Like many artists, Azawi operates with a clear structure, especially for upcountry shows. Payment terms are agreed upon in advance, with balances cleared before stepping on stage. This time, however, things began to unravel upon arrival at the venue in Luwero.
The booking agent, someone she had worked with before, assured her team that the remaining payment would be completed on-site. But when her management asked for the balance, the response was vague: “Hold on.”
For an artiste who typically charges ten million shillings for performances outside Kampala, the situation was already uncomfortable. Unknown to her, the agent had negotiated two different deals, one with the event organizers and another with her team.
As Azawi and her team sat inside their vehicle, a Toyota Super Custom she often uses for such trips, tension escalated quickly.
“Out of nowhere, about 12 bodyguards surrounded the car,” she says. “They started banging on it, demanding that I go perform.” She narrated on a live video chat with A Pass.
The driver hesitated. The car was parked facing the wrong direction, toward Gulu instead of Kampala, making a quick escape harder than it should have been.
“I told him, ‘Drive. Get us out of here.’”
What followed was not just an exit. It was a chase.
The team sped off, but the situation didn’t end at the venue. They were pursued for nearly an hour, all the way to Mijera. Calls were made in panic, including to her label, Swangz Avenue, as fear replaced confusion.
In those moments, it was no longer about money or performance. It was about safety. Desperate, they sought refuge at a nearby police station. But even that didn’t bring immediate relief.
As their car pulled into the station, police officers, unaware of the situation, opened fire, suspecting they were criminals fleeing something far more sinister.
“A few seconds later, the same people chasing us showed up,” she explains. “They told the OC that I had refused to perform after being paid and that people were destroying property.”
In a cruel twist, the narrative had flipped.
Despite her attempts to explain, Azawi was ordered into a cell. Her team members were beaten. Even the booking agent—now caught between both sides of his deception—was eventually locked up.
“The OC said Kampala artists are proud,” she says. “He wanted to make me an example.”
Her fear was being paraded in front of journalists the following morning because that is the daily routine at police stations. Suspects are lined up every morning, but luckily enough, the situation was resolved that night.
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