Category: Turning Point

After a long career abroad, culminating as regional IMF chief of Latin America, Mukulu returned to settle back home. Feeling still energetic, he formed a to do list, with setting up a mixed farm of banana plantains, a dairy farm of exotic cows and an orchard of oranges, at the fore. He had over the years been buying land back in his village of Bigenge which by the time he retired had expanded up to a square mile.

In planning to go into large scale farming, one of Mukulu’s main motivation was to give back to his home district. Through the years whenever he visited he was always grieved to see the extent of poverty washing everywhere. Passing through Bigenge town he saw children scattered about in rags while the youths were loitering in the center of town playing board games.

As a developmental financier, Mukulu had seen how investors had transformed rural areas by putting up large scale farms or a factory that lifted the neighborhood from poverty by creating jobs. “This will be my way of fighting poverty back home,” he had long reasoned and couldn’t wait to get started.

However, his brother Dr Laba, who had also retired from public service as a medical officer, advised him against. “Just invest your savings in the money market than throwing it to those ungrateful people!”

Mukulu ignored and collateralized some of his assets to secure financing for the dream farm. Because of the specialized nature of his project he brought over workers from neighboring Kenya with expertise. This included the Farm manager, Mr Koinage, These workers were housed in uni-pots scattered over the farm. As migrant workers they ate mostly out which gave a boost to Bigenge’s town life. Restaurant and bars suddenly opened to provide services. And once the farm started harvesting produce, Jubilee bank, that had long neglected Bigenge town opened up a branch to provide needed services for farm workers and the growing town population.

Mukulu was happy that because of his project Bigenge was finally being transformed into a prosperous town. The farm was always looking for extra hands and in town businesses were in need of help. “Finally Bigenge is going to be on the map as a model town,” he called up his skeptical brother Dr Laba. “I have created jobs for our people!”

“You wait!” Dr Laba shot back skeptically.

Mukulu wondered why Laba was so skeptical when his project had even improved the road leading to Bigenge. He remained convinced of his mission and opened up a juice factory. Each time he wanted to expand his farm he would go to his bankers who impressed with his vision extended him another credit line.

In spite of all Mukulu was struggling to make ends meet. According to his business plan he had expected to break even in his third year of business operation. But come to fifth year he was still in the red. One of the things affecting progress was pilferage. “We would be braking even by now,” Mr Koinage had once told him, “but there is theft everywhere. These people steal the milk, the fruits and even at the factory they end up stealing and selling the our manufactured goods on the market to compete with ours.”

“How ungrateful!” Mukulu said, recalling Dr Laba’s concern “Maybe we should carry out a sensitization community workshop to win them over.”

The Local Council Chairman, Liso, was a forward looking man who had welcomed Mukulu’s project because it would create jobs. He was tired of seeing youths aimlessly loitering about. Upon being contacted he quickly organized a community meeting. Yet when Mukulu turned up early with Liso, attendance was poor. In fact, soon after, things just got worse.

One day Mukulu was summoned by the National Bureau of Standards threatening to shut down his factory claiming that he had compromised quality. Mukulu was surprised as at the factory he took extreme care to meet all the set standards. Apparently, someone not happy with his factory had reported him to the regulator, whishing he close shop.

By then Mukulu’s debt had soared to worrying levels. “I brought development here,” he talked to his bankers who were now threatening to liquidate the farm and factory, “yet instead of supporting me these are the same people sabotaging.”

As the debt worsened Mukulu called another community sensitization meeting. This time effort was made to have residents attend by urging them to attend through a loudspeaker blaring out invitation for a week. The turn up was quite better and at the meeting Mukulu got straight to the point. “I am asking all of us here to come and pull together,” he pleaded. “Our farm and factory have all the promise of creating jobs but some of us here are the ones sabotaging it. Not only do they steal farm produce but some have started reporting us to the authorities who are threatening to shut us down. What kind of bad people are these! I want us to be sincere with ourselves if we are closed down, who will have gained!”

