Legend Kash Owakabi Disowns his Son Mc Young Moni: “Stick to the Mic — Not the Dirty Game of Politics

When you talk about Northern Uganda’s finest on the mic, one name commands respect like no other — Kash Owakabi. A certified East African legend, comedian, and events king, Kash has taken his craft from Gulu to Kigali, and from Kampala to Kenya, proving that northern talent can shine anywhere. Just this mid-October, the man himself lit up a major show in Rwanda, leaving fans in stitches, before headlining several gigs across Kampala. 

The North’s finest didn’t just perform — he raised the bar for every upcoming emcee dreaming of the spotlight.

But while Kash continues to make East African rounds, one of his protégés, Mc Young Moni, has found himself trending for all the wrong reasons. Word hit the streets of Gulu City that the young hype master was spotted defacing campaign posters of NUP’s Bobi Wine and singer Liama ahead of the presidential campaign trail. A reckless move that quickly sparked debate across social media and sent shockwaves through the entertainment scene.

In a country where politics can easily swallow your career, Kash Owakabi’s response came swift and sharp — like a father setting his son straight. He took to his page with a public message that sounded equal parts tough love and street wisdom:

> “Dear Young Moni my son, go slow. I didn’t introduce you to Mceeing to be doing this kind of thing. In Uganda, it’s unconstitutional — if it’s formally taken up, you can be charged and jailed. Let’s stick to the business that brought us here — the microphone and making people happy. Let’s not ruin the foundation we’ve built over time. Our job is simply to entertain. Yours truly, Baba.”

That message hit deep. It wasn’t just directed at Young Moni — it was a mirror held up to every youth mixing showbiz with politics. Kash wasn’t scolding; he was teaching survival.

Because in Uganda’s creative space, where emotions and politics run hot, one wrong move can silence your mic for good. Kash knows that too well — he’s been in the game long enough to understand that the true power of an entertainer isn’t in tearing down posters but in lifting up crowds.

Fans online have since praised the legend for standing his ground.

“Baba Kash is not just talking to Young Moni. He’s talking to every upcoming emcee in the North who thinks controversy equals success,” one fan posted.

And that’s facts. Kash Owakabi is living proof that discipline, respect, and focus can take you places where clout never will. His East African tour is a lesson in consistency — from the laughter in Rwanda to the applause in Kampala, the man has turned his mic into a passport.

So to the new generation of entertainers rising from the North — here’s the gospel according to Kash Owakabi:

Respect the mic. Build your name. Leave politics for politicians.

Because as Kash himself says, “Our job is to entertain — not to destroy what we built.”

Kash Owakabi — the North’s loudest export, a legend teaching the youth that the real campaign is on stage.

Almost 10 Years in the Game — Where Is Dancehall Queen Adong Music?

The dancehall streets have been eerily quiet lately. No “Dyewor” energy rattling speakers, no Adong Music vibe setting clubs on fire. It’s like the queen herself pressed pause while the rest kept dancing. But maybe… just maybe… this silence is the prelude to something epic.

Let’s rewind. When Adong Music unleashed “Dyewor (Kwo Mit I dyewor)” six years ago, it didn’t just trend — it swept across the country. Played in every bar, every village auction, every kafunda from Laliya to Namwongo, it became the heartbeat of the streets. People didn’t just listen; they moved, they shouted, they lived Dyewor. Over 50,000 YouTube streams later, Adong was no longer just a singer — she was a force of nature. In a male-dominated scene, she didn’t just compete — she claimed the crown. Follow-ups like “Kakwangala” and “Adegi” cemented her as Northern Uganda’s fiercest female trailblazer, a queen whose voice echoed from the dusty village markets to the neon-lit clubs of Kampala.

Fast forward to September 2025: “Gi Bwoli” drops quietly. No fanfare, no hype machine. Just Adong, cooking her hits slowly, letting the flavor marinate like a master chef’s stew. It’s not about chasing charts; it’s about reminding the game who set the blueprint. One drop, and every DJ, every speaker, every dance floor resets.

