Mowzey Radio, eight years on: The voice that still sings

Imagine a thin young boy coming of age in the dusty neighbourhoods of Kampala and Jinja in the late 1980s and 1990s.

From the very beginning, Moses was drawn to music. At school, starting at Kibuye Primary, then Holy Cross Lake View, and later Kiira College Butiki, he was known as the boy who was always humming during break time. While others played, he sang.

Friends remember how he could hear a song once on the radio and sing it back effortlessly, sometimes sounding even better than the original artist.

He later joined Makerere University to study Community Psychology and took his academics seriously. Still, music kept calling him louder than anything else.

In 2004, while he was still a student, he released his first solo song, Tujja Kuba Wamu. The track was raw and sincere, wrapped in the smooth reggae sound he loved. People paid attention. It was clear this was not just another young singer trying his luck, this was a voice with something special.

Radio was born on January 25, 1985, in Uganda (sources vary between Jinja District in the Busoga sub-region and Kakiri in Wakiso District). He attended Kibuye Primary School in Makindye, Holy Cross Lake View Secondary School in Jinja for O-Levels, and Kiira College Butiki for A-Levels. He later studied at Makerere University, where he earned a degree and began pursuing music seriously.

Then came the big break. Mowzey joined Jose Chameleone's Leone Island crew as a backup singer. That's where he met Douglas Mayanja, better known as Weasel.

The two clicked instantly. Their voices blended like they were brothers. They sang backups, learned the stage, and dreamed big. But dreams don't always fit inside someone else's crew. In 2007, after a tour in America and the Caribbean, Mowzey and Weasel broke away. They formed Goodlyfe Crew, and Uganda's music scene changed forever.

Their first song as a duo, Nakudata, did not just enter the airwaves, it took over. Almost overnight, it felt like Uganda had a new soundtrack. Then came Ngamba, Sweet Lady, Jennifer. Every boda boda radio, every bar speaker, every house party seemed to agree on one thing: Goodlyfe was the sound of the moment.

At the center of it all was Mowzey Radio. His voice was unforgettable. It flowed like honey over fire: warm and sweet, yet sharp enough to pierce your chest. He could lift his voice and let it float, light and free, then drop low and make you feel the weight of every word. You didn’t just hear Mowzey sing, you felt him.

The songwriter

In just 10 years, Mowzey wrote over 229 songs. That’s more than twenty songs a year, year after year. Love songs for the hopeless romantics. Party anthems for the night dancers. Gospel songs for the grateful. Ego battles for the haters. With Weasel, he released 11 albums, from Nakudata in 2007 to Owana Wabandi in 2016. Songs like Neera, Magnetic, Gutamiiza, Bread and Butter, Nyambula, Potential, and Obudde became part of everyday life.

These were not just hits. They were moments. Neera slowed couples down, pulling them close, sometimes drawing quiet tears. Ability, his fiery collaboration with Rabadaba, was all swagger and sharp lines, music for anyone who had ever been doubted. And even when his name was not on the microphone, Mowzey’s pen was still working. He wrote for others too—helping shape songs like Irene Ntale’s Bikoola and tracks for Juliana—lifting fellow artists as he climbed.

So what really made Mowzey Radio different? Many singers have good voices. Some have catchy songs. But Mowzey had something rarer, magic. His lyrics were simple, but they cut deep. He sang about real life: falling in love, getting your heart broken, chasing a dream, thanking God for another day. When he sang "Tukikole neera,” let’s take it slow, it sounded less like a lyric and more like advice from a big brother who had lived a little longer.

He blended reggae, dancehall, R&B, and Afrobeat into a sound that felt truly Ugandan. On stage, he was electric, dreadlocks flying, bracelets clinking, that wide, easy smile pulling the crowd closer. Together, Mowzey and Weasel became the biggest duo in East Africa. BET Award nominations followed. HiPipo trophies piled up. Shows sold out across the continent.

And still, somehow, Mowzey remained relatable, like a man singing his own life, and somehow singing yours too.

Radio, the human

For all the magic he carried, Mowzey Radio was still human. And like all humans, he had cracks.

