Knowledge can be a monopoly, but wisdom and intelligence are not a monopoly; they are God-given.
The gods of Kifuuta, Kyotera, Buddu have seen from above and beyond the knowledge of man. And what they see is painful. What they see is bitter. Something is not adding up with our football league and the mobilization of fans.
Create a position for the National League Chief Mobilizer, with a financed, funded office.
Football has failed to learn something from musicians or artists. We are just chasing wind and the scent from Europe. We are running after a smell that will never feed us.
I don't know who bewitched Uganda football enthusiasm and patriotism. Who bewitched us? Who put a curse on our own joy?
Yesterday, at Measach Semakula, the DJ was shouting Manchester United and Arsenal instead of SC Villa and Express or KCCA FC, Vipers FC. In our own home. On our own soil. In our own stadium. A Ugandan DJ, a Ugandan crowd, shouting for England. Shouting for a team that does not know Kampala exists. Shouting for a team that will never come to play in Wankulukuku.
My heart broke. My heart bled. My supu boiled over.
It will be very difficult for Uganda football fans and enthusiasts to come back unless something fundamental is done about our local quality football. Very difficult. Because you cannot sell rotten meat and expect people to pay for it. You cannot sell boring football and expect people to leave their homes. You cannot serve cold supu without salt and expect people to lick the plate.
A single musical show pulls more paying fans than a football game in Uganda. One musician. One microphone. One night. He fills a ground. Football, 22 players, two teams, a whole league, cannot fill a stadium. That is a shame. That is a wound. That is a curse.
Katonda sasila Uganda football. God, have mercy on Uganda football.
BUGANDA MASAZA SHOWED US THE WAY, AND WE REFUSED TO LEARN
Look at Buganda Masaza. They have made it. They have the numbers. They have maintained class.
Why? Because Masaza is not just football. Masaza is identity. Masaza is blood. Masaza is: I am from Buddu; I must defend Buddu. I am from Kyaggwe; I will die for Kyaggwe. A man will pay to watch his clan fight, even if the football is not perfect. Because he is not watching football; he is watching himself.
Masaza understood mobilization. Masaza understood music. Masaza understood drama. Masaza understood that a fan is not a spectator; a fan is a soldier. Masaza has supu. Masaza has drums. Masaza has women ululating. Masaza has old men crying. Masaza has young boys fighting for a flag. That is supu. That is flavour. That is life.
Our league forgot that. Our league became offices. Became papers. Became suits. Became meetings without soul. Became a league for officials, not for people. Became cold posho without supu. Who eats posho without supu? Nobody.
Don't say I am fighting my young brother Moses at the helm, but football is at the drains. I love my brother. I respect my brother. But truth is truth. Football is in the drain. Football is crying in the gutter. Football is begging for fans like a beggar begging for coins. Football is a beautiful woman who has refused to bathe and now wonders why no man wants to marry her.
WHEN I WAS PRESIDENT OF SC VILLA, I FILLED A STADIUM ALONE
Let me tell you my own story, because I do not speak what I have not lived.
When I was president of SC Villa, I am the only one who would fill a stadium. Alone. One man. One voice. One charisma. I would call, and the people would come. I would speak, and the stadium would shake. Villa was not just a team. Villa was a movement. Villa was a religion. Villa was joy. Villa was supu with extra meat.
I went away, but I didn't go with those fans. So what happened? Where did they go? Did I carry them in my pocket? Did I hide them in Kifuuta? No. They are still here. They are in Kampala. They are in Masaka. They are in Mbarara. They are in Gulu. They are waiting. They are hungry. But no one is calling them. They are like a wife whose husband stopped calling her sweet names. She is still there, but her heart has gone cold.
Football needs a mobilizer with charisma, someone the public believes in. Not a manager. Not a treasurer. Not a man with a tie and a file. A mobilizer. A man who can make a child leave his PlayStation and run to the stadium. A man who can make a boda man leave his stage and pay 20,000 to watch his team. A man who can make a market woman close her stall early because Villa is playing. That is mobilization. That is fire.
I blended musicians with football, and it worked. Numbers swelled. Stadiums filled. People danced. People sang. Football became a concert. Football became a festival. Football became life. Football became supu with pilipili, with flavour, with heat that makes you sweat and ask for more.
But I was fought left and right. I was fought by jealous men. I was fought by small men who wanted the glory but did not want the crowd. I was fought because I made football too big for their small offices. They wanted a small league they could control in a small room. I wanted a big league that could shake a nation.