There was silence. The meeting ended with everyone pledging support. However, just as Mukulu was stepping into his car to head back to the city, he overheard some of the villagers sharing. “I don’t understand why this rich man is bothered with the little we steal!”

“Those people just want to have everything,” the friend countered. “Why is he telling us he is helping us like he found us starving!”

Mukulu now realized he had a far bigger problem. For all his effort to develop and modernize Bigenge he was being accused of exploitation. Unable to service his loan due to recurring fraud at the farm and factory, the bank finally auctioned off. The new owners other than him decided to plant trees which didn’t need much of farm hands. All the foreign workers left and shops closed. Bigenge reverted back to its old dusty town of youths loitering about playing board games and children scattered waiting for someone to come and sponsor them out of poverty.

On occasion we do come across such well-intended developmental projects brought to the country only to be sabotaged by the very people they sought to help. Around one town a story is told of a certain commercial bank that was ruined and brought to its knees by the very workers it provided jobs with due to internal fraud. A lot that had been going on to the detriment of the bank was known and could easily have been arrested through mutual cooperation. But there was an attitude that this bank “belongs to those rich people” giving justification to fraud. The interesting thing is when the bank was closed the majority of the staff who lost their jobs, tainted with having worked for a fallen enterprise, failed to secure employment elsewhere. Most soon packed and went back to the village where they died languishing in poverty.

Here Mukulu had brought home a development project but he lacked support, or at least there was a significant section of the population that did not appreciate him. In the end, just as Dr Laba had advised him, he decided to cut his losses, went back to the city and put all his money in the money market to live off  interest without any further stress. But for his people in Bigenge it was back again to their life of squalid poverty.

—————————————————————————————————–

@ Turning Point is authored by Dr Martin M. Lwanga with the purpose to inspire by reflecting on life through personal experiences and life observations. The first collection of “Turning Point” is finally out, titled “Who is my Friend?” You can order a copy at only UGX 30,000 ( extra costs for delivery). Send/ Call Whatsup message 0772401774/ 0752921386.

In the days when Uganda Airlines was in operation, before being shut down in 2001, a friend of mine, a senior accountant, was driving back home, exhausted from work. It had been a long day and he just couldn’t wait to get home. But just after winding down the corner descending after Kisubi town from Entebbe, famous for a Catholic mission that hosts several institutions including a hospital, he had to slow down. Ahead, he noticed a girl down in the middle of the road. She had been knocked by a speeding car. There was a small group of people milling around her slithered body. He pulled his car aside and got out.  The girl was bleeding profusely.

“Who can take her to the hospital!” He heard someone ask. He looked around. The hit-car had since vanished. There was no indication of police or an ambulance approaching in the dead of the night. Maybe they were asleep; yet life was ebbing away.

At first he hesitated. But after a second look he, decided to pitch in, for he knew Kisubi hospital was just a short distance away. Hands lifted and got the girl into his car and off to the hospital. Now once there, things took on a different turn. Thinking his part was done, and time to continue his journey back home, he was pulled back.

“You must first record a police statement,” a hospital official directed him. The police had just shown up.

“But I am a Good Samaritan who has just delivered an injured person I found on the wayside,” he explained. “I have no idea what took place.”

“No, Sir,” the officer insisted. “We must know what exactly happened and who knocked her.”

Suddenly, he realized, he had got himself into some ugly situation, he would rather have avoided, had he known.  He ended up losing the whole night detained at the hospital, till common sense prevailed, and he was let go. The good news is that the wounded girl survived after receiving emergency care.

My friend had done the right thing, but that experience left him circumspect, as he would years later share to me that story. “If I ever come across such a situation you wouldn’t see me lift a finger,” he shook his head. “You may want to help, and know it is the right thing to do, but too much trouble.”

This leads me to another story. Along the Kampala- Jinja highway, approaching Seta, a certain humongous pothole settled in the middle of the road. As it kept expanding without any attempt to fix it, speeding cars, having missed sight of it, would suddenly crush into it. On several occasions this would cause an accident and the loss of life.

