Dear, Uganda Cranes,
‘ello Uganda Cranes. I apologize, I am bad with letters, but I hope this pithy letter will find solace in your hearts, or you might decide to pin it in Magogo’s office. I write to you this letter with the particles of my shattered heart seated on my palms. Thanks for shattering it, thanks for pounding it. I now have to use a generator to pump blood across my body. Let’s get in the nitty gritty of all this. Lads, what happened? Was the pitch bad? Of course it wasn’t. Of course you have all played in a pitch full of gullies before. But you see, you screwed us up. You really did. When you beat Ghana, I swear, I thought we were even ready for World Cup. I thought we would even beat Argentina with Lionel Messi and the flying Di Maria. I thought this was the time. An hour of reckoning. And I know I wasn’t alone. Everyone in this protectorate believed in you. Everyone! Even John Patrick Amama Mbabazi.
The wounds of Kenyan game were still fresh and etched in our minds. We loathed the prospect of not qualifying for AFCON, for the umpteenth time. It would look ridiculously bad and a tad shameful. I crossed my fingers when I heard that you reached safely in Morocco. I knew, at least, that Uganda would at last cross the Red Sea. I could see Canaan. I could see the Promised Land. And when you matched in that pitch in Morocco, I raised up on my feet and yelped out the National Anthem with my palm drawn across my chest. And I know I wasn’t alone. Over 35Million Ugandans unblinkingly stayed frozen in front of television sets. The referee blew his whistle and the boot kissed the ball. The game started. And my heart started racing. Look, we needed a draw to be happy, to qualify. I could smell a draw from a distance.
Then your captain Andrew Mwesigwa fouled at the mouth of the box. My heart skipped a bit and fell in my stomach. I thought it was a penalty. But when the referee awarded a free kick, I was a bit comfy and seemingly confident. Free kicks hardly enter the back of the net, at least not in Africa. But you see, chaps, you built that wall with weak, worn out sticks. And the ball eased itself past you to the back of the net. You weren’t here. I was. The country held its breath. You stabbed our brittle insides. Andrew Mwesigwa would later drag Equatorial Guinea’s striker down to the ground in such a disgraceful manner, as though he was playing Masaaza Cup in Busoga and the referee worked in his plantains. They scored us. We trailed 2-0. And that was the last nail in the coffin.
Dear, Cranes, if you could come and move door-to-door asking for forgiveness, the better. Ugandans are disappointed in you. Well, like the shitty lingua says, shit happens, but it wouldn’t have happened. At least not when we needed a draw. At least not when we were supposed to make history. I know you’re reading this, maybe, with a grin building on your face and thinking, “We screwed Ugandans!” It’s fine. Grin all you want. Laugh all you want. Continue screwing us over. Next match, I am certain and I want to think, when you walk in Namboole to play, you had better invite your relatives to watch you because, you will be on your own. And Magogo, of course. I can choose to write on and on till next year, but I know you have to go and perhaps wash off the jetlag with Lagavulin, a Single Malt Whiskey in your local digs. I will stop here, for now and embark on more important things.
Good bye!
Regards, Nimusiima.
