Photo by Michael Tsegaye

During the World Cup final Uganda was shaken by two bomb attacks. In total there were 74 deaths. The attacks were claimed by the Somali militant group al-Shabaab, which has links with Al Qaeda. During the disaster, the African journalist Andrew Kabuura was at one of two places where a bomb exploded. He had recently been in South Africa working on reports for the Twenty Ten project. On a rugby field, he was watching the final match on the big screen when all hell broke out.

The obvious fact that I will never, ever, physically see one of my best friends again is a disturbing thought that is calling for my meditation. It’s even far more irritating recalling that I could have been the one lying in a wooden coffin amidst hundreds of mourners at the Kamwokya Catholic Church. My friend Tinka Steven is dead, courtesy of the bombs blasts at the Kyadondo rugby ground.

Images of me and him chatting moments before his last breath keep making rounds in my head as the pastor delivers his sermon which is complimented by many wet eyes at his funeral service. It’s a skin-peeling experience for me to take in but have to look plucky.

We were together for over 30 minutes as Tinka demanded I tell him all about my trip to South Africa, where I watched the opening rounds of the 2010 World Cup. I even promised we would meet somewhere soon so I finish up my narration. At this point, I receive a text message informing me of another friend who, like Tinka, didn’t survive the blasts. She actually wasn’t that close to me, but I had just given her a t-shirt and vuvuzela for wining the “who can blow the Vuvuzela loudest among the ladies” challenge minutes before the final game kicked off.

On the bench just after mine is an old lady partially seated on the day’s newspaper showing other victims. My eye won’t do my nerves any justice by identifying almost everyone dead considering I had seen most of them on stage. It’s a bad day in my life, families of the deceased and Uganda’s archives.

To any football and fun loving Ugandan, July 11 started as an affable day. First, the final game of Africa’s first ever World Cup was showing on big screen. Secondly, many local artists were set to grace the event and, thirdly, it was the biggest game on planet earth: the World Cup final.

Being the promotions manager of the radio station Vision Voice, I went over to the venue to confirm branding material was in place and that the venue was good to go. The radio was co-sponsoring the event.
The to-be fateful twilight was promising and by 5 pm, revelers started arriving in numbers with anticipation. The site of vuvuzela blowing soccer, hugging fans screaming for either Spain or the Netherlands made me almost want to hastily jump onto stage and start my day’s role as the MC. It was a carnival that attracted different kinds of fans.

Little did I know that a mass assassin was somewhere in the crowd helping to register this day as a dark moment in Uganda’s history that could commence a five day mourning period. By 7 pm, together with a fellow co-MC, I had started arousing the crowd en route to the kickoff time! It was massive, electric and the thought of two great teams preparing to battle made the crowd expand every minute. It was getting darker, lights looking lovely-every soccer fans dream for a soccer ambiance!

At this point, 8 pm, we started giving out different prizes like vuvuzelas, branded t-shirts, squeeze bottles and more to partygoers that dared to compete in different tasks. Popular musicians drove the already ripe crowd wilder by pulling tracks off their latest albums.

It’s time, fireworks light Kyadondo grounds, and the game has kicked off to screams and loud Vuvuzela noises from watching crowd. Mixed with screams and tears for some, the second half approaches quickly-no one knew the faster the second half went towards the 87th minute, the closer many got to their last breath.

Me, and three friends opted to catch this historical game at the very end of the crowd. It’s now that I realize how lucky I am, considering I was meant to sit on the front row, which was steps from the first blast!

It’s the 87th minute and I hear a very loud blast, see people running while screaming. It all seems a joke. Considering the loud sounds of fireworks before the game had registered in people’s minds, many, including me, felt it was a short circuit of some sorts. We wrathfully tell the dashing people to calm down considering the match was at a critical stage. None of us the shouting revelers realized that many had died.

Almost 30 seconds after the first blast, another goes off and this time shatters the massive screen we are watching from, causing screams from the front seats. Something is really wrong! The feel of something dangerous grabs me; my first option is to run towards the exit as opposed to taking to the floor. Meanwhile people from different parts of the crowd are screaming loud almost every microsecond. Bomb fragments are splashing at, killing or severely injuring many.

On my way to exit, while helping to pull a traumatized friend, irritating images register in my head. Seeing most of the front row seats still occupied with the occupants motionless – they are either dead or in shock.

So, here is the worst though; we are all scattering out, into the car park without an idea where the next bomb is planted.

Meanwhile, I see my friend Tinka Steven on the floor, but can do nothing about it as, for a second, my brain isn’t functioning. A fragment from the bomb has torn through his skull. At this point no one can afford to help the other because we are all trying to rush for safety and more importantly we are trying to avoid the next explosion if any. Voices of different people calling out names of their friends or relatives are heard all over the place. Most notably is my elder brother, Duncan, who repeatedly shouts my name demanding for an answer.

Within five minutes, all the able people had evacuated the venue. At this point it’s hurting to remember that many are still inside both helpless and needing medical attention or have taken their last breath. As I write this, am trying hardest to forget that night. Back at office photo desk, I am seeing pictures of the same people I was hugging and laughing with on stage lying in their chairs breathless, deformed and filled with blood.

Bomb squad vehicles and ambulances all arrived shortly to try and save the helpless and also transport the dead to mortuaries.

It’s even more disturbing when I hear various radio callers the next morning. One caller has just discovered he lost all five friends she was with, a mother lost all her four kids while hundreds can’t believe the news. Kampala has been grabbed with fear and is filled with tears.

It’s very hard to describe what I feel about July 11. A day that started with piles of promise and joy to have ended with trauma and silence in many homes is something I am praying to forget one day. I am a survivor.