But fans can’t stop asking: Where is Adong Music? Is she in a creative retreat, watching quietly while others chase trends? From Gulu to Lira, Kitgum to Namutumba — her absence hits clubs and street corners like a ghost. And yet, even without new tracks, old hits pull the same screams, the same energy, the same devotion. That’s legacy. That’s queen energy.

Strategy is her secret weapon. While Gen Z floods TikTok with every move, Adong’s silence isn’t absence — it’s calculated brilliance. She studies the field, waits for the perfect moment. When she steps on stage? No introductions are needed. The crowd already knows. The crown already knows. Even the mic seems to bow. She’s still that girl.

And the glow? Oh, the glow. Adong still shines like she’s 19 — skin flawless, aura magnetic. The ladies whisper for skincare secrets; the men? Let’s just say they wouldn’t mind signing up as “backup dancers” if given the chance. Yet through all the whispers, stares, and admiration, her focus remains — one man, one mic, one mission. That’s queen energy in its purest form.

But every queen knows timing is everything. Fans love to miss you — but not too long. Another year of silence, and the new wave might start crowning its own queens. Then again… maybe that’s the move. Disappear long enough, and the comeback becomes legendary.

One thing is certain: Adong Music is far from gone. Ten years in the game isn’t luck — it’s power, finesse, and a legacy that cannot be copied. Whether she’s recharging, rebranding, or rewriting the rules, when she returns, it’ll be Gi Bwoli with fire, style, and a decade of dominance baked in.

So, for those asking, “Where is Adong Music?” — she’s not gone. She’s evolving. Queens don’t rush. They return when the drums are ready. And oh, the drums… are about to speak.

Contact: sales@kamulekumalo.com

 #AdongMusic #NorthernDancehall #UgandaMusic #GiBwoli #KamuleKumalo

 

DJ Richie Is Turned Up: “Artists with Campaign Cash Forgetting DJs—See You at the Bar”

By Entertainment Desk | KamuleKumalo.com

The story didn’t start in a bar. It started on DJ Richie’s WhatsApp status — that sacred timeline where real ones drop what’s on their mind with zero filter. The post was short, bold, and sharp enough to slice through industry silence:

“Artists who got campaign money and forgot the DJs — we shall meet in the bar.”

It wasn’t a rant. It was a vibe. Within minutes, the screenshot was circulating faster than an Arsenal highlight reel after a weekend win. The DJs felt it, the artists read it twice, and by sunset, every creative group chat in Gulu was debating it.

From Status to Streets

See, DJ Richie didn’t need a press conference. One WhatsApp post did the job. And for those who know the nightlife circuit, the message hit different. Richie is no rookie — he’s that sound doctor who’s carried Gulu’s bar scene on his back for years. From Oxford Sports Lounge to every street gig that’s ever needed rhythm, he’s been there, mic in hand, steering the energy.

So when he speaks — or types — the streets listen. That WhatsApp update wasn’t just a statement; it was a wake-up bell for Uganda’s music ecosystem. Artists may hold the fame, but it’s DJs like Richie who keep their music alive long after the campaign posters fade.

The Real Talk Behind the Beat

Richie’s point wasn’t bitterness — it was truth wrapped in swag. During campaign season, artists collect their bags, hop on convoys, and perform anthem after anthem. But when the music stops and the lights go out, most forget the DJs — the ones who played their tracks every night, kept their names relevant, and hyped their sound long before any politician noticed.

“The bar remembers what the studio forgets,” one DJ replied under his post. That’s the energy. DJs are the bloodline of nightlife — the heartbeat that turns songs into culture. Yet too often, they’re the last ones to get appreciation when the money rains.

Meet the Transition King

Next to Richie in the northern sound hierarchy is DJ Crystal, the Transition King who’s been earning respect track by track. Still young but already commanding decks with the confidence of a veteran, Crystal’s precision is what sets him apart — those silky transitions that make you forget time itself.

A product of AfroLabs, the creative hub led by international DJ Crazymind, Crystal represents the next generation of disciplined, ambitious northern DJs blending passion with polish. He’s part of the crew that’s redefining nightlife with fresh professionalism — where the booth isn’t just for fun, it’s a brand.

