In this third episode of Voices from the Ground, I return to Rwamwanja refugee settlement.
If you ask almost any refugee in Rwamwanja about “Banamazembe,” you will see a smile. They know the name. Behind it is Gustave Shambui; a man with a walking stick, a ready laugh, and an unshakable belief in the power of sports, music, dance, and drama to restore young people’s dreams.
When I visited him recently, I didn’t actually come with any prepared agenda. I came to listen. We met in his Music, Dance and Drama facility at Base Camp in Kasisa; a multipurpose entertainment centre with satellite-connected live TV screen, a performance stage, and a small bar section. His right leg makes walking long distances difficult, so instead of strolling, we settled into the shade of the hall to share stories.
It was a hot afternoon. My eyes wandered to the fridge visible as you enter the hall, where rows of cold beer stood waiting. I mentioned that one cold Guiness beer would be perfect to quench my thirst. Without hesitation, Gustave waved away my hand as I reached for money:
“You’re my visitor; you can’t pay.”
It was such a simple gesture, but it sank deep. He doesn’t drink himself; not a drop of alcohol since his childhood, a discipline he’s kept all his life. As for me, I took the beer gladly. The cold glass cut through the heat, but the warmth of the welcome stayed longer.
Gustave’s story began far from here. He grew up in Bukavu, Democratic Republic of Congo, in a deeply religious family. As a boy, he remembers that he often sneaked away from home to play football or dance; passions that never left him. He studied carpentry up to diploma level, worked in Goma as a referee, football league advisor, and president of the Congolese Christian Musicians Association in North Kivu as well as a businessman. His talents took him across borders, touring to perform in neighbouring countries such as Burundi.
Then in 2012, violence came to his doorstep. At home in Goma, thugs attacked him with gun butts, stole his money, and left his right leg permanently damaged. He suspects jealousy; from business rivals or people of other tribes who resented his success. His verdict on that time is stark:
“In DRC, the police only arrive when you are dead. Banditry is normal. Government is absent.”
After a year in hospital, he made the decision to leave Congo for good. He first went to Kisoro, Uganda, and was later joined by two of his children before UN agencies relocated them to Rwamwanja Refugee Settlement, where eventually the rest of his family later joined him.
Once in Rwamwanja, he refused to sit idle. Shocked by how many young refugees were wasting away without opportunities, he started the Banamazembe Group in 2015. Using his own modest savings, he began training young people in dance, drama, and football. He formed men’s and women’s teams, as well as a football academy for children. Over the years, more than 5,000 refugee youth have passed through his programs.
The group earns a small income from performances, from small scale piggery and a carpentry workshop that they manage. With the help from trainees, Gustave has bought land in the settlement. Some is used for pig rearing and crop farming to fund activities. His dream is to build a modern sports facility to be the home of Banamazembe teams, and to launch an annual Umoja Wetu Festival to showcase refugee talent in Uganda.
Our conversation drifted beyond sports. I asked him whether he had attempted to intentionally build any partnerships with INGOs around. As soon as I asked about this, his face changed. He narrated with quiet anger about the disrespect he and others have encountered once they visit INGO run service centres like local health centres.
On health centers, he said: “They treat you like you don’t matter. Ask the women who go to give birth in these hospitals; they leave with regrets. Even to pick medication or attend vaccination, you can sit there the whole day. No apology. No explanation. You just wait.”
He also spoke frankly about how refugee leaders are often treated when they visit INGO offices: “They treat us as useless people. They think we are poor and without ideas. Some behave like gods.”
Officials from various International Non-Governmental organisations (INGOs) and from the Ugandan government have visited, praised his work, promised support; and then disappeared. His view is sharp:
“I think they want to show refugees as needy and poor so they can raise funds. Probably we don’t fit perfectly, that description.”
I wasn’t surprised. I have seen it myself; how easily privilege can blind people who claim to be doing humanitarian work. It is the same pattern; systems that strip people of dignity in spaces meant to uphold it.
I apologised for the way some INGOs had treated him and others, and told him I was glad he felt free to speak openly about it. At Cohere, I explained, we are constantly re-examining our own practices and centring the voices of grassroots leaders like him. I was honest about my own limits. We may not have funds to support your work right now, but we value relationships and human connection above money. We will keep in touch, make courtesy calls whenever we can, and share your story. And whenever possible, I will be here in person; watching your shows, cheering you on.
He smiled and replied:
“That’s also important. A friend is not only available when money is there. With or without money, we need each other.”
That moment stayed with me. In a humanitarian sector obsessed with funding cycles, we have almost forgotten that solidarity without money is still solidarity. Sometimes, it’s the most precious kind.
When it was time to leave, Gustave walked me outside. We took a picture together in front of the hall. He grinned and told me:
“This is your home. Feel free to come and have a beer here anytime you want, or watch our performances.” I promised I would. He laughed; a laugh full of approval and joy.
But as I walked away, the thought lingered: maybe the real crisis in humanitarian work is not only a lack of funds, but a lack of imagination. We talk about global solidarity as if it were one big “Kumbaya” circle, yet we have built systems where help flows only when paperwork is complete, where care is rationed through donor cycles, and where dignity is too often the first casualty.
If we had the courage to design aid with the creativity of people like Gustave; where community spaces double as economic engines, where hospitality is part of the budget, where dignity is not negotiable and where human relationship precedes everything else; maybe we would stop patching lives temporarily and start rebuilding them permanently.
(A French Version of this story was first shared with Gustave Shambui for his consent and revision, ensuring his voice and perspective were accurately represented).
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