The Economics Behind Tanzania’s Football Carnivals

DAR ES SALAAM: Every year, Simba Day and Yanga Day transform the Benjamin Mkapa Stadium into a festival ground where football collides with music, culture, and spectacle.

The ritual is now firmly part of Tanzania’s sporting calendar. Fans clad in red or green arrive from across the country to witness the unveiling of new players, new kits, and the season’s ambitions. It is a carnival of identity as much as sport — for many Tanzanians, these days are a reminder that football is not just a game but a cultural heartbeat.

The ticket price is deliberately kept low, sometimes as little as Tsh 3,000, so that even schoolchildren and street vendors can join the spectacle.

Yet, while tens of thousands are allowed in cheaply, top musicians are flown in at high cost, with performance fees that run into tens of millions of shillings. The optics raise eyebrows: why is so much money directed toward entertainment when football itself is underfunded?

Sports analysts often frame the issue in two contrasting ways. The first is critical. In this reading, Simba and Yanga risk turning football into a backdrop for concerts. If millions are spent on performers while youth academies remain under-resourced, training facilities outdated, and player salaries delayed, the symbolism is dangerous.

Clubs are perceived as event organizers rather than football institutions. For critics, the festivals highlight a misplaced sense of value: the lights of the stage shine brighter than the goals on the pitch.

The second view is more sympathetic. Analysts who defend the practice argue that these festivals are deliberate marketing strategies.

With tickets cheap, the clubs guarantee full houses of sixty thousand. A packed stadium delivers images of passion that sponsors crave. Telecom companies, breweries, and banks care little for the 3,000-shilling entry fees; they want trending hashtags, viral clips, and television shots of heaving stands.

The millions paid to musicians are justified as marketing spend: without music, the crowds would be thinner, the buzz weaker, and the sponsor value lower.

Even so, most observers agree on one fact: Simba and Yanga are not yet maximizing the financial potential of these events.

A sold-out stadium at Tsh 3,000 brings in about Tsh 180 million. Against annual revenues of Tsh 21–26 billion, this is a drop in the ocean. Yet with smarter monetization, the upside is far greater.

If one in five fans bought a Tsh 30,000 replica jersey, that alone would generate Tsh 360 million — double the gate receipts.

An exclusive broadcast deal or digital streaming arrangement could easily add several hundred million more. Tiered ticketing, with most seats remaining affordable but premium prices charged for VIP or mid-tier sections, could raise revenue significantly without alienating core fans.

With these measures combined, a festival that today nets a modest few hundred million could generate well over Tsh 1 billion — five percent of a club’s annual turnover.

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This gap between potential and reality mirrors the broader financial structures of African football. In South Africa, the Premier Soccer League has pushed its annual revenues beyond one billion rand, or roughly USD 68 million, thanks to strong broadcasting deals. At one point, SuperSport paid over two billion rand for a five-year television rights package.

Tanzanian football, by contrast, lacks any comparable media income, leaving clubs heavily reliant on sponsorships, donors, and festivals.

CAF itself has recognized this imbalance: from 2025/26, clubs entering the Champions League or Confederation Cup receive USD 100,000 — about Tsh 260 million — just as a preparation grant.

That figure alone is higher than the net income from a sold-out Simba or Yanga Day under the current model. For winners, the prize now stands at USD 4 million, while runners-up receive USD 2 million, dwarfing festival revenues.

North Africa provides another contrast. Raja Casablanca in Morocco recently published a valuation of 5.1 billion dirhams — more than USD 500 million — of which 1.5 billion dirhams was attributed to its brand and 2.8 billion to its academy.

The lesson is clear: clubs that treat festivals, merchandising, and branding as part of a long-term financial structure, rather than one-off shows, can create enduring value. Short-term spending on concerts may generate buzz, but investing in academies, infrastructure, and the club brand multiplies that buzz into institutional worth.

This context shapes how analysts view Simba and Yanga Days. Some see them as celebrations of football cleverly packaged with music, powerful for nation-building and fan loyalty.

Others see them as missed opportunities, where passion is abundant but financial structure is absent. Both sides are right. The music brings the people, but the football must keep them there.

The broader question I ask is what do these festivals mean for African football? From Nigeria’s Enyimba to South Africa’s Kaizer Chiefs and Morocco’s Raja Casablanca, clubs are experimenting with entertainment-driven fan festivals.

It is a uniquely African strength: football fused with culture and identity. But unless the passion is channeled into structured monetization — broadcasting, merchandising, digital streaming, premium hospitality — the festivals risk being hollow spectacles.

In this respect, the Super Bowl in the United States is a useful comparison. There, ticket sales are a fraction of the revenue.

The real money comes from exclusive broadcasting rights, merchandise sales in the hundreds of millions, and sponsorship activations that turn the event into a national marketplace. African clubs cannot replicate that scale, but they can adapt the model.

Ultimately, the way forward is balance. Keep the tickets cheap enough to fill the stands, keep the concerts vibrant enough to create the carnival, but surround the spectacle with structures that convert passion into sustainable income.

Merchandise must be everywhere, broadcasts must be exclusive, and digital platforms must extend the reach beyond the stadium.

Most importantly, the proceeds must flow back into football — into players, academies, and domestic competition. Simba and Yanga Days have already proven that Tanzanian football can command national attention.

The next step is to prove that the attention can be monetized sustainably.
Handled well, these festivals could evolve into powerful financial engines for African football. Handled poorly, they risk becoming concerts in disguise, where the music drowns out the game itself.