Together, Richie and Crystal have turned Oxford Sports Lounge into a creative temple — where the football crowd morphs into a dancefloor the moment the decks heat up.

 “See You at the Bar” — The New Anthem

That line — “See you at the bar” — has now become the unofficial anthem of the DJ community. It’s not shade; it’s street code. The bar is where everyone eventually meets: broke or balling, famous or forgotten. And when the speakers start humming, the DJ decides whose song plays and whose doesn’t.

That’s power. Soft, silent, and spinning on vinyl.

The message behind Richie’s status is simple: respect the sound that built your stage. Money may buy airtime, but DJs buy you legacy.

Real Ones Recognize Real

By the weekend, everyone from campus promoters to bar owners had picked a side — most siding with Richie. Some artists even reposted his line with laughing emojis, others with nervous ones. Either way, the conversation was loud, just how he wanted it.

Because that’s what DJ Richie does best — he controls the vibe, on and off the booth. And while the mic might rest, the message keeps echoing:

“The decks don’t forget. The booth remembers. We’ll meet in the bar.”

“From A Public Engagement Proposal to Rumours: Is Gulu’s Darling influencer Trona Finally Expecting?”

Something’s been bubbling quietly in Gulu’s influencer streets — a secret so soft, yet too loud to hide. For weeks, fans whispered, cameras zoomed, and captions got mysteriously shorter. And now, the whispers have finally turned into headlines: Trona — yes, the Trona of Bapa Hotel fame — is four months pregnant!

They say love always finds a stage, and for Trona, it started under the golden lights of Bapa Hotel — the same place she built her influencer crown. That unforgettable night when a Kampala-based influencer knelt down with a ring and roses? Oh, Gulu stood still. Phones were up, reels went viral, and hashtags multiplied like heart emojis. But what if that fairytale night wasn’t the final chapter — just the prologue to something messier, juicier, and far more real?

Because word on the city’s wireless grapevine is that this baby bump might have another storyline entirely. 👀 A few eagle-eyed fans noticed her quiet shifts — the late-night studio check-ins, a new playlist obsession, and subtle “coincidences” involving a renowned male artist whose name (for now) stays under Kumalo lock and key. Those who know, know. The chemistry was never subtle. The receipts are piling.

But while the gossip mills grind, Trona herself remains unbothered — and that’s her real power. Every weekend, she’s glowing through influencer gigs like nothing happened: Royco campaigns, Oktoberfest hosting, and those perfect Bapa Hotel reels that hit like caffeine on a slow Monday. Brands love her, followers trust her, and fellow influencers… well, they stay watching.

      Photo: Spragga Promotions/ Trona 

Yet what really separates her from the crowd isn’t just the face or the fame — it’s the discipline. Trona shows up, on time, every time, with the energy of someone born for the camera. Colleagues call her “the influencer with the cleanest brand north of the Nile.” It’s giving classy. It’s giving focus. It’s giving booked and blessed.

Still, no one can deny her allure. Gulu’s nightlife has seen plenty of beauties, but Trona’s presence has always been different. With that Latto-style package — curves that command attention and a walk that turns silence into sound — she’s long been the poster girl for “big Nyash believers.” But let’s not get it twisted; insiders say En Peke Lawat! (She doesn’t serve anyhowly). Standards, darling. Always standards.

And just when we thought her story had peaked, another whisper slid across our newsroom like a secret text at midnight — Trona is planning something new. Sources hint at exclusive themed nights she’ll soon introduce at a brand-new Gulu City hangout. Names being floated? “Influencers After Dark,” “Girls with Goals,” maybe even a “Moms & Mocktails” series when the bump becomes a bundle. Whatever it is, it’s already giving soft launch energy. And best believe — Kumalo will be there, notebook in one hand, cocktail in the other.

So here we are — a proposal that went public, a pregnancy wrapped in mystery, and a career still shining like polished glass. Whether love story or life plot twist, Trona’s narrative is pure rebrand magic. She’s showing the north — and the nation — that even in scandal, you can stay stylish, strategic, and secure the bag.

The vomit test has spoken, the bump is visible, and the next chapter is writing itself. Whatever comes next, one thing’s certain — Trona remains the headline.

