65
because “I realized I was only getting bet-
ter with age.” He was 22 at the time.
While his early works were influencedby the weed and so-called ghetto-life
swagger of late-’90s hip-hop (including
virulently homophobic refrains that re-
flect widespread Ugandan prejudices), by
2010, he had started infusing his rollick-
ing reggae beats with socially conscious
messaging. In 2014, he was invited to tour
in the U.K., but his visa was denied after
human-rights groups protested his ear-
lier homo phobic lyrics. It was, he says, “a
humbling moment. I realize now I should
have been more tolerant and respectful to
people that are different from me.” Wine
retracted his statements and apologized
to Uganda’s LGBT community, many of
whom now back him. “He really has trans-
formed,” says Ambrose Barigye, an LGBT
activist who fled Uganda in 2018 but who
slogans proved too threatening to the
country’s leadership. The government
has banned his performances onstage and
on air since 2018, depriving him of both a
platform and an income. Figuring he had
nothing left to lose, Wine decided to run
against Museveni. “They weren’t letting
me be a musician, so I thought I might as
well become a President,” he says.
If elections in Uganda were based
purely on popularity, he could yet succeed.
Wine’s campaign channels the frustration
of the country’s youth—78% of citizens are
under the age of 30—and of Uganda’s im-
poverished classes, who make up more
than one-third of the population. The
COVID-19 pandemic has only exacerbated
the nation’s economic inequalities, with
2020’s GDP growth projected between
0.4% and 1.7%, compared with 5.6% in- When Wine first started using his
music to call for social justice, Museveni
disparaged him as a “ghetto President.”
The name stuck. Supporters already ad-
dress the singer as President, and ghetto
has become a badge of pride not just for
those who emerged from the same urban
slum as Wine, but also for the underserved
and ignored in a country where political
power is more likely to enrich the powerful
than improve the lives of anyone else. Van-
ity plates on Wine’s Cadillac Escalade read
GHETTO. Now that the sobriquet has ex-
panded to include most Ugandans, the joke
is on Museveni, says Atusingwize Jonan, a
young presenter for the privately owned
digital-media company Ghetto TV. “This
is a guy who came from us, so he speaks
for us. He knows what we all go through.”
You only need to accompany Wine on
a drive through the streets of Kampala to
see how fervent his supporters are. Local
residents holler his name. Old ladies on
the back of motorcycle taxis cheer and
wave. Shopkeepers raise clenched fists in
solidarity. “People power!” Wine shouts.
“Our power,” they respond, completing his
movement’s name and slogan. Supporters
drop 10,000- or 50,000- shilling ($3 or $15)
notes through his open window, symbolic
sums in a country where politicians often
pay that much to get citizens to attend their
rallies or, in some cases, vote for them.
Wine’s face is instantly recognizable;
so too is his movement’s trademark red
beret, with its logo of a raised black fist.
He favors the slim black trousers, batik
shirts and dark-framed glasses of the
^
Uganda’s Electoral Commission has
banned public rallies during the 2021
election because of the coronavirusstill follows the movement closely from
exile. “Now the government is using it
against him as propaganda, saying he is
funded by the gay West,” says Barigye.
In 2017, a parliamentarian in Wine’s
district stood down, and Wine saw an
opportunity to amplify his call for social
change by running for the seat. He won the
election with 78% of the vote, despite the
fact that he had no party and knew noth-
ing about campaigning. He has since suc-
cessfully campaigned for several other op-
position candidates, subbing in star power
where the substantial funds normally
needed to win elections did not suffice.
But his fame, onstage charisma and in-
fectious songs laced with anti government