BUILDING IN THE DARK: Why Architecture Eludes Critique

A House with No Shadows

We do not question the roof above our heads.

We do not critique the corridor we walk through ten times before noon, the boda stage shade we shelter under when the clouds gather, or the dusty church we attend every Sunday.

Architecture is everywhere, yet nowhere in our public conversation. It is as present as air, but just as invisible — until it fails.

Unlike music or literature, architecture is not visited. It is lived. Slept in. Mourned in. Voted under.

We do not experience buildings for two hours and leave with an opinion. We marry inside them. We give birth in them. We grow numb inside them. And for that very reason — we rarely critique them.

Not because we shouldn’t.

But because we often can’t.

“Who Paid for This?”: The Owner’s Invisible Hand

Critiquing a building is not like critiquing a song or a book. Because when you say “This doesn’t work,” someone somewhere hears,“Are you saying I wasted my money?”

Or worse, “Are you saying I lack taste?”

You walk into a new shopping mall in Kampala. There are escalators that don’t work. Shops that never opened. Tiles that glisten but halls that echo emptiness.

You want to say: “This place feels unfinished.”

But you stop.

Because you weren’t there when the funding stalled.

You didn’t see the developer battle with URA, or wait six months for an inspection certificate, or agree to cheaper finishes because the Chinese loan came late.

You critique a building from the outside — but it was born on the inside.

In Uganda, especially, every building is a battle. A compromise. A personal journey.

The man who built his Bugolobi apartment block may have wanted timber eaves, open stairwells, and clay tiles — but ended up with paint and plaster because the rent market demanded it.

So when you say, “It looks bland,” you may unknowingly be critiquing survival.

And how dare you critique survival?

Familiarity Breeds Silence

Everyone in Uganda is an untrained architect.

The boda man suggests how the verandah should be extended.

The landlord “knows” what tenants want.

Your uncle tells you why that flat roof will leak.

Everyone has a say — but no one wants to hear a professional critique.

This over-familiarity dulls the space for honest discourse.

People live in the buildings they commission.

And so critique becomes personal, not professional.

To say “this home is poorly lit” is to say “your idea of home is wrong.”

Even when the design leads to moldy walls or dark living rooms — the critique feels like an insult, not advice.

So most remain silent. Even professionals, who ought to speak the most, choose to nod and move on.

Why offend a future client?

Critique vs Culture: The Postcolonial Tightrope

In Uganda, architecture is wrapped in the fragile cloth of identity.

Say a building looks odd, and you may be accused of mimicking the West.

Say it looks elegant, and you may be praised for “thinking outside the Ugandan box.”

You can’t win.

When someone builds a mansion in Najjera with a Greek-columned façade, or a bungalow in Mityana with Roman arches — you cannot simply say “this doesn’t fit the climate.”

Because they didn’t build for the climate. They built for a dream. For status. For arrival.

And perhaps rightly so — in a country where architecture has long been a foreign imposition, now it becomes a personal expression.

But when expression trumps function, how can critique survive?

The Building That Doesn’t Move

Once built, a building doesn’t apologize.

It doesn’t get deleted like a tweet.

It doesn’t return to the studio for edits.

That church in Lira with no cross-ventilation?

It’s there to stay.

That school in Bushenyi with too many sharp corners and no courtyard?

Built. Painted. Occupied.

Children will grow up in it. Teachers will retire in it.

You don’t critique a building the way you critique a painting.

Because you’re not standing in a gallery. You’re standing in someone’s dream. Someone’s savings. Someone’s ego.

And dreams are sacred. Even flawed ones.

So How Do You Speak in the Dark?

Perhaps, then, architectural critique in Uganda must look different.

It cannot be about comparing styles. It cannot shame poor decisions.

It must begin with empathy.

The architect must ask: What story led to this building?

The critic must ask: Who shaped this space? And why?

And the public must ask: How does this building shape us back?

To critique architecture honestly, one must walk with the humility of not knowing all the reasons something was done — budget, beliefs, climate, client, chaos.

Critique, in this context, must be slow. Gentle. Curious.

Maybe it isn’t even critique at all. Maybe it’s conversation. Dialogue.

An invitation to reflect — together — on what spaces do to us, and what we do with them in return.

Let's Reflect

To build is to dream in cement.

To critique is not to crush that dream, but to whisper: Could this dream breathe more? Could it serve more? Could it love better?

We may never fully know the reasons behind every architectural choice.

We may never untangle the client’s wishes from the contractor’s shortcuts, or the architect’s vision from the politician’s interference.

But we must still try to speak.

Even if softly.

Even if in the dark.