Congratulations, queen. Motherhood looks good on you — and we’ll be right here, waiting for the gender reveal and the next themed-night teaser. Because in this city, when Trona moves, the streets talk. 

Is NRM Favouring Crossers Over Incumbent Members for a National Cause?

A conversation between two generations at the edge of Uganda’s political transition.

The Yellow Hour

It’s a Kampala evening in late October 2025. The sun melts into Nakasero’s skyline, painting the city in a strange blend of gold and uncertainty. From the veranda of a crowded café near Fairway Hotel, Andrew Muwende sits opposite a young man—hoodie, earpods, restless energy.

Youth: “Uncle Muwende, be honest—this thing of people crossing to NRM every week, isn’t it just political survival? I mean, over 1,000 NUP guys at Kololo? That’s not unity; that’s desperation.”

Muwende (chuckling): “Ah, my son, politics is never about desperation—it’s about timing. What you’re calling defection, the strategists in State House call realignment. When 1,000 NUP faithful walk into Kololo and Museveni hugs them like prodigal sons, that’s not chaos—it’s choreography. It’s a message to the country: unity is the new currency.”

He sips his espresso slowly, eyes glinting.

“Look at Nebbi—500 crossed in July. Abdu Katuntu, the opposition sage of Bugweri, suddenly smiles in State House selfies by October. And just last week, 150 from Amuru led by Lanam Kijange joined the yellow tide. These are not accidents, my boy—they’re signs of an incoming transition.”

Youth: “Transition to what? To another Museveni? Or to Muhoozi in uniform and sneakers?”

Muwende (grinning): “That’s where your generation gets it wrong. You think every succession is a coup. Sometimes, the handover isn’t rebellion—it’s continuity dressed as reform. Call it a ‘transitional republic.’ The old guard retires quietly, new faces take the microphone, and the nation exhales. That’s how history works when revolutions mature.”

 The Pyre of the Faithful

The young man frowns, stirring his coffee like it owes him answers.

Youth: “But Uncle, what about the loyalists—the ones who’ve campaigned for NRM since the bush? They’re being sidelined for these new converts.”

Muwende: “Ah, loyalty is not a lifetime warranty, my son. July’s NRM primaries weren’t elections—they were a coliseum. Gunfire, petitions, tears! Over 500 constituencies in chaos. Even ministers like Persis Namuganza cried foul. Twaha Kagabo of Bukoto South swore he’d run as an independent. And yet, Museveni blesses an 86-year-old Gen. Moses Ali for East Moyo.”

He leans closer.

“You call it unfair; I call it restructuring. Sometimes the system must burn its faithful to clear the way for fresh loyalists—defectors who bring new legitimacy for the coming era. You see chaos; I see choreography for transition.”

Youth: “But the youth are angry. They see old men clinging to power.”

Muwende: “That’s why Gen Z must step in—not with stones but with software. Have you seen their ‘Unstoppable UG’ campaign? Or the ‘Gen Z Peaceful Elections Drive’? These are not Museveni’s pawns—they’re the early engineers of a post-Museveni Uganda. If they channel their energy right, they’ll inherit the house, not burn it.”

Turncoats’ Treasure

The youth laughs dryly.

Youth: “So you’re saying defectors are saviors now?”

Muwende: “Not saviors—strategic assets. Look, in Sironko, NUP defectors now praise government programs for ‘changing lives.’ In Bugweri, Katuntu’s crossover wasn’t a footnote; it was a headline. In Nebbi, 500 joined right before primaries—clever timing, not coincidence. And remember, 191 youth defectors were welcomed by Museveni in June with a 100 million-shilling fund. That’s not charity; that’s co-option.”

Youth: “You make it sound noble. Isn’t that just buying loyalty?”

Muwende (smirking): “Politics has always been the art of buying time. Favouring defectors over incumbents does two things—it refreshes the party’s image and neutralizes rivals. The old MPs carry grudges; the new converts carry gratitude. And gratitude is easier to manage during a transition.”

He taps the table gently. “Think of it this way: the old NRM was a liberation movement; the new NRM is a survival ecosystem. You either evolve or evaporate.”