He had a temper. Sometimes it flared before he could hold it back. Life in the spotlight came with pressure, arguments with fellow artists, bar fights that started small and ended loud, nights that went on too long. People whispered about heavy drinking, about a life lived too fast. He got into trouble more than once. Friends tried to slow him down, to pull him back from the edge. But the same fire that made his music burn so deeply sometimes escaped the studio and scorched real life.

He was not perfect. He made mistakes. He hurt people he loved. He carried regrets. And strangely, that is what made people connect with him even more. He was not an untouchable star floating above everyone else. He was still the gifted boy from the neighbourhood, famous, yes, but with dust from the village still clinging to his shoes.

Then came that night in January 2018. What started as an ordinary night out at a bar in Entebbe turned ugly. There was a fight. There was a fall. There was a serious head injury. Mowzey was rushed to hospital, where he fought quietly for his life. For 10 long days, fans gathered, prayed,waited Radio stations played his songs softly. Social media filled with hope. The whole country seemed to be holding its breath.

But on February 1, 2018, the breath was released in a wave of pain. Mowzey Radio was gone. He was just 33 years old. Uganda froze. The news spread fast, faster than most people could process. Tears flowed freely.

At Case Hospital on Buganda Road, crowds gathered, some pacing while making frantic phone calls, others standing still, staring into space. Many asked the same question again and again, hoping the answer would change: Is it true? Is Radio really dead? It was true.

Born Moses Nakintije Ssekibogo, Mowzey had suffered severe head injuries during the altercation on January 22. After surgery and days in critical care, a blood clot in his brain took him away. Later, a bouncer would be convicted of manslaughter. But no court ruling could explain the emptiness that followed.

Tributes poured in from everywhere—Uganda, Kenya, Tanzania, beyond. Even President Yoweri Museveni sent a message of condolence. His funeral felt less like a burial and more like national mourning. Thousands came. People sang his songs through tears. Voices broke. Hearts did too.

Forever Mowzey

Eight years on, his music still refuses to die. Every year, fans gather to remember him. His songs still dominate radio playlists. Young artists still study his voice, his lyrics, his feeling. People still call him “the voice of a generation.” Not just because he could sing, but because he sang with emotion, with truth, with a vulnerability that made listeners feel understood.

From east to west, north to south, and across borders, we remember him. Mowzey Radio was more than a singer. He was our storyteller. Our dreamer. The friend who sang about love, pain, and hope in a way that made you feel seen.

Eight years later, the voice is gone, but the song is still playing. Eight years later, the pain has not disappeared. It has only learned how to sit quietly beside the love.

Young artists speak his name with pride and gratitude. Joshua Baraka says it openly. Azawi does too. “Mowzey inspired me.” And you can hear it, not just in their words, but in their melodies, in the way they stretch a note, in the way they let emotion lead the song.

His music has never left us. Neera still floats through weddings, slowing couples down as they promise forever. On hard days, people reach for Nyambula, not to dance, but to heal. Weasel keeps the Goodlyfe spirit alive, carrying on for the two of them, releasing songs Mowzey never got to finish. Those 68 unreleased tracks feel like letters from a friend, gifts we are still opening, one by one.

Mowzey Radio was not just talented. He was a gift. Yes, he was flawed. Yes, he was fiery. But his heart was always in the music. Every note carried the truth. Every lyric carried a feeling. He showed us that beauty can rise from struggle. That a skinny boy from Jinja could grow up and touch millions of souls. That you can love deeply, chase your dreams fiercely, and still forgive yourself for not being perfect.

To his mother, Jane Kasubo, he was not a star. He was simply her son. “My son has been everything to me,” she said after his death. “He always gave me even the little he had. He took care of his sisters.”

Where many saw chaos, she saw humility. “However much others knew him as a chaotic man, I knew him as a simple, humble and talented son,” she said. He paid school fees for one of his sisters until she graduated.

He kept many friends close. And when he was gone, she was left with memories, and a silence no parent should ever know.

Today, wherever you are, play one of his songs. Play it loud. Close your eyes. Let that velvet voice wrap around you again.

Mowzey Radio may be gone, but he is still singing to us. Through car speakers stuck in traffic. Through club dances at midnight. Through quiet moments when the world feels heavy and we need a little hope.

Rest easy, legend. Uganda will never forget you. Your music lives forever.