South Africa’s Bafana Bafana killed us at Namboole!

Oct 16, 2004

TO imagine I had vowed never to return to Namboole when Cranes is playing! Anyhow, people always change their minds. If the ethics minister could change his on the White Paper, who am I?

By Hilary Bainomugisha

TO imagine I had vowed never to return to Namboole when Cranes is playing! Anyhow, people always change their minds. If the ethics minister could change his on the White Paper, who am I?

That was how I came to be among the people who coughed out money that totalled to sh300m to watch the Cranes tussle it out with Bafana Bafana of South Africa.
Not even my wife and visitors at home could convince me to watch the match live on TV.

I did not even go for mass because Jesus himself said we may ignore our prayer books when our donkey is drowning. And if The Cranes’ table position in our group is not ‘drowning’, somebody tell me, what is it?

It was the second time I was taking my kids to build up their patriotic pride. they had watched Amavubi of Rwanda demolish us, now they were witness to another disaster.

Sunday’s loss brought the folly of all the hustle crashing down like a thunderbolt. Naturally, we did not fall short of the things to blame; The Republic of Rwanda, (the referee was from there, wasn’t he?) the coach (he should have brought in Magumba earlier) the name of the stadium (Mandela), team selection and Oh, Obua of course. (In his reign, we have lost more games than I can remember). One guy even blamed the people who deceived him into parking far away from the stadium.

“Gyemulaga wajudde. Obuuma mubuleke wanno tujja bukuuma (The parking space there is full. Leave your machines here we shall keep guard.)” They had prepared their compounds as sh1,000 parking places.

Of course, I cannot say I had a lot of confidence in our boys, but when the match started, we somehow gained hope and believed we could win.

The loss hit hard at our sensitive emotions, perhaps stretched to limits by the two-litre Coke bottle, punched with Richot into a potent cocktail that we had in the stadium and, maybe the scotching sun acting as a catalyst.

That easily makes us football wizards and coaches. We hurled abuse at bad passes, poor marking, coach decisions and name it! We coached and gave advice to the players as if they could hear us. Obviously they could not, otherwise, they would have scored 100 goals. Arguments in the stadium are won by the one who shouts loudest. You only have to concoct something about a player’s lifestyle off the pitch and stretch your references as far back as the 70s to become a consultant.

It was not bad news throughout. MTN entertained us with our local artistes, acrobats (the item my five-year-old son loved most –– Will he ever grow up into a footballer?) and free head-gear pieces. We also laughed when they demanded that Celtel boards be rolled off the pitch.

Someone said Celtel must have mistreated them during the PAM awards. I hope Celtel is not looking for an opportunity to revenge.

After the match, I had to cool it off at Jokas to wait for the jam to end. manoeuvring through the jam when annoyed can tempt you to call someone fearful names.

I tried to call many friends to join me for a condolence drink but was turned down! Gosh it shouldn’t be so hard to get people to have fun! They should be lucky to have me in their lives! A friend in need is a friend.

So, I settled down with one Mukiga man who was so annoyed that tears welled up in his eyes. He was blaming our loss on poor team selection.

Apparently there is a guy he knows in Kabale who should have played. “That guy once kicked a ball and booom, it burst into three parts! He can kick a ball from Namboole and it lands at the city square,” he said. When I asked how that would have helped us win, he gave me an ‘I-can-beat-you-into-pulp-very-easily’ look and asked “So how did the feeble strikers we used help us?”
I returned home only to be subjected to Syda’s lullabies (read load shedding).

Many days have gone by but my heart contracts at the mention of the word “Namboole!” writes Bekunda Catherine.

My shoulder aches, I have a bruised arm and shaky knees all because of the game between the Bafana Bafana and The Cranes.

I left church at exactly 11:00 am. in a few minutes I was ready for the occasion. My friends had promised to take care of my fare. by midday we were on our way to the stadium. You might wonder why we had to go so early.

The last I had been there for the Uganda Cranes versus Democratic Republic of Congo match, I underestimated the time it would take me to get there, so I was caught up in a mother-of-all-traffic jams and reached after the first half. I watched this match standing till 15 minutes to the end of the game when I got a seat. The only consolation was Uganda won the game 1-0. this time I didn’t take any chances; I had to get a strategic place to witness the action.

With sh500 each, we jumped into a taxi and bought a few soft drinks outside the stadium. (After all, it is a commandment that thou shall triple the price inside the stadium).

and joined the queue for the tickets. On realising we were not going to get tickets in time we left the queue, walked past the people, reached the front and in a wink we had our tickets in hand. Three hours to the start of the match, we were already in Namboole.

As the sun baked us, people kept coming in and out of the stadium. In a few minutes it was filled to capacity. From nowhere, a man wrapped in barkcloth-like material, raced across the pitch as the crowds cheered. Personally I blame him for Uganda Cranes’ loss to the South Africans.

He must have invoked a bad spirit that was not amused by his act. That aside, “Uncle Money,” as he is popularly known around the footballing fraternity instructed the people so well that there was uniformity as the crowd responded to his orders more faithfully than they do to their religious leaders.

The game started and the crowd cheered. At the slightest kick of the ball by a Ugandan every one was shouting Obua and Nestroy like they were the only ones known on the pitch. At 63 minutes inside the game, the referee gave Benedict McCarthy the decisive penalty that saw Ugandans sigh in disbelief. if one risked raising a Ugandan flag, an empty mineral water bottle would hit one’s back immediately.

The game ended. People scrambled to get hold of the players they have always seen on television. One was heard saying he would not wash his hands for the next two weeks because he had shaken hands with McCarthy.

My knees gave way when the final whistle was blown. I could not believe Uganda had lost. I felt feverish as I walked out of the stadium to a crowd of people, lots of vehicles and boda boda.

I walked up to Banda where I secured a taxi at sh1,000 double the usual fare. I wept for wasted time and health; my shoulder still hurts and the wounds deepen every day. I now suffer from Namboole phobia.

I will never go back until I have a four-wheel-drive vehicle and enough money for the executive wing.

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