Your phone buzzes. It’s a name you recognise. It’s a promoter, a collective, a platform you’ve been watching build something real over the last year. “We’re doing a thing next month. We want you on the lineup.”
And just like that, something in your chest lifts.
You know this feeling.
It’s not really about the money in that first second. It’s the thank God, I’m still relevant feeling. The I’m not being left behind feeling. In a scene as fast-moving and as crowded as Kampala’s has become, where a new collective or platform seems to launch every other month, being asked is its own kind of validation. You start picturing the flyer. You start imagining who’ll see it, who’ll repost it, who’ll finally take you seriously after this one. You finally thank God you have content.
That feeling is real, and it is not naive. Being seen matters. Being part of the wave matters. I have felt exactly that pull myself — the pull to say yes before I’ve even asked what “yes” pays.
But here’s the thing nobody tells you loudly enough: that feeling is precisely the moment you are most likely to get underpaid, unpaid, or quietly used. Not because the people calling you are bad people. Most of them are building something they genuinely believe in, often with very little money themselves. But belief doesn’t pay your rent, and exposure has never once settled a studio bill. You can love what’s happening on the scene with your whole chest and still ask, clearly and without apology, “what does this pay, and when?”
The trap of “just be grateful you were asked”
Here’s how it usually goes. You get the call. You’re excited. You don’t want to seem difficult, or ungrateful, or like you’re not “about the culture,” so you don’t ask too many questions. You show up. You perform. You give it everything, because that’s who you are as an artist — you don’t do half a show, even for free, even for “exposure.” And then afterward, there’s a delay. Then a “we’re still balancing the books.” Then silence. Then, if you’re persistent enough, an apology and a fraction of what you expected, months later, if at all.
None of that happened because you were foolish. It happened because there was never anything on paper defining what was owed to you, so there was nothing anyone could be held to. The moment it becomes your word against theirs, you lose; not because you’re wrong, but because “I felt like we agreed on this or that” is not evidence of anything.
This is the tension every working artist in this city knows intimately: you want to be part of everything, because visibility is currency and no one builds a career by saying no to every opportunity. But you also have bills, studio time, a team depending on you, a life to fund. Both things are true at once. The answer isn’t to stop saying yes to the culture. The answer is to stop saying yes blind.
Wisdom is knowing this is still a business
It takes will, grit and determination to be part of what’s happening in Uganda’s creative scene right now. The platforms, the collectives, the festivals, the countless collaborations trying to get Ugandan voices heard beyond our borders. I say that with real admiration, because I’ve watched it build with my own eyes, and I’m proud to call myself part of it.
But it also takes wisdom to be part of it well. Wisdom to know when a show, a feature, or a performance is worth it for you, for your arc, for your business. Because yes, the performance of your music is a business, even when it’s also a calling, even when it’s also joy.
And knowing that doesn’t cost you your passion. You can still say yes to the opportunity, still show up fully, still give the culture everything you have, and still ask for your cut. Still ask to get paid, on terms that are written down. This is why I will preach the gospel of contractual agreements until every artist I know has internalised it: because when a payment dispute happens, and in this industry, eventually, it happens to almost everyone, the only thing that has ever settled it in anyone’s favour is something express and binding that both sides actually agreed to.
You figure this out at the beginning, not after.
When you get the call asking you to be part of “that thing,” you’re allowed to be excited and ask what the terms are in the same breath. Ask for a contract. Insist on one, or draft it yourself if the other side seems unprepared. We live in the AI era, for heaven’s sake, there is no excuse left for either side not to have something in writing. At the very least, if there’s a cut owed to you, you’ll have something that proves it was owed.
Love and support what’s happening on the Ugandan scene. Support it with all your heart, show up for it fully, be part of everything that excites you. And don’t forget, in the same breath, you can still ask for what is due to you.
Now, let’s talk about what the law actually says
I don’t want this to just be a nice sentiment you nod along to and forget by the time the next DM comes in asking you to “just come through.” Because here’s the part that should actually change how you operate: this isn’t just my opinion as someone who’s been burned before. It’s the law.
So let me break it down the way I would for an artist sitting across from me, phone still buzzing with that same exciting offer.
Uganda’s contract law lives in the Contracts Act. A few sections of it should live in your head every time someone books you.
