There was a time in Uganda when Dancehall wasn’t just music — it was life.
It played in every taxi speaker, echoed through school discos, and pumped from mobile DJs at dusty village fields. Whether you were in Kampala or Kabale, when the bass dropped and someone shouted “Booyaka!” — the crowd moved. Not because they had to, but because they felt it.
Those who lived through the golden age of UgaRagga know what I mean. You didn’t just listen to it — you breathed it, wore it, walked with a bit more swagger because of it. But if you ask the average young Ugandan today about that era, chances are they’ll just blink and shrug. It’s almost like it never happened
Ugandan Dancehall — our version of Jamaica’s explosive sound — didn’t just appear. It found its way here through the journeys of displaced dreamers and music-loving exiles in the 1980s. One of them was Seba Mamba, the man behind Black Mamba. His return from exile brought with it more than a song — it brought a sound. Something new. Something bold.
But if I had to name the man who really laid the bricks for what would become our Dancehall movement, it would be Winston Mayanja — Shaka Mayanja Omutabazi. In his track Twelire Obulo Bweffe, he slipped in a line, casual but powerful:
“Dema birds get scared when you chase dem away.”
It was subtle. But for those listening closely, it was the beginning of something different. A Ugandan sound infused with patois. It was local, but it was global too.
From there, things started to shift. The “sing-over” era took root — you’d hear guys jump on Jamaican beats, spinning their own broken-patois verses. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real. Hip hop was finding its home in the city, but Dancehall? That belonged to the streets. To the boys in Nsambya with dreams too big for their pocket change. To the mobile DJs lugging crates of tapes through dusty roads. To the crowds in school uniforms, jumping in excitement at any beat that hinted of Shabba or Super Cat.
Speaking of Shabba — when “Murder She Wrote” hit, Uganda caught fire. School kids started miming every verse. Discos were never the same again. And among those young mimers, one name shined brightest:
Shanks Gumarus Atwooki, aka Shanks Vivi Dee.
If you saw him perform at Soul Disco back then, you’ll never forget it. His patois may have been “Ugandanised,” but his energy was straight-up Kingston. He was a star before we even had local stars.
Then came Ragga Dee.
When Bamusakata dropped, it felt like an anthem for every ghetto boy who ever danced in plastic shoes and still held his chin high. Ragga Dee made it fun, made it loud, made it ours.
Shaka Mayanja’s visionary move to bring acts like Chaka Demus & Pliers and Third World to Uganda sealed it. We weren’t just copying the sound anymore — we were hosting the very people who made it. Dancehall was home.
Coco Banton (John Miles)
Boogie Woogie (Amooti)
General Mega Dee
Menton Kronno
Rude Boy Devor
MC Trouble
Toolman Kibalama
Kid Fox
Menton Summer
Emperor Orlando
MC Khan
Raggaman Jako
Bebe Cool Banton (now Bebe Cool)
Ragga Jose (who grew into Jose Chameleone)
These names? They meant something. They gave voice to a generation that was hungry for rhythm, identity, and self-expression.
Today, Dancehall in Uganda is like an old photograph. Still beautiful, but fading at the edges. Afrobeats rules the radio. Trap and fusion have taken over the clubs. And Dancehall? It’s become background noise, when it once was the main event.
Because memory is power. And when we forget where we came from, we risk losing who we are.
Dancehall gave Uganda a sound that was raw, unapologetic, and loud in all the right ways. It allowed young people — many with nothing but a beat in their chest — to be heard. To matter.
So, maybe it’s time we dust off those records, dig up those tapes, and tell these stories again. Not for nostalgia, but for legacy.
Because Dancehall in Uganda was never just about the music.
It was about us.
And if we truly loved it, we owe it the dignity of not letting it die in silence.