Now fixing potholes along highways is the preserve of Uganda National Roads Authority (UNRA). As villagers saw lives perishing due to this life eating pothole, they wrote and pleaded with UNRA to come to their rescue, but no response was coming forth. This was not on top of their schedule.

So one day, a spirited citizen called George Kisakye, just decided to get out his hoe, and plant a banana tree in the middle of the pot hole. It is not clear if UNRA acted, as this story made its way in mainline press. Yet one could imagine an irritated official approaching George Kisakye, eager to know, “Who gave you the permission to deface a public highway with a banana stem!”

Doing the right thing can at time get you into trouble. There is a parking lot, where I often shop, that once almost disintegrated like a mine filled yard. There were lots of shop owners eager to help out, do the right thing, but they didn’t want to run into trouble.  You see, no one is supposed to fix public parking lots other than Kampala Capital City Authority.

And listen to this. On a number of occasions I have found myself fixed and lost in an ugly traffic jam, the kind where before you realize three lanes or four have formed. There are no policemen anywhere  to be seen and it gets crazier as the more reckless drivers now join in. Soon the whole traffic has come to a standstill. No car is moving. This can go on and on, not until one person suddenly jumps out of his vehicle, rolls up his sleeves and starts directing traffic. He becomes the police officer. On occasions I have found pedestrian youths actually taking up that role. They start directing traffic till the clog eases up.

After being freed I have often wondered, besides showing appreciation, if the law will come up and ask these people who “gave you the right to direct traffic?” I suspect there are many people who too would like to do as much, but maybe they had once a bad experience, and like my Uganda Airlines friend, just sit back still, waiting for the police to turn up.

I am not sure if everything in life requires us to wait for the government that is nowhere to be seen to do the right thing. As I write I know schools in Uganda are still under lock, waiting for government to lift Covid-19 restrictions. But just wait, there are also many communities, unable to endure the sight of their children aimlessly loitering around, long decided to open up community schooling.

You may accuse such these of being lawless. But you know what, let me tell you something. I have been to places where within seconds of a call to a police, they do show up, polite and eager, ready to assist. There are cities I have been to where if you complained the garbage hasn’t been picked up for days, in a moment the trucks will show up. Some places you don’t need to worry about deforestation for there is someone monitoring and replacing those disappearing trees.

But there are places, in this world, I have also come across, if you just sit by, waiting for government or fearful not to intervene in someone’s job, which he long lost focus of, you are going to wait, brother, sister, for a really loooong time!

Friend, just go out and do the right thing, once you size up the situation well. The powers once they discover may yell and scream at you, hit and curse, drag you down to the law, mad for you daring at their jobs. Well, all I know, speaking from certain experiences, you will not lose a moment of sleep. Instead you will experience a certain and sweet peace.

 

@ Turning Point is authored by Dr Martin M. Lwanga with the purpose to inspire by reflecting on life through personal experiences and life observations. The first collection of “Turning Point” is finally out, titled “Who is my Friend?” You can order a copy at only UGX 30,000 ( extra costs for delivery). Send/ Call Whatsup message 0772401774/ 0752921386.

As a new CEO of Mutobero Christian Hospital, Dr. Bagadawa had a pretty long to-do list. After settling in office, he took a tour and noticed the hospital which had been founded by a missionary in 1929 needed a new coating, as the old paint had since worn off leaving a grim shade. Then he also discovered equipment in the two hospital theaters had since aged and there was a definite need to refurbish both with modern instruments.

Dr Bagadawa also noted the accounts department was using outdated software making it hard to track income and expenditures. However, he was aware of a new system that could do wonders. Lately, the hospital had lost a number of senior medical staff to a competing private hospital. He decided to review and upgrade hospital salaries.

In brief, Dr. Bagadawa was not short of what to do.  When he met with his top management team, he drew their attention to this mile-long list. “I intend to refurbish the hospital by overhauling its look to make it attractive and appealing,” he declared. “I will also purchase a new accounting software system to track our finances. The two theaters not only need overhaul but given the trends, we need to add on a new one.”

“This seems a long list,” observed one senior doctor, who was about to retire. “Where shall you get all the time and resources!”

