Tonight is rock night at Steakout and I love rock night at Steakout. I just wanted to put it out there so that you know that in the deepest part of my vile heart, if you look hard enough, I still have traces of love for something.
Because this is a diss article dedicated to five Ugandans in the entertainment industry who have refused to believe that fame dumped them for someone else. They walk door to door reminding people about their existence and distribute flyers labelled “You still know me, right? Please?”
Rasta Rob a.k.a Master Nobo a.k.a Rasta Nobo a.k.a Rasta Rob a.k.a To Be Continued…
I used to be a fan of this guy back when our family radio grabbed FM stations from one particular spot in the house and when it did, it was just one station. I became an even bigger fan when Diblo Dibala gave him a shout-out in one of the hottest lingala jams that year.
Then he left the country around the same time my parents bought a bigger radio that played LPs from anywhere in the house.
Then he came back around the time I turned 21 and it was now legal for me to change to different radio stations from anywhere in the country. But what he failed to understand was people grow up. I had grown from just a little boy who innocently listened to one cute little radio station to a big promiscuous radio station whore.
He brought back the same screamy style of the olden days. Instead of informing and entertaining us like a normal presenter he announced his name every five seconds and yelled at us for listening to him. He now yells at Super FM.
Rasta master man, go help mum with the dishes or something. Just get off air.
He started being an emperor back in the early ‘90s when people bought his tapes to listen to his partner, Menton Summer (RIP). His solo career (chuckle) started after Menton Summer’s death and since then he has been struggling to make it big in the industry.
Don’t get me wrong. I like this guy. His stage name starts with an ‘E’, which is pretty likeable but when you start producing songs like Pull It, I’d like to think you’re telling me to pull your head off and shove it up the behind of Nasta Mobo and any other DJ who plays it.
Go to your room, Orlando!
Oh wait for it…
Music tastes change with generations. You of all people should know that, Chameleone. Grow up.
I didn’t want to appear sexist.
So I added Sweet Kid. My guess is Mama Brenda told him to sit at home and cook instead of wasting time in studio having periods.
His failure to make it big could be attributed to one of two things. Either people prefer artistes with a bad boy demeanour that requires getting shot and breaking legs or everyone simply thought that some random kid who sells sweets tripped and fell on a microphone then cried in an organized manner.
We hope you’re happy where you are, Sweet Kid. We hope you’re happy.