Eh! Katonda wange.
That evening I was parked near a pork joint in Ntinda watching grown men cry into Nile Special bottles. One Arsenal fan removed his shirt completely and started hugging strangers like he had personally defended against Manchester City. Another one climbed a boda and shouted, “WE ARE BACK!” before falling directly into a sack of charcoal. Kampala men fear embarrassment more than poverty, but football can remove all shame from the bloodstream.
Now listen carefully.
The real chaos started around 11PM.
These campus girls, kubanga they had only heard stories about Arsenal trophies from uncles and old tweets, decided this championship was apparently a spiritual event. My phone started vibrating like police sirens in Wandegeya. Status after status:
“Tonight we forgive Man U fans.”
“Free hugs for Arteta believers.”
“One night only.”
One lady in Kololo even wrote, “If he survived banter for 22 years, he deserves happiness.”
Madness.
I carried two passengers from a bar in Bugolobi and those girls were discussing Arsenal fans like wounded war veterans returning from exile. One said, “Imagine dating a man who has never seen his club win as an adult.” The other one replied, “Those ones deserve compensation emotionally.” I almost hit a trench from laughing. Deep inside I was panicking because Kampala celebrations can become pregnancies very quickly.
Meanwhile Arsenal boys had become completely useless. Men who normally borrow fuel money were now ordering entire bottles of Don Julio with confidence from ancestors. One guy in a fake Gucci shirt stood on a table screaming tactical analysis while chewing pork like a motivational speaker. The saliva flying from that man’s mouth could irrigate Mukono district.
And the girls?
Eh!
Kampala girls can smell celebration money from another district.
Suddenly every Arsenal jersey became attractive. Men who usually look like they survive on betting apps alone were receiving “Hey stranger...” messages from women who ignored them since Christmas. One slay queen in Munyonyo was calling random Arsenal fans “my king.” MY KING. Yet three days earlier she was posting Dubai quotes with another man driving a V8 on Entebbe Road.
At around 2AM I dropped one drunk Arsenal supporter near Naalya. The man was crying emotionally while holding chicken wings. He told me, “Mzee… even my ex texted me congratulations.” Then he looked at the sky and whispered, “Wenger died for this.”
I almost parked and wept.
But Kampala is Kampala. Happiness here has legs shorter than a chicken.
By morning, some boys had already lost phones, wallets, dignity, and one man allegedly sent school fees to a waitress called Princess Arsenal. Another one woke up in Bwaise wearing somebody else’s jeans and speaking Luganda with a Kenyan accent.
Football celebrations are dangerous because they mix alcohol, nostalgia, lust, and false confidence. That combination has destroyed stronger men than politicians.
And those girls giving “freebies”?
My friend, nothing in Kampala is truly free. Some invoices arrive spiritually after two weeks.
Helmet down. Eyes open. Kampala moves fast. Shame moves faster.