. For thirty minutes, I stood there. The man at the bottom of the escalator remained seated. He continued his watch. He was safe. He knew his actions were sanctioned by the local management. And that management, in turn, felt insulated by the shadow of ‘people in power’.

This incident is not an isolated moment of poor service. It is a case study in layered failure. It is a physical blueprint of how impunity is constructed and experienced in everyday life.

The first layer is the bodily autonomy of women. A man felt entitled to use his hand to stop me, to correct me. This is a pervasive sickness. It reduces women’s bodies to objects that can be manipulated in public spaces to make a point, however trivial. The right to movement without harassment is a fundamental one. It was violated in a space that should be neutral, a supermarket aisle, an escalator step.

The second layer is corporate negligence. A broken escalator is a serious hazard. Escalators can cause severe injury when they malfunction. The decision to keep it running with a piece of cellotape and a roaming groper as its only safety protocol is a profound dereliction of duty. It places every customer at risk. It values shillings over safety. Their excuse of busyness is an admission of this calculus.

The third layer is the failure of public response. The police did not answer. This is a known reality for many citizens. The emergency number can be a ghost line. This failure actively enables the smaller tyrannies of men in chairs and the negligence of businesses. It creates a landscape where resolution is privatised, where you must rely on your own voice and your own courage, because the system designed to protect you is absent.

The final, binding layer is the culture of impunity. The phrase ‘we are untouchables’ is the keystone. It explains everything else. It explains why the man remained in his chair. It explains why management feared no consequence for the broken machine. It explains their attempt to dissuade me from seeking official justice. They operate with the confidence that connection to power is a shield. It is a shield against accountability for sexual assault. It is a shield against accountability for endangering the public.

This is the architecture. A foundation of gender-based disrespect. Walls built with corporate negligence and profit obsession. A roof of failed public institutions. And the lock on the door is the claimed, untouchable connection to power.

I write this not for sympathy. I write it as documentation. I write it to ask the questions that management could not answer.

So I ask you, Capital Shoppers Nakawa, and every entity built on this blueprint:

What right does any employee have to touch a customer’s body?

Why is a faulty escalator not immediately shut down and repaired?

Why is a simple warning sign considered too much effort?

Why does a busy day justify endangering lives?

And I ask you, the reader: How many such architectures do we move through every day? How many spaces operate on the same principles of disregard, shielded by the same aura of untouchability? The supermarket in Nakawa is just one building. But the blueprint is copied everywhere. It is copied in the government office where a ‘tip’ is required for standard service. It is copied on the road where traffic rules bend for certain number plates. It is copied in the silence that meets reports of misconduct by the connected.

To challenge one instance is to challenge the blueprint. It is to assert that no one is untouchable. That every woman’s body is her own. That every customer’s safety is non-negotiable. That a busy day is never an excuse for a broken machine or a broken code of conduct. That power, ultimately, must be answerable.

I left the supermarket after thirty minutes. The escalator continued to run. The man remained in his chair. The cellotape held. But the silence was broken. That is where we must always begin. By naming the thing. By describing the architecture, brick by brick. Only then can we start to dismantle it.