And now look. The stadium is empty. The DJ is shouting Arsenal. The fans are at home watching Europe. The league is a ghost. A ghost with a tie.
NO FUN WITHOUT FAN, THAT IS THE PRINCIPLE
Hear me now, because this is the law I am bringing from Kifuuta.
No fun without fan. That is the principle. That is the best way forward.
No fan, no fun. No fan, no football. No fan, no money. No fan, no glory.
A stadium without fans is a church without Christians. It is a grave. It is a desert. It is a cooking pot without fire. You can play the best football in the world in an empty stadium, and it will still be dead. Because football is not played for the grass. Football is played for the people.
Musicians know this. A musician will never perform for empty chairs. He will beg, he will sing, he will dance, he will do anything to bring the fan. He knows: no fan, no show. He adds supu. He adds dancers. He adds lights. He adds jokes. He adds love. Football forgot this. Football started playing for officials, for cameras, for FIFA papers. Football forgot the fan is the boss.
From today, let every decision be tested with one question: Will this bring the fan? If it will not bring the fan, throw it away. If the kickoff time chases the fan, change it. If the ticket price chases the fan, cut it. If the dirty toilet chases the fan, clean it. If the boring football chases the fan, fix it. If the game has no supu, add supu.
No fun without fan. Write it on the gate. Write it on the jersey. Write it on the hearts of every president, every coach, every player. The fan is not a beggar. The fan is the owner. The fan is the god of football. The fan is the supu that makes the posho sweet.
LET US MANUFACTURE PLAYERS, DO NOT WAIT FOR BORN PLAYERS
And listen to this, because many people are sleeping on this truth.
Football-born players come once in a while. Once in a generation. You cannot sit and wait for a Magid Musisi to fall from heaven. You cannot sit and wait for a Majid to be born again. You cannot sit and pray for a miracle player while your academies are dead. Miracles are good, but factories are better.
Let us manufacture players. Yes, manufacture them. Because players are not only born; players are made.
I can lead to manufacture players who can win with swagger. Players who walk into a stadium like lions. Players who dribble with arrogance. Players who score and celebrate like kings. Players who make a child say, "I want to be like him." Players who have supu in their feet. Players whose legs speak Luganda, English, and football at the same time.
How do we manufacture them? We take a 10-year-old from Buddu, from Kyotera, from Arua, from Soroti; we give him a ball, we give him food, we give him school, we give him discipline, we give him a coach who loves him, and we give him a stage every week. In 5 years, you will not recognize him. He will be a machine. He will be a star. He will be swagger on legs. He will be a boy who was once eating cassava in the village, now eating goals in Nakivubo.
Tanzania did not wait. Egypt did not wait. Sudan did not wait. They manufactured. They built academies. They built leagues for young boys. They gave them games, not just training. That is why their players have swagger. Our players have fear because we did not manufacture them; we just picked them from the street on match day. You cannot pick a mango before it is ripe and expect it to be sweet.
Give me the mandate, give me the Indaba, and I will manufacture players. Players who can win. Players who can dance with the ball. Players who can make the stadium explode. Not players who hide. Not players who fear. Players with swagger, players with fire, players with Kifuuta Omujwa. Players who will make a grandmother in the village stand up and dance.
WHY CAN WE NOT BENCHMARK TANZANIA, EGYPT, SUDAN?
Now answer me this, my sons. This question burns my chest like hot supu.
Tanzania league fills the stadiums. Why? Tanzania is our neighbour. Tanzania eats the same matoke. Tanzania drinks the same water. But their stadiums are full. Their fans sing. Their Simba and Yanga fill 60,000 people. 60,000! We cannot fill 6,000. Why can we not do what Tanzania does? Are Tanzanians more human than us? No. They just added supu. They added pride. They added show.
Why can we not benchmark Tanzania, Egypt, Sudan, and even South Sudan, which has more fans in its stadiums?
Egypt. Egypt has Al Ahly and Zamalek. When they play, Cairo stops. The whole country stops. The whole Arab world stops. They made football a religion. They made it a war of love. They made it a derby that makes blood boil. Why can we not learn from Egypt?
Sudan. Sudan, a country that has seen war, a country that has seen pain, yet their stadiums fill. Their fans come. Their Al Hilal and Al Merrikh make noise that shakes Khartoum. If Sudan can fill a stadium in war, why can Uganda not fill a stadium in peace? That is a question that should make us hide our faces.
And even South Sudan. South Sudan, our young brother, our baby brother, has more fans in its stadiums. South Sudan, that is still building itself, still bleeding, still struggling, yet its people come to the stadium. They come with drums. They come with songs. They come with pride. They come with supu in their hearts.