“We shall manage,” Dr. Bagadawa quipped back, sensing a bit of resistance. The meeting ended abruptly.

Immediately Dr. Bagadawa set out to accomplish the dozen tasks, on his list. However, the list kept growing. Dr. Bagadawa discovered that the hospital fleet was ageing and he resolved to order new trucks. Then he also noticed that staff houses had caged in and he started engaging a developer to build a new staff housing bloc.

Dr. Bagadawa was running everywhere while supervising his list, except that work was moving too slowly. There was always the issue of finances. Every now and then his accountant would tell him that there wasn’t enough money. “The problem sir you keep adding on to the list!”

Midway through his five-year term Dr. Bagadawa noticed that of all the dozen things on his list, he had hardly seen any to maturity. One day during a meeting with his Board, a member expressed concern. “All we hear from you is talk and talk but nothing gets accomplished!”

When Top management team met, Dr. Bagadawa wondered why nothing was being realized. “Is it because of sabotage!”

“I don’t think it is sabotage,” said the senior doctor who, being close to retirement was quite free in his expression. “The problem is lack of focus. If out of all these good things you have in mind we prioritize and start on the most urgent and important few before moving on to the rest, chances are high for us to accomplish much.”

Dr Bagadawa thought through the suggestion. He recalled a time when he failed to pass his A’level exams because he was everywhere, taking on all sorts of extracurricular activities, at the expense of his school work. “You need to start focusing on a few things to excel,” said the headmaster, giving him another chance. He took that advice, repeated and with focused concentration on his studies, passed highly.

Dr. Bagadawa, therefore, decided to concentrate on a few priority areas, which he aligned the budget with. This made it easier for him to oversee and ensure results. It was only after one task had been accomplished that he would move to the next. If he came up with a new idea, he would add it at the bottom, for it to wait its turn.

Focus is one of the most powerful tools for managers to be effective. Unless so, the manager may spread himself thin and end up achieving far less, if any.

I had not met with a good friend of mine, Sande Kizito, for a while. Born in 1948 he was far much older than I, for he had started to work in the early seventies, when I was just beginning school. Sande had been to Budo, where initially all kids where housed on the same hilly campus, close to Nagalabi. The story goes that in 1958 when a decision was made to split the Primary and Secondary school section, with primary moving down at Kabinja, Sande was so excited that he took off fast to the new location, without waiting to be bussed, ever to claim the record as the first Kabinja!

For A’level, he joined Namilyango College, the first Secondary school in Uganda founded by the Mill Hill fathers in 1902, and from there on to Makerere University. There he not only excelled as a wicked batsman, and made it to the National Cricket team, but was also a javelin champion.

Our friendship started at the Nook club which founded in the late 1960s to bring together Old Boy and Girls from historical schools, then located along George Street, where he was a fixture. He normally came driving over in his ageing pick – up. There, we caught up on the happenings around us: I discovered he was quite familiar, if not close to the Kenyan-Muthaiga ruling class, and he would extol me with intimate stories of their ways, and the vast property they had accumulated since independence.

About Uganda Sande, whose ancestry originated from England, he often ruefully shared that the 60s were the golden age, here, but after 70s, things had gone south to such a shame. Now retired, after years of working with Uganda Electricity Board as a Business Development manager, he had a lot to say, and I was an eager listener of his past exploits on the cricket field and elsewhere.

But most of his stories were about Budo, a school which was in his veins and he was a constant feature at every school event, always calling me up to attend. If I happened to miss an event the day after he would call chiding me, “how come we did not see you!” On one memorable day Kabaka Mutebi visited, and he donned on some shorts, just as back when a school boy. He was never so happy and of course came the boisterous call, the following day, pronouncing in his husky voice, “we had such a great time!”

But life can move fast. At a certain stage, I got quite busy elsewhere and we sort of lost touch. Then one day I was attending the funeral of a mutual friend, Professor Richard Kanyerezi when, there he was. But the crowds at the funeral made it only possible for us to catch a glimpse of each other.  I could see Sande was a bit gaunt, having lost some of his flesh. One day he called me. He told me his eyesight was a bit poor. “Lets meet for lunch to catch up!” We agreed.