 Mao’s Tyelo Waltz

Youth: “And what about Norbert Mao? One day he’s opposition, the next he’s Museveni’s minister. Then he says something about ‘Tyelo news.’ What game is he playing?”

Muwende: “Ah, Mao—the Acholi chess player. When he returned to Pece-Laroo for a parliamentary seat this October, people thought he’d fallen. But no—he’s positioning. His Democratic Party has shelved national ambitions because he’s on a bigger mission: to orchestrate a smooth handover.”

He chuckles softly. “Mao’s not campaigning; he’s conducting. He’s part of a committee quietly stitching NRM, DP, UPC, FDC moderates, and PPP into a velvet transition. Ballots might not decide this one—dialogue will. Remember his words? ‘State House meetings, not street riots, will shape the future.’ That’s the real politics of power.”

Youth: “But his DP comrades call him a sellout.”

Muwende: “Because they mistake diplomacy for betrayal. Mao understands something your Twitter warriors don’t: transitions are not won by noise—they’re negotiated in whispers. His so-called ‘Tyelo news’ might be the opening music for a Muhoozi era—or simply the overture of a generational pact. Either way, he’s playing for legacy.”

Ripples from the Regions

The café lights flicker as night settles over Kampala. Muwende waves for another round.

Muwende: “Look across the country. Acholi stirs as Mao returns home. In the East, defectors challenge Mukula’s machine. In Arua, NRM flexes like a heavyweight, crushing opposition morale. In Lango, Museveni sells wealth creation with a smile and a sack of promises. Every region is being recalibrated.”

Youth: “So it’s all one big setup—for Muhoozi?”

Muwende: “Call it what you want—a setup, a soft landing, a generational bridge. The architects prefer ‘national cause.’ But here’s the gamble: 77 percent of Ugandans are under 30. If they buy into this vision, the NRM will regenerate. If they reject it, the whole plan collapses.”

He pauses, watching boda lights flicker through the trees. “Across Africa, young people are rewriting destiny—from Kenya to Madagascar. Uganda’s youth could either fuel a peaceful transition or ignite a revolution. The difference will be whether they see opportunity or oppression in the yellow veil.”

The Reckoning

The young man leans back, silent for a moment.

Youth: “Uncle Muwende, you make it sound like this chaos could actually lead somewhere good.”

Muwende (smiling knowingly): “History, my boy, always looks messy in real time. Every regime renewal is disguised as scandal. When a system favors defectors, maybe it’s not collapsing—it’s mutating. Perhaps these crossers are not traitors, but midwives of a new republic. Maybe, just maybe, Museveni is clearing the runway for a younger flight crew.”

Youth: “And you think Muhoozi could really fly the plane?”

Muwende: “He’s already in the cockpit. The question is whether your generation will co-pilot—or just tweet from the passenger seats.”

The youth laughs, half-convinced, half-disturbed.

Muwende: “Remember this, my son: in the NRM’s Klondike, loyalty is the pauper, and the crossover king wears yellow. But beyond the gold rush lies a chance—a fragile, fleeting one—for renewal. The question is, will Uganda seize it?”

He takes his last sip, eyes on the street. “Now go, and decide which side of history you want to hashtag.”

 

 Disclaimer:This story is a work of fiction inspired by real-life settings and experiences. Names, characters, businesses, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental. The dialogues and opinions expressed in the narrative do not reflect those of any real individuals or organizations.

Kasid Puma aka “Olebe”: From Kitgum Beats to Northern Heat — The Vulgar Voice That’s Got the Campaigns Dancing and Debating.

The Rise of Kasid Puma — From Local Buzz to National Vibes

If you’ve been anywhere near a northern Ugandan campaign rally lately, chances are you’ve felt the electricity before even seeing the man. Kasid Puma, born in Kitgum but holding it down in Gulu, has been transforming political gatherings into impromptu concerts. He’s not just a performer — he’s an experience. From the moment he steps on stage, the energy shifts; the youth erupt with cheers that echo across stadiums and streets. His rise hasn’t been overnight, but it’s undeniable: from local street shows to campaign circuits, Puma’s journey has been fueled by raw charisma, relentless grind, and a voice that refuses to stay quiet.

