Tanzania time, even if you are Yanga it’s time to back Simba, pray 1993 final doesn’t repeat

TANZANIA: TODAY is not just your average Sunday, where you scroll your WhatsApp groups, delete useless forwards, then settle for a sad plate of ‘mchemsho’ while mumbling how the weekend flew. No. This Sunday is continental. It is spiritual. It is political. It is everything, rolled into ninety minutes of sweaty palms, screeching fans, misplaced …

TANZANIA: TODAY is not just your average Sunday, where you scroll your WhatsApp groups, delete useless forwards, then settle for a sad plate of ‘mchemsho’ while mumbling how the weekend flew.

No. This Sunday is continental. It is spiritual. It is political. It is everything, rolled into ninety minutes of sweaty palms, screeching fans, misplaced passes and a national blood pressure alert.

Simba Sports Club, the red brigades of Kariakoo, will be battling RS Berkane of Morocco in the second leg of the TotalEnergies CAF Confederation Cup Final.

And this is no ordinary game. This, dear fellow Tanzanians, is not Simba’s game. It is our game.

Whether you are Yanga, Azam, JKT Ruvu Stars, Mtibwa Sugar, or even one of those confused fans who supports Manchester City but doesn’t know the colour of their own flag, this is your moment.

Let us rewind just a little. First leg, away in Morocco. RS Berkane were hostile hosts.

Before Simba could even do the national anthem humming warm-up, Berkane had slammed in one goal.

And before they could say “Is this really the final?”, it was 2-0.

The kind of early goals that make even the most diehard fan start muttering something about spiritual interference.

But let us be honest. Simba didn’t collapse. They composed themselves. They played like people who know they owe this country redemption.

They made sure it didn’t end in 4-0 or something ugly enough to make the football federation cancel all press conferences and go on silent mode.

Now the return leg is in Zanzibar. Not Dar es Salaam. Not Morogoro. Not even in the ghost town of Bagamoyo. But in Zanzibar.

Beautiful, spicy, sea breeze Zanzibar. Home of coastal music, clove rice and now, the hopes of a nation.

The New Amaan Complex will host the showdown and if you listen carefully from wherever you are, you might just hear the stadium clearing its throat in anticipation.

It has never hosted something this big. Even the palm trees nearby are standing taller.

The sea is holding its waves. Even the goats of Bububu are walking a bit more respectfully. This is history.

Now here comes the problem.

You see, we Tanzanians have this disease called “Criticising without offering solutions.”

The minute Simba conceded those two goals, suddenly every cousin who failed their Form Two math exam turned into a certified football analyst. Mchambuzi…

“That goalkeeper has no reflexes.” “The defender lacks discipline; he’s moving out of position like he’s chasing chicken.” “Simba’s coach isn’t qualified, he’s not professional.”

This from someone who last exercised in 2003 during a daladala chase in Ubungo.

Let’s be clear: unless you’ve kicked a ball in your life and not twisted your ankle in the process, you have no moral standing to lecture Simba on tactical awareness.

Sit down. Relax. Sip your tea. Support the team.

Even if you are a lifelong Yanga fan buried in green and yellow, just for this Sunday, pretend to love your red brothers. Pleaseeee…

Pretend like your heart doesn’t skip a beat when you see Kapombe preparing to take a free kick. Fake it. Say something nice. Share a Simba graphic with the hashtag #TeamTanzania.

If it hurts, chew some ginger. But do it anyway. Because if Simba wins, it is not Simba that wins alone. It is Tanzania.

And when CAF writes its glorious newsletters and international sports channels do those slow-motion replays, they won’t say Simba they’ll say, “A Tanzanian club.”

Your passport benefits. Your international bragging rights increase.

Even your village aunt who thinks CAF is a type of cooking oil will hear your country’s name being shouted across Africa.

Let us not forget the pain of 1993. Some of you were still in diapers when it happened, so let me take you back.

Simba reached the final of the CAF Cup, which was only in its second season and designed for runners-up of each African domestic league.

They faced Stella from Ivory Coast. The first leg in Abidjan ended 0-0, a result that left Tanzanians hopeful.

Then came the second leg in Dar es salaam, in front of not only a mammoth home crowd but also the President of the United Republic of Tanzania Alhaj Ali Hassan Mwinyi aka “Mzee Ruksa” of the “Kichwa cha Mwendawazimu” fame.

Simba fell 2-0. No goals scored. A quiet exit. It wasn’t a thrashing, but it felt like one. Dreams fizzled.

The disappointment was sharp enough to make people pretend it never happened. But it did. And we remember. We remember because we don’t want to relive it. Not this time.

We need to be alert. And we need to pray. Not just pray. We need every kind of religious, cultural and even slightly suspicious intervention.

Even traditional healers should stop mixing herbs for love spells and instead focus on football. If we’re going to win this thing, we need divine collaboration.

Meanwhile, Zanzibar is preparing. The whole island is putting on makeup. Hotel rooms are overbooked. Clove rice prices have doubled. Even street cats have started meowing in support.

And the former Amaan Stadium is doing push-ups at night.

This is not just football. This is a wedding. A political rally. A spiritual awakening. The climax of a movie.

Simba’s players know what’s at stake. And they are ready.

We must believe that they are not sleeping. They are watching replays. They are listening to motivational speeches from old Simba legends.

They are probably being forced to eat boiled maize with grilled fish only. No fries. No soda. Serious business.

And if you’re a fan, your job is not to type nonsense on social media. Your job is to believe. Your job is to show up.

Or if you can’t go to Zanzibar, show emotional presence. Watch the game like you own shares in it. Cry when we score. Collapse on the floor if we concede.

But for heaven’s sake, no negativity.

Now let’s talk about what will happen if, just if, Simba loses. And yes, we must prepare psychologically because this is football.

You can dominate possession and still lose. Ask Arsenal fans.

If Simba loses, don’t start roasting players online. Don’t compare them to choir members. Don’t say things like, “This team needs spiritual cleansing.”

No. Respect. Because they reached the final.

That alone deserves claps. And pancakes. And hugs. Do you know how many Egyptians, Congolese, Nigerian clubs tried and failed?

So, if our boys stumble at the finish line, we still lift them. That’s patriotism.

But if they win. Oh! If they win! Don’t say we didn’t warn you.

Kariakoo will be on fire. Red t-shirts will be worn even by the many goats roaming all over the city, without herders.

Street vendors will rename their stalls to “Simba Champions.”

Musicians will release five remix versions of the same celebration song.

And somewhere in the capital, a politician will say, “This victory is the result of our great national policies.” Let’s allow it. It will be our collective madness.

So, here’s the plan. You! Yes, you, reading this with crumbs on your shirt, you have a job to do. Wake up early today. Wear red. Even if it’s your neighbour’s curtains.

Warm your voice. And support. Sing loudly. Pray hard. Watch closely. Criticise nothing.

Celebrate everything. Because this match isn’t about eleven men chasing a ball.

It’s about a nation trying to remind itself that we, too, can win something that doesn’t involve politics or foreign aid.

We can win with boots and sweat. We can rise on a field with grass and glory.

This Sunday is not just a match. It’s a declaration. A challenge to fate. A toast to dreams. A story for the next generation. It’s Simba. It’s Zanzibar. It’s Tanzania.

And may the football gods, from Lugalo to Casablanca, be on our side. Let’s go win this thing. For Kariakoo. For all of us.