I was still trying to figure out when, only for one afternoon, while going through mail. I was shocked to notice on one Budo forum that Sande had been admitted for an operation at Rubaga hospital. “But we were supposed to have lunch!” a thought crossed my mind. Feeling guilty, immediately I got in touch with his family to keep me informed of the progress.

The operation seemed to go well, for once he was out, a call came through from a son that he was out. I shared to all concerned with relief. “As soon as he gets back to normal we shall go out for lunch,” I decided. “There would be no wasting this time!”

But in less than 12 hours another call came from his son. Out of the theater his condition had taken on a turn for the worse. He was rushed back to the operation table, and from there everything  went down hill. On 7^th March, 2020, Sande, at 72, breathed his last.

Once I got the news, feeling so bad about our missed lunch appointment, I drove to Rubaga hospital. There I found a small crowd of relatives and friends, gathered in the corridor and all grief stricken. It was all difficult to take in and we felt Sande had cheated us. While his health had been frail lately, none of us had seen this coming. Sande had left us all in suspense.

Now over a year I have had time to reflect on that incident. My sense of loss and subsequent guilt was compounded because of a missed opportunity to go out with an old friend for lunch, an appointment which I had kept postponing, somehow convinced all was well and we had all the time. But time was never in our control, actually.

It is then that the truth dawned on me that you suspend doing the right thing at your peril. I picked from that incident that if there is someone who comes to your mind and have taken so long seeing, other than demur, just pick up a phone and call or send a message. At its peak Covid 19 would suddenly snap up a life that was so full, so suddenly, revealing an old truth, the essence of time.

My old man who had a thriving real estate company had a certain wise saying, that went like: “Do it yesterday!” Later, in my  professional work, as a teacher of management, I would find that a certain principle holding true of most of the greatest and productive companies in the world, and even nations, that which separates them from the chaff is the “sense of urgency!” Go out and study any of a great company or first income nation, and you will struggle to find the habit of procrastination as a way of life. Once these decide on a certain matter they move on with deliberate speed.

So, now that the year is about to close, friend, look back at all your plans, and ask yourself if the reason why the dust has settled on some of them, is because of that lack of urgency. And perhaps there is an old friend you think you have all the time to catch up with, or a matter you long decided you must conclude, but keep demurring. All I can say is that it will be such an awful feeling to wake up one day and the opportunity is no more, gone forever, because you procrastinated, as I discovered when that call came through, “Sande has gone!” May he Rest in peace!  ———————————————————————————————————————

@ Turning Point is authored by Dr Martin M. Lwanga with the purpose to inspire by reflecting on life through personal experiences and life observations. The first collection will be out in the last quarter of 2021 under the title of “Who is my Friend!” Those interested can book for an early copy on Whatsup # 0772401774 @ 30,000 UGX ONLY !

Zikusooka was excited as he jumped into the car, ready for boarding school. Tucked inside the boot was his new suitcase which was laden with goodies and an assortment of school requirements, including extras. But most to his joy were new clothing that his father, a senior government official based at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, had just bought for him. This had eased the terror he felt on being whisked away from home on to this far-off boarding school. Just the day before he had gone out shopping at a mall wherewith his mother they snapped a new pair of sheets, colorful pajamas, sneakers, shoes, josses, shirts, vests, and slacks. Zikusooka was excited to bag all the new things to himself. Once back home his younger siblings circled around him quite jealous.

On the day the family got to school Zikusooka was led to a queue where they found a schoolmaster on duty. He beckoned him to open the suitcase for inspection before clearing it for admission to the dormitories.

“Show me a pair of shoes!” he boomed.

Zikusooka had come with actually four.

“Keep only two, and the rest will be sent back home!” the teachers thundered. “Show me a pair of shirts!”

Zikusooka had come with two short-sleeved shirts and three long-sleeved shirts. “Keep only two short-sleeved shirts and the rest must be sent back home,” ordered the teacher.