The northern youth have embraced him as a representative of their voice — a bridge between street culture and national stage. This connection is not merely performative; it’s rooted in authenticity. Puma’s lyrics speak to their realities, frustrations, and celebrations. His presence at rallies amplifies the excitement, making political spaces feel less like formal events and more like cultural festivals. This unique positioning has garnered attention from influencers, creatives, and media personalities, who now watch closely whenever Puma performs.

 “Kasid Puma doesn’t just perform — he commands. The stadium moves with him.”

The “Olebe” Persona — Vulgar Lyrics, Real Reactions, and the Youth Magnet Effect

Puma’s self-styled nickname, “Olebe,” is more than just a brand — it’s a declaration. Known for his vulgar and unapologetic lyrics, he resonates with a generation tired of sugarcoated verses and predictable flows. The youth love his raw edge; it’s the honesty they crave. Puma’s music doesn’t shy away from taboo topics or gritty realities. Instead, it embraces them with humor, satire, and flair.

His lyrics are conversational, direct, and often dripping with playful vulgarity that sparks debates among listeners. Some elders raise eyebrows, while young fans see him as a voice daring enough to break the mold. This dynamic has only strengthened his position in northern Uganda’s music scene. Puma’s “Olebe” persona is magnetic because it’s real — it’s streetwise, irreverent, and confident.

The effect is tangible: during performances, crowds sing along, dance, and chant his name. Puma’s ability to connect through candid storytelling — wrapped in catchy beats — ensures his message spreads far beyond the venues. His influence is not just about entertainment; it’s cultural, shaping how northern youth engage with music, identity, and expression.

 “They call him ‘Olebe’ for a reason — his lyrics hit where it matters, and the youth can’t get enough.”

        Kasid Puma. Billion Geng Geng Entertainment Boss

Beef & Brotherhood — The Jelly G Saga

Every rising star has their drama, and Puma’s narrative is no exception. His long-standing feud with fellow artist Jelly G, once his close friend, has become a talking point in the region’s music circles. Their rivalry, rooted in past collaborations and personal disputes, has kept fans engaged for years. While some insiders say it began over creative differences, others suggest competition for recognition and influence in the northern music scene fueled the split.

What makes this feud particularly compelling is its authenticity. Puma and Jelly G don’t stage conflicts for clicks — the tension is real, witnessed by fans at live events, social media spats, and collaborative fallout. This narrative has become part of Puma’s persona, adding layers to his “Olebe” identity. Rivalries, while messy, often push artists to innovate, and Puma’s rise is a testament to that. He channels his experiences with Jelly G into performances, lyrics, and public appearances, keeping audiences hooked.

 “Friendship turned rivalry — Puma and Jelly G prove that the north’s music scene isn’t just about beats, it’s about battles.”

             Kasid Puma and Jelly G  together years ago, before the feud.

 The New Kubuz Era — Tradition Meets Turn-Up

While Puma first gained traction with dancehall vibes, his shift into New Kubuz — an evolution of the traditional Lakubukubu sound — has expanded his fan base massively. This genre remix combines local rhythms with contemporary beats, making it irresistible to both men and women across northern Uganda. Clubs, weddings, and rallies are now echoing with Puma’s New Kubuz tracks, a testament to his ability to innovate while honoring cultural roots.

The transformation is strategic and artistic. Puma understood that evolving his sound would broaden his reach beyond dancehall enthusiasts. New Kubuz allows him to engage audiences who might not typically connect with his earlier style. The result? A cross-demographic fanbase that dances, sings, and shares his music widely, ensuring he remains a household name.

 “From dancehall to New Kubuz, Puma made the north dance — and notice him.”

From Street Shows to State Stages — Why Eddy Kenzo’s Eyes Are On Him

Kasid Puma’s influence hasn’t gone unnoticed at the national level. Eddy Kenzo, the national creatives president and presidential advisor, has publicly acknowledged Puma’s rising profile. Kenzo’s attention signals Puma’s transition from a regional phenomenon to a recognized national talent. The endorsement carries weight in Uganda’s entertainment industry, opening doors for collaborations, higher-profile performances, and media coverage.

