An American and a Zambian Indian listening to British reggae in Uganda

Life is weird. Saturday night was one of those totally surreal, “Is this really happening?” moments. This is because Saturday night…UB40 rocked Uganda.

Yes, the UB40. The Red Red Wine, Can’t Help Falling in Love, Here I Am Baby (and a whole slew of other songs by other artists) UB40. Great debate in the weeks and days preceding the big night centered around whether or not UB40 actually had any originals, to which consensus seemed to be, “one.” Something about a cat. We’d love for anyone out there to confirm or deny.

Hype surrounding the event reached new heights. Gigantic billboard after gigantic billboard could be seen around the city, the papers gave it daily coverage, and MTN, the phone company sponsoring the event, went around to bars and nightclubs distributing UB40’s music so that everyone would be able to sing along come concert time. There was added excitement around the fact that this may be their last show together, as their lead singer recently announced he'd be leaving the band post-Uganda show to pursue a solo career.

Tickets went for either 25,000 or 120,000 shillings (roughly the equivalent of $15 or $70 USD). While most (…all) other older, wiser, wealthier friends/coworkers went for the 120,000, Janani and her Ugandan crew and I immediately opted for 25,000, a reflection of our wallet size and desire to be “in on the action.” None of this highfalutin VIP, private beer garden, be right in front of the stage with a civil crowd kind of nonsense.

Turns out, maybe we should have gone for the 120,000. Entry to Lugogo Cricket Stadium via the 25,000 gate was madness. It was one of those exceedingly densely packed crowds, where you’re touching and being touched by seven different people at any one moment, have no control over when or where or how you move, give up on any bodily integrity, put your hands up in front of you and hope for the best. Feet were squashed, boobs were elbowed, guards ineffectually shouted, “Slowly, slowly!” while themselves being moved by the masses. At one point we heard a girl screaming and could only surmise she’d been trampled or was about to faint. I’d guesstimate that at least a quarter of the people never turned in their tickets, and another quarter walked around rather than through the metal detectors.

The, “Am I really here right now?” moment came mid-concert, while swaying and staring out over thousands of happy heads at the four screens set up stage-side, underneath an African sky. We were indeed an American and a Zambian Indian listening to British reggae in Uganda. And everyone but us knew the words.