What is wrong with us? What bewitched us? Are we cursed? No, we are not cursed. We are just lazy. We are just proud. We are just refusing to learn. We are just cooking without fire.
Let us go to Tanzania and learn. Let us go to Egypt and learn. Let us go to Sudan and learn. Let us go to South Sudan and learn. Let us humble ourselves and ask: How do you fill your stadium? How do you love your league? How do you make your DJ shout your own team? How do you add supu to your football?
A wise man benchmarks. A fool says, "We are Uganda, we are special, we do not need to learn." That fool will remain in an empty stadium, talking to empty chairs.
HOW DO WE REVIVE IT? WE NEED AN INDABA
We need an Indaba. A big meeting. A real meeting. Not a meeting of suits. A meeting of hearts. A meeting with supu on the table.
An Indaba of players, fans, musicians, boda men, market women, clan leaders, DJs, and presidents. Sit on the ground. Eat together. Cry together. Ask: What killed our football? Let the boda man speak. Let the market woman speak. Let the young boy who sells groundnuts at the gate speak. Because he knows why fans do not come.
In that Indaba, we must agree on bitter truths, with extra vigour, with extra supu.
Learn from musicians. A musician knows his fan is his god. He respects him. He gives him a show. He dresses well. He arrives on time. He sings until he sweats. Our footballers, do they respect fans? Do they train? Do they play with heart, or do they play like they are doing us a favour? A musician will never insult his fans. Our football insults fans every weekend with lazy football, with late kickoffs, with dirty toilets, with no water. A musician adds supu to every show. Football must add supu to every game.
Bring back identity. Every club must be a clan. SC Villa must be Villa again, not a company. Express must be Express again, not a logo. KCCA must be Kampala again. Vipers must be a snake that bites. Let a child know: if you are from Buddu, your blood is Villa. If you are from Mengo, your blood is Express. Make football a war of love. Make it so that when Villa loses, a man in Masaka cannot eat. That is identity. That is supu.
Blend music and football again. Every game must be a show. Before the game, musicians. During half-time, musicians. After the game, musicians. Let the DJ shout SC Villa, not Manchester United. Let the DJ shout Express, not Arsenal. Ban the European noise in our stadiums. If you want Arsenal, go to London. If you are in Nakivubo, shout for your own. Let the stadium smell like roasted maize, like Rolex, like music, like life.
Pay for quality. You cannot have quality football with hungry players. A hungry player cannot run. A player who is not paid will sell the game. A player who is not respected will play like a dead man. Musicians pay their band. Football must pay its players. And pay them on time. Pay them with dignity. Pay them with supu, not with promises.
Give fans power. Let fans own a piece of the club. Let fans vote. Let fans decide the jersey. Let fans be members, not beggars. In Europe, the fans own the club. In Uganda, the fans are chased from the gate. No wonder they stayed home. Give the fan a chair at the table, and he will bring his friends.
Bring back the mobilizer. Find that one man, that one woman whom the public believes in. Give them the microphone. Give them the power. Let them mobilize. A league without a mobilizer is a church without a pastor. It will be empty on Sunday. A league without a mobilizer is food without salt.
Manufacture players with swagger. Stop waiting for born stars. Build academies. Build them in every district. Give boys games every week. Teach them to win with swagger, to dribble with joy, to score with pride. Teach them to celebrate like they mean it. Teach them to love the fan.
My sons, I am bitter. I am bitter because I have seen Villa fill a stadium. I have seen Masaza fill a stadium. I have seen a musician fill a stadium. I have seen Tanzania fill a stadium. I have seen South Sudan fill a stadium. I know it is possible. I know our people love football. Our people are not dead. They are just disappointed. They are just hungry for supu.
They are disappointed because we gave them wind. We gave them scent from Europe. We gave them a league without soul. We gave them posho without supu.
But the gods of Kifuuta have seen. The gods have not slept. The gods say: Call an Indaba. Call the people. Blend the music. Bring back the charisma. Bring back the love. No fun without fan. Add supu. Add fire. Add vigour.
If we do that, the fans will come back. They will come back running, singing, dancing, crying, like they used to. They will come back with drums, with vuvuzelas, with flags, with their children on their shoulders.
Katonda sasila Uganda football. And may the gods of Kifuuta wake up our football again, as the Kifuuta Oracle retired in writing, not to be misunderstood.
I am not fighting. I am warning. I am loving. I am leaving this in writing so no one twists my words.
