When football clubs become governments: Simba, Yanga rule while Tanzania waits

IF you grew up in the glorious analogue age— back when TV remotes were human children and salt was stored in recycled Blue Band containers—then you probably know the name Samora Moisés Machel.

Revolutionary, liberator and first president of an independent Mozambique, Samora didn’t just fight colonialism.

He roasted it, stirred it with socialism and served it piping hot with a side of moral discipline.

And when he shouted “A luta continua!” (the struggle continues), it wasn’t a call for match-postponing or a 90-minute sulking contests.

It was a battle cry for freedom, integrity and the end of oppressive nonsense.

Which is why, today, from the hallowed soil of Africa where his bones lie, Comrade Samora is undoubtedly turn- ing like a roasting chicken on a Nyerere Day barbecue spit. Not because of imperialism.

No. But because two Tanzanian football clubs— Simba SC and Yanga SC—have successfully converted East Africa’s biggest derby into a long-running sitcom.

It’s been over three weeks since the match that was meant to shake the continent was to be played.

But instead of thunderous kicks, roaring crowds and VAR controversies, we have drama.

Not even the Bongo Movie kind—this is the full East African telenovela, complete with emotional black- mail, legalese tantrums and grown men fighting over who breathed stadium air first.

Simba SC claims they were “denied the right to feel the stadium” the day before the match.

Let’s pause right there. Feel the stadium. Not train. Not strategise. Feel it. As if the pitch were a grandmother’s lap or a freshly steamed khanga.

According to Simba, this isn’t just tradition—it’s a spiritual necessity.

To them, stepping into Benjamin Mkapa Stadium 24 hours prior to kickoff is not mere practice.

It’s part voodoo, part baptism and part influencer shoot. If they don’t walk on that grass, the football gods will smite them with poor passing and defensive confusion. Yanga SC, in their usual style, didn’t even bother join- ing the pity party.

They simply showed up at the stadium, took attendance like strict invigilators and then demanded full marks: Three points, three goals, zero debate. According to them, Simba’s no-show equals disqualification.

“Naomba ushahidi wa mchezaji mmoja wa Simba aliyekuwa uwanjani,” they allegedly demanded in that meeting, with the ministry, holding up match sheets like divorce evidence.

Meanwhile, deep in some dimly lit Tanzania Football Federation (TFF) office, a young intern is probably Googling, “how to quit football governance with dignity and become a boda boda rider.”

Tanzania’s football lead- ership—TFF and TPLB—have now been downgraded to full- time babysitters.

Their daily job? Sit between two sulking toddlers (Simba and Yanga), hold their hands, wipe their tears and pray no one throws porridge. Press release after press release. Meeting after meeting.

One WhatsApp group after another. Nothing works. Simba insists on pre-match foot massages from stadium turf, while Yanga maintains they already won.

And the TPLB? Well, they’ve become professional fire extinguishers—except every extinguisher they grab shoots glitter and shame instead of foam.

So, with all systems failing, the powers-that-be decid- ed to go nuclear. Bring in the Ministry.

That’s right—the WHOLE Ministry for Culture, Arts and Sports, complete with its alphabet soup of titles, suits and confusion. There came Minister Prof Palamagamba John Aidan Mwaluko Kabudi, whose name alone can take up half the stadium’s jumbotron.

Alongside him, Deputy Minister Hamisi Mwinjuma a.k.a Mwana FA, known to some as a rapper and to others as a man who once rhymed about love but now tries to stop football clubs from fist- fighting over fixtures.

Also joining the Great Football Summit: Government spokesperson and Permanent Secretary Gerson Msigwa, Sports Director Neema Msitha, NSC Chairman Leodegar Tenga and enough assistants to form a 5-a-side team of bureaucrats.

Each of them arrived at Benjamin Mkapa Stadium’s meeting chamber carrying briefcases heavier than a politician’s conscience.

They walked in like a SWAT team—but instead of guns, they had memos, high- lighters and dreams.

Phones were turned off. Cameras dismissed.

But you know Tanzania. Secrets here have a shorter shelf life than milk in the sun. Within hours, the leaked “minutes” were circulating faster than a Konde Boy tune, as follows.