“But why are you sending back my son’s things?” Zikusooka’s mother perturbed, started protesting. “We bought all these new things for him to enjoy while at school! He needs them.”

“Mum, it’s a school policy,” explained the teacher. “No child is allowed to come with anything beyond what they need. What has brought them here is to focus on their studies and not display what they have.”

Zikusooka felt low as his parent’s sauntered off back home with a bag in which were almost half of all the new things he had brought along. But he didn’t dwell long on that. Just every kid had the same number of items as him. They all dressed alike in similar shirts and shoe types. The only difference that seemed to separate was height and also school work where different grades were given based on one’s work.  Zikusooka soon forgot all about his bagful of things as he concentrated on school work. This is how he excelled and was admitted to St Joseph’s College, a famous school known especially for taking kids from elite families.

On joining there his parents thought the school applied the same policy of no extras other than formal school requirements. However, once dropped at school, no sooner had Zikusooka settled in than he found a good number of his classmates had come with suitcases packed with a range of assortments, including all manner of designer clothing.  In fact, several had even hauled in multiple suitcases. He noticed these boys were changing clothing and shoes every other day.

Suddenly Zikusoks started feeling small. He had come along with just the minimum school requirements and now he felt terribly disadvantaged as he compared himself to these powerful boys, as everyone called them. St Joseph was a mixed school and Zikusooka became aware the girls preferred the company of these boys, which made him feel put out.

When the first term came to an end, and he got back home, Zikusooka had an urgent matter.

“Mom,” he pleaded. “I need to go back with all my clothing and shoes. Please, also buy me more!”

“But why!  Zikusooka’s mother surprised asked. “Don’t you remember when we first got admitted back in primary and had to go back with all those extras!”

“No, mother this school is different,” Zikusooka pleaded. “Everyone comes with their extra, except me! They think I am poor and laugh at me!”

“But you know you are not poor,” his mother countered. “You have all those things and why not just take what you need.”

“Those boys and girls won’t believe I am also rich unless I take and show them what I have!” he argued.

Realizing that he was so unsettled, Zikusooka’s mother went out and bought him two new suitcases which she packed with designer clothes and shoes. When he showed up the next term, Zikusooka promptly put out his possessions on display. Every other day he changed shoes and donned on a cool shirt. The girls noticed and started showing interest in him. He breathed an air of satisfaction as he was now respected.

But just as he felt he had earned the respect of everyone, the boys who had ignored him hurried home and flew back to catch up. This time their display was of far superior quality. For those in doubt they started displaying luxury brand labels they donned. Zikusooka now realized that it was no longer quantity that mattered. He too rushed back home and told his mother to buy only certain labels. But each time he got a new expensive label, yet he found another boy had found a far more expensive. He frowned wondering how to convince his mother to beat the new rival coasting a far more expensive label.

Now, as this war of labels was going on, there was another camp in school that had come from less affluent families. These knew this war of labels was beyond them. But to earn their respect they decided to concentrate on studies and extra-curricular activities.  Because of this, most excelled, and were called back for A’levels.  Meanwhile, the majority of Zikusooka’s competitors, including him, perhaps for lack of concentration, failed to make the right grades. They were not recalled.

Zikusooka was fortunate that his father who had just been posted to the UK as a diplomat secured him a place in a public school.  There he too found a camp of boys from affluent families, just like in his old college. However, here, when it came to display of wealth the rich kids talked of going for vacations in exotic places like ski resorts. It was a world Zikusooka had no idea of and rather than lock himself in a hopeless competition, he decided to pour himself in his studies.

It all paid off! His good grades earned him a scholarship to an Ivy League College. After his graduation he returned home to take up a job in one of the best paying multinational bank. But as he worked his way up he found a new war going on. This one involved staff purchasing cars of the latest design, which were eagerly put on display in the company parking lot. Also, at the cafeteria, there was boisterous talk, of who had vacationed in some exotic place, as proof of having means.

Zikusooka decided he would have none of that. The life of playing catch up was not for him. He had seen it all. Rather, he decided to focus on his work for which he excelled. This earned him quick promotion.