What makes Puma’s ascent remarkable is his ability to merge entertainment with cultural relevance. His performances at presidential rallies, particularly in northern Uganda, have made him a cultural touchstone for youth engagement. This visibility, combined with his unique lyrical style and New Kubuz innovation, positions him as one of Uganda’s most compelling emerging artists.

 “When the national creatives notice you, you’re no longer just a local star — Puma is officially on the map.”

Entertainment Disclaimer:

All views expressed in this article are for entertainment purposes only. The opinions, interpretations, and narratives reflect the perspective of Kamule Kumalo Staff Writer and are not intended as factual claims or professional advice.

 

Tiwa Savage Is Over the Young Boys—Now She Wants a Grown-Ass Man

There comes a time in every queen’s life when the thrill of dating guys who still think "adulting" is a hashtag loses its charm. For Tiwa Savage, the undisputed Queen of Afrobeats, that time is now. At 48, the Nigerian superstar has officially retired from the "Let me teach you how life works, baby" dating league and is now in the market for a man who knows where he’s going—preferably with a ring and a plan.

In what might be the most relatable celebrity revelation since someone finally admitted that private jets are just Uber with more champagne, Tiwa recently declared that she’s done with young guys whose idea of commitment is remembering to text back before noon. "In the past, I have dated a lot of guys who are way too young to be with me," she confessed, in a tone that suggests she’s been to the rodeo, ridden the bull, and now just wants a nice, stable horse.

The Problem with Young Bloods

Let’s be real—dating younger men is fun… until it isn’t. There’s a certain allure to being with someone who looks at you like you’re Wikipedia with legs ("Wow, you’ve actually experienced Y2K in real time?"). But after a while, the charm wears off when you realize that their five-year plan still involves figuring out which sneakers to buy next.

Tiwa put it bluntly: "Right now, I’m not into young guys anymore. I want a man who is ready to settle down, not a man whose only interest is sêx like most of these young dudes out here." Translation: She’s tired of being someone’s "I’ll call you" and ready to be someone’s "I do."

And can we blame her? At a certain point, "vibes" just don’t cut it anymore. You want a man who knows the difference between Netflix and chill and "Let’s discuss our joint investment portfolio over chilled wine."

The Realization: Age Ain’t Just a Number

There’s a reason why women like Tiwa—gorgeous, successful, and at the top of their game—eventually pivot from "He’s so energetic!" to "Does he have a retirement plan?" It’s not that younger men aren’t great (some are!), but let’s just say emotional maturity doesn’t always come with a six-pack.

As one wise woman once said: "Young boys want to break the bed. Grown men want to buy the bed—and the house it’s in." Tiwa has reached that stage where she’s no longer interested in being someone’s late-night snack when she could be someone’s permanent Michelin-starred meal.

Is Age Catching Up with Tiwa? Or Is She Just Woke?

Now, the question on everyone’s mind: Is Tiwa Savage suddenly in a rush to settle down because Father Time is knocking, or has she simply leveled up in her standards?

The answer? Both—and neither.

At 48, Tiwa isn’t desperate; she’s discriminating. There’s a difference. This isn’t about ticking a biological clock (because let’s be honest, Tiwa looks like she’s aging in reverse). It’s about recognizing that after a certain point, you’d rather have a partner who brings more to the table than just "good in bed."

Besides, why should she waste time on guys who still think "wifing" someone is just a TikTok trend? She’s Tiwa freaking Savage—if she wants a man who’s ready to put a ring on it and build a life, not just a "link-up," that’s her prerogative.

The Takeaway: Tiwa’s Ready—Are You?

So, to all the eligible, emotionally available, "Yes, I have a therapist" men out there: The Queen is officially on the market. But be warned—she’s not looking for another "situationship." She wants the real deal.

And to the young guys still sliding into her DMs with "Hey mama, you up?"—maybe try "Good evening, ma’am. Would you like to discuss our shared values over a glass of wine?"

It might just get you further.