Minister Kabudi: “Gentlemen, we are here to talk football. OK! Simba, go first.”

Simba Rep: “We’re not playing.”

Minister: “You’re not playing what?”

Simba Rep: “The match. With Yanga.” Minister: “Why?”

Simba: “Sir, we were denied access to the stadium before matchday. We didn’t even get to inhale the sweet Mkapa grass aroma.” Minister: “But haven’t you been training elsewhere?”

Simba: “Yes, but it’s not the same. This is about dignity. We must feel the stadium. We must vibe with it. Take selfies. Feel the ancestors as per regulations.”

Minister: “Would you play if we allowed you 30 minutes on the pitch before the match?”

Simba: “Deal. Just 30 sacred minutes.”

Minister: “Okay…Okay…. Yanga? It’s your turn…” Yanga Rep: “No com- ment.” Minister: “Why not?” Yanga: “We’ve submit- ted everything in writing. We deserve the win. We came. They didn’t. Case closed.” Mwana FA: “Forget paper- work. Hypothetically, if Simba gets 30 minutes on the pitch— would you play?” Yanga: “No comment.” At that moment, you could hear the sound of collective despair echoing around the empty stadium. Wallace Karia, the TFF Prez, was staring at his toe- nails like they owed him money. Tenga was busy pretend- ing to send an urgent SMS to someone named “Battery Low.” Msitha dove deep into her briefcase, allegedly looking for the league’s constitution but more likely searching for an exit strategy. The TPLB rep just disap- peared to take a short call and may never have returned. Msigwa and Mwana FA were whispering about snacks. And somewhere in the dis- tance, a lone vuvuzela cried. Meanwhile, the real heroes of football—the fans—had pre- pared like they were attending a presidential inauguration. Roasted chicken, moun- tains of mandazi, crates of soda and more beer than Oktoberfest. TVs were set up under mango trees. Chairs arranged in neat rows. One man sold his goat to buy a decoder. And what did they get? A blank screen with the words: “Match Cancelled Due to Utoto.” Even Azam FC fans, used to peace and calm, are looking around like: “Maybe we need some chaos too. Maybe then people will talk about us.” Radio pundits aka “wachambuzi”, however, are having the time of their lives. One station now has a 6-hour daily show called “Simba na Yanga: Vita vya Selfie.” Some commentators haven’t gone home in two weeks. One was seen brushing his teeth with Red Bull. Let’s face it. Simba and Yanga are no longer just foot- ball clubs. They’re fully armed football cartels. They have PR firms, liti- gation experts, social media armies and underground influencers who can collapse a matchday using only emojis. They don’t need to win on the pitch. They just need a technicality, a loophole, or a slight misunderstanding over warm-up rights to bring the entire league to its knees. To the authorities—espe- cially those brave enough to carry briefcases to war—this is your moment. Stop letting two clubs blackmail you with empty sta- dium threats and social media tantrums. Enough of the “let’s hear both sides” diplomacy. Ban them both! Yes. A full, hearty, slap- in-the-face ban. Suspend them for a season. Make them watch Ruvu Shooting vs Ihefu in silence. Make them reflect. Also, punish the board. How can a whole league body be tossed around like a mitum- ba shirt in Kariakoo wind? Take their Wi-Fi. Force them to read all 400 pages of the FIFA handbook on sports- manship. This chaos sets a ter- rible precedent, you know. Today it’s “we didn’t train.” Tomorrow it’s “the ball was too round.” The day after that, it’ll be “their bus driver looked at us funny.” The government must not bend to tantrums disguised as legal complaints. Letting these clubs have their way is like letting a tod- dler drive a bulldozer because he cried louder than the oth- ers. Back in Mozambique, one can only imagine Comrade Samora Machel stirring in his grave. The revolutionary. The lib- erator. The man who stood against apartheid, colonialism and oppression. He screamed “A luta continua!” from the frontlines of real struggle. Today, Tanzanian radio hosts are shouting that same slogan while debating who gets to sniff the stadium first. I doubt Samora ever imag- ined “A luta” would become “Aluta discontinuer!” This is not the struggle he died for.