By Mutayoba Arbogast
“Blood is thicker than water” — a phrase that resonates deeply across many cultures, including those of Bantu-speaking communities, where family ties and shared heritage often shape identity, loyalty, and even political alliances.
This powerful sense of belonging and pride can sometimes fuel unity, but it can also complicate relationships, especially when history and power collide.
A striking example of this complexity is the legacy of Idi Amin Dada, Uganda’s former president from 1971 to 1979. Amin styled himself with grandiose titles — Hero of Africa, President for Life, Field Marshal Al-Hadji Doctor Idi Amin Dada, VC, DSO, MC, Lord of All the Beasts of the Earth and Fishes of the Seas, and Conqueror of the British Empire in Africa in general, and Uganda in particular. His reign, however, was marred by brutal repression and a catastrophic war with Tanzania that left deep scars on the region.
The Tanzania-Uganda conflict erupted after Amin launched an invasion of Tanzania’s Kagera region in October 1978, claiming it rightfully belonged to Uganda. This aggressive move, which resulted in around 1,500 Tanzanian civilian deaths and countless injuries, provoked a strong military response.
By January 1979, Tanzanian forces, allied with Ugandan dissidents opposed to Amin, mounted a decisive counter-offensive that culminated in the capture of Kampala in April and the eventual fall of Amin’s regime. Amin fled into exile, dying years later in Saudi Arabia.
Yet, despite Tanzania’s role in toppling Amin, the gratitude many might expect from Ugandans is far from universal. During a recent visit to Masaka and Kalangala districts, I witnessed this firsthand.
Conversations with locals, including a councilor near Bukakata port, revealed a complicated, often contradictory sentiment.
While Amin’s rule was harsh and notorious internationally, many here remember him as a leader who brought economic progress and stability in his time, someone who might have transformed Uganda into an African star had he ruled longer.
Voices around local coffee kiosks echoed similar sentiments, showing a palpable reluctance to openly celebrate Tanzania’s intervention.
This ambivalence serves as a cautionary note for Tanzanian visitors. Don’t expect a warm welcome simply because your country helped end Amin’s dictatorship. The old wounds linger, and speaking ill of Amin could land one in trouble.
The local proverb “Ndugu wakigombana chukua jembe ukalime, wakipatana chukua kapu ukavune” — which roughly translates to “When siblings quarrel, take a hoe and farm; when they reconcile, reap the harvest together” — feels particularly apt. It speaks to the delicate balance of rivalry and kinship that shapes these relations.
Further complicating this narrative is the ongoing effort to rehabilitate Amin’s image. Led by Hassan Fungaroo Kaps, a former member of parliament from Amin’s home region, there is a push to establish an Idi Amin Memorial Institute.
Supporters argue that Amin has been unfairly vilified by international media, whose reports often exaggerated or fabricated atrocities. They believe that acknowledging Amin’s contributions is vital to a fuller understanding of Uganda’s history — a history too often reduced to a one-dimensional tale of tyranny and violence.
This viewpoint starkly contrasts with the official stance of Uganda’s current president, Yoweri Museveni, who firmly rejects any attempt to memorialize Amin. Yet, beneath political rhetoric, many Ugandans privately hold onto a more nuanced memory of Amin — one that acknowledges his complex legacy beyond the headlines.
For those traveling between Tanzania and Uganda, this is more than history; it is a living reality. Understanding the depth of these intertwined histories and the sensitivities they evoke is essential to navigating the social landscape with respect and awareness. Because in this story, as in many, the lines between friend and foe, victim and hero, are often blurred by time, memory, and the enduring bonds of “blood thicker than water.”