1. A contract doesn’t have to be written to be real, but that’s exactly the problem. Section 1(2) of the Act says a contract “may be oral or written or partly oral and partly written or may be implied from the conduct of the parties.” So yes, that WhatsApp voice note where the organiser said “we’ll pay you 800k after the set” is, technically, a contract. The issue isn’t whether it’s binding. It’s whether you can prove it later, and prove exactly what was agreed. An oral promise is only as strong as everyone’s memory and everyone’s honesty once money is on the table.
2. The law itself nudges you toward writing. Section 1(5) of the Act requires that any contract whose subject matter exceeds twenty-five currency points be in writing. Most artist bookings, brand deals, or feature fees will sit well above that threshold. Translation: for the kind of money you should be charging, the law isn’t just suggesting you get it in writing — it expects it. A currency point is the equivalent of UGX 20,000 by the way, so any deal above UGX 500,000 HAS to be in writing is what the law is saying.
3. “In writing” is broader than a signed PDF. Section 1(3) clarifies that a contract counts as being in writing if it’s in the form of a data message, accessible for later reference, and otherwise expressed in words. A clearly laid-out email or a documented agreement you both sign off on electronically counts. This matters because it means getting terms in writing isn’t the bureaucratic hurdle some organisers make it sound like. It can be as simple as a one-page agreement sent and confirmed over email before you show up.
4. Certainty is everything. Section 23 of the Act voids an agreement “the meaning of which is not certain or capable of being made certain.” This is the legal version of “get it in writing, and get it in writing clearly.” A contract that says “we’ll sort you out” is not a contract a court, or anyone else, can enforce. Your fee, your payment date, your cut of the door or of streaming revenue if that’s the deal, what happens if the event is postponed or cancelled — all of it needs to be specific enough that there’s no room for “sorting out” to mean whatever suits the other party once the show is over.
5. Capacity matters, especially for younger artists and their teams. Section 10 requires a party to a contract to be eighteen or above and of sound mind to have capacity to contract. If you’re managing or negotiating on behalf of a younger artist, this is worth knowing. It shapes who can actually sign, and who needs a guardian or a properly authorised representative to do it for them.
Back to that phone call
So go back to the moment your phone buzzed. The excitement is still real. You still want to be on that lineup. Nothing about knowing the law should kill that. What it should do is change the next thirty seconds of the conversation.
Instead of just “yes, I’m in,” it becomes: “I’m in — send me the details and let’s sort the terms.” That’s it. That’s the whole shift. You’re not being difficult. You’re not being “too business” for a culture that’s supposedly about passion. You are doing what every promoter, every brand, every collective doing this properly is already expecting serious artists to do. The ones who respect you will respect the question. The ones who get defensive about it are telling you something important about what the next few months of chasing your money will look like.
Here’s what that looks like in practice, before your next booking:
- Ask for the terms before you say yes to a date — not after you’ve already turned down another gig to hold the slot, not after you’ve already shown up to soundcheck.
- Get the fee written down in an actual number. Not “we’ll take care of you.” Not “it’ll be worth it.” A number, a currency, and a date it’s due.
- If it’s a revenue-share or door-split arrangement, get the percentage and the method of calculation written down — who’s counting the door, when you’ll see the numbers, and when you get paid out.
- Confirm it in writing even if it’s informal. A clearly laid-out email or a documented WhatsApp/DM exchange where both sides confirm the same numbers counts as “in writing” under Ugandan law. You don’t need a fifteen-page document for a mid-size show — you need something specific, dated, and mutually acknowledged.
- State what happens if things change — postponement, cancellation, a lineup cut for time. Vague plans fall apart under pressure; specific ones don’t.
- Keep the paper trail. Screenshots, emails, signed one-pagers, voice notes if that’s genuinely all you have. All of it is evidence if things go sideways later.
- If the numbers involved are meaningful to your business, don’t negotiate away the contract part. The law already expects a proper written agreement at that point — you’re not asking for something extra, you’re asking for what should already be standard.
None of this is about distrust of the scene that’s raising us up. It’s about understanding that the people building the platforms, the collectives, the festivals — the good ones, the ones actually building something that lasts, want you protected too.
A scene that pays its artists fairly is a scene that keeps its artists. A scene that runs on vague promises burns through talent and goodwill until there’s nothing left to build on.
So say yes to the opportunity. Show up fully. Give the performance everything, because that’s who you are. Love this culture with your whole chest, the way it deserves. And in that same breath, every single time, without flinching and without apologising for it — ask for your cut.
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