TL;DR: Tiwa Savage is done babysitting. Bring a ring, not just "rizz."

Salon Ladies of Gulu City: The Ultimate Life-Eaters Dominating the Night Economy

Move over, Boda Bodas—there’s a new apex predator in Gulu City, and they come with flawless edges, killer outfits, and a PhD in turning a man’s wallet into their personal ATM.

In a recent (and highly chaotic) public poll conducted in one of Northern Uganda’s most opinionated WhatsApp groups, salon ladies were voted the undisputed champions of "enjoying life to the fullest"—leaving even the most reckless Boda Boda guys looking like amateurs. These women aren’t just winning; they’re rewriting the rulebook on how to live lavishly, love dangerously, and disappear with your transport money before you even realize what happened.

Why Salon Ladies Are the Real MVPs of Gulu Nightlife

1. The Art of the Daily Bag

While the rest of us are budgeting like we’re in a financial literacy seminar, salon ladies operate on a different frequency. Their daily disposable income isn’t just disposable—it’s launched into the atmosphere with the precision of a SpaceX rocket.

• Hair? Fresh every three days.

• Nails? Longer than your attention span.

• Outfits? Tight enough to make a pastor stutter during Sunday sermon.

And the best part? They’re not even spending their money. There’s always a loyal customer, a hopeful admirer, or a sugar daddy ready to slide into their DMs with a "Hello beautiful, how’s your day?"—which, in Gulu dialect, translates to "How much do you need?"

2. Multiple Partners, Zero Attachments

Salon ladies have mastered the ancient art of "acting single while being everyone’s girlfriend." They move through relationships like a Netflix user browsing titles—sampling, enjoying, and exiting before the credits roll.

• Monday: Dinner with the businessman.

• Wednesday: Club hopping with the gym bro.

• Friday-Sunday: Ghosting both to hang out with the young, broke-but-fine guy who "just gets her."

And if you dare ask, "Are we exclusive?"—prepare for the most theatrical laugh since Nollywood’s finest villainess.

3. The Drink-and-Pee Technique: A Scientific Breakthrough

Scientists in Gulu are still trying to decode how these women can outdrink fishermen yet remain sober enough to calculate your net worth mid-conversation. The secret? Drink and Pee.

They sip, they socialize, they excuse themselves to the bathroom—and somehow, the alcohol leaves their system faster than your money leaves your wallet. By the time you’re slurring your words, they’re texting their next sponsor with flawless grammar.

4. The Transport Money Heist

Before you even think of handing a salon lady transport money, know this: you’ve already lost. These women have a sixth sense for extracting cash with the precision of a bank heist.

• Step 1: "Baby, just send me the money, I’ll buy it myself." (Translation: "I’m keeping 80% of this.")

• Step 2: "I’ll see you tomorrow, love." (Translation: "I’ll see you if another guy doesn’t book me first.")

• Step 3: "I forgot my phone at home." (Classic exit strategy.)

By the time you realize you’ve been played, she’s already two towns over, laughing with her girls about how easy it was.

5. The Sugar Daddy Disappearing Act

The older men in the WhatsApp group issued a stern warning: Some salon ladies will drink you dry, then vanish with a younger guy before you can say "Where’s my change?"

• Phase 1: She acts like you’re her "mature king."

• Phase 2: You start paying for her "small business." (Spoiler: The business is her lifestyle.)

• Phase 3: One day, she stops picking up calls. Later, you see her on some guy’s bike who wasn’t even born when you got your first job.

It’s not personal—it’s just Gulu economics.

Conclusion: Bow Down to the Queens

Salon ladies aren’t just surviving in Gulu—they’re dominating. They’ve turned beauty, charm, and strategic detachment into a multimillion-shilling industry. And while some may call them "life-eaters," let’s be honest: we’re all just waiting for our turn to be politely exploited.

So next time you see one roaming into a club, looking like she owns the place (because she probably does), just salute and step aside. These women aren’t just playing the game—they wrote the rulebook.

Final Thought: If Gulu had a Forbes List, salon ladies would occupy the top 10. The rest of us? We’re just background characters in their glamorous, drama-filled reality Show on Zee World.