The prophet of confusion has landed at dawn.
In the dead quiet after Prince Paul Kafero has gone to his final sleep, you’ve come to wake his name, his children, his legacy with noise, cameras, and lab slips.
You’ve woken the dead and left the living lost in the forest.
This is not truth-seeking. This is tradition-burning.
In Mutima Kafuluma Kyotera Buddu, we, the Batembuuzi, don’t settle blood with beakers.
We Twalula. We call the elders. We follow the river back to the ancestors.
You cannot cross our ancestors’ river in Kafuluma carrying bats over a child’s head, seated alone on a spiritual dry skin, if you are not Mutima. You were rejected as an infant, and shame will not follow you by the time you leave Bbale Village.
What has been done on Kafeero is not culture. That’s our traditional trespass.
Science is good. But when the hand of Lucifer is in it, science becomes a sword.
You’ve made DNA the VAR of childhood. And just like VAR killed the rhythm of football, your DNA circus is killing the chemistry of childhood in the African home.
Look around you.
We have over 70 tribes in Uganda. I have never seen Banyankore, Bahima, Bakiga, Basoga, Acholi, Badiama, Bagisu, Karamajong, etc., trading their children’s dignity in the name of “DNA.”
It is only in Buganda that we have picked up the hammer to dismantle the charisma of our own customs.
We are the ones tearing down the very thing that makes us Baganda.
You’ve paraded 21 children of the late Kafeero in public shame.
A man, 40 years old, called Mugerwa all his life, is now told he is nobody. Where does he go to find a clan? Where does he go to find belonging?
Absurd. Cruel. And intentional.
This is how you steal the steam from our cultural identity.
You line children up like exhibits and plaster shame on their foreheads for the world to watch.
For 35 years, you answered to a name your grandfather gave you. Today, a paper says it means nothing.
What kind of country does that to its children?
And the precedent you are setting will break families.
If we continue this way, homes will collapse into disunity. Brothers will become strangers. Clans will become courtrooms.
You are not solving a dispute. You are planting a forest of fatherless, clanless children.
Look at Zambia. Their late President lay in a morgue for a whole year until the court said: The family, not the state, decides where he is buried.
Why?
Because dignity matters. Because blood and custom matter. Because even in death, a family’s word must count.
So I say this: Leave my children when I am gone.
My father gave them names. My late sister Ludiya gave them names. My late Senga gave them names. My mother gave them names.
That is lineage. That is belonging. That is Buganda.
If you must test Kafeero in the interest of the 21 stranded children, then test properly.
Do a second DNA test in two different foreign labs. South Africa and Russia have labs with integrity.
But don’t drag Africa to an artificial court and call it justice.
Let Prince Job Paul Kafeero rest in peace.
Don’t kill his guitar. Don’t silence his everlasting lyrics made in Masaba, Kyagwe, Nkokonjeru.
Don’t kill his children’s right to belong just because you want to win an argument.
God help us. But God also gave us brains.
Use them.
Stop. Think. Return to sense.
Let the elders speak. Let the children be named. Let the ancestors rest.
Let Buganda remain Buganda.
Because if we kill our customs to win a case, we will wake up one day with no clan to call us home.