One day the CEO called him for a chat. “After your latest promotion I know what you earn, why haven’t you bought a brand new SUV like everyone else here! People may think we are paying you poorly. Where is all the money you earn going? Are you in debt? Do you need help!”

“Sir!” Zikusooka coughed. “The money I earn I save some and do develop process by process. I have no need for some of those things, right now!”

“Why!” the CEO gazed at him incredulously. “Everyone in this town will respect you if you drive around a big car and talk big!”

“And that is why it is a small town,” said Zikusooka. “Everyone is looking over his shoulder. But my focus just happens now to be elsewhere. There are bigger things I am thinking of.”

———————————————————————————————————————

@ Turning Point is authored by Dr Martin M. Lwanga with the purpose to inspire by reflecting on life through personal experiences and life observations. The first collection will be out in the last quarter of 2021 under the title of “Who is my Friend!” Those interested can book for an early copy on Whatsup # 0772401774 @ 30,000 UGX ONLY !

The other day I was having a call that threw me back to a difficult time in my childhood. “Don’t you think you now need a dog?” wondered my US-based Ugandan friend, after sharing with him a disturbing video clip of machete-wielding chaps, sneaking into suburban homes, where they have on occasion left victims in bloody pools, desperately clinging on to life. You see lately, the security situation in Uganda, but more so, the central region (read Buganda), has been rapidly worsening.

It seemed first like some remote freak incidents going on elsewhere as news started creeping into Kampala of hooded characters ambushing residents largely in the Masaka area, decapitating them, and then hastening off without any valuables. Who are these killers who do so only for fun! The shock of these senseless killings took me back to a time I would rather forget.

Somewhere in the 1970s, growing up in Kampala suburbs, my childhood started being interrupted with grotesque news that left me reeling on the edge. Uncle Bulasio Kavuma had just retired safely in his country residence, after a distinguished career in both the Buganda and central government of Uganda. Whenever he dropped by at home, dressed in a jacket and tie though retired, the house would be filled with his sonorous laughter and there was joy all around. But one day came news that machete wielding chaps had stormed at the door of his country house just as he had latched the locks. They demanded all his valuables, which he gladly offered. Then without waste started bludgeoning him to minced meat, before they left off, in the dark of the night.

Kampala was becoming a city of macabre news. Soon after, a rising cousin who had just graduated from Makerere Law school, was hauled off from his office after he defended someone that pissed off some army guys, tossed in a boot of a car, never to be seen again. In this climate my old man, Mzei, though never a late night out man, resorted to hurrying back home soon after work. Once inside the house, just after dusk, he would direct all the curtains drawn and doors fastened.

But still, the machete wielding thugs, known as kondos, continued on with their bloody match. This is how we got a watchman at home. Mzei stationed him at the front door armed with a bow and arrow. We all slept on edge. On occasion Mzei would get up in the middle of the night, disturbed at the slightest sound, of something moving outside. He would call out the watchman. All he got was the purr of him lost in another word, snoring away. The watchman was let go.

Before then Kampala suburban homes used to have only conifer shaped tree fences hedging houses. Few homes were enclosed behind high walls or gates. Suddenly, some people seeing that the hedges could no longer ward off the kondos started raising high brick walls. These, with time, would soon become a way of life. But before we too got there we got a new family member.

One day I came back home to find a puppy, brought home by mother. I had seen police dogs before, especially on TV shows where they happily followed orders, and knew dogs were good at protecting the turf their owners. Every one of us at home was excited about this puppy, which one of my siblings quickly gave the name Snap. We all couldn’t wait to feed it on milk and then as it grew, there was always a bone to toss it which it feasted upon. Mzei, on his way back from home, had a deal with a certain restaurant that gave him left overs, which came in a polythene bag and were emptied for Snap to feast, as he wagged his tail.

But our expectations of Snap growing into a giant of a dog would come to a sour end as its kind rose only to a medium stature. Mother without asking much about dog breeds, had been duped to think this was a German shepherd with its early black shade. As we all kids grew taller, Snap reached a point and decided there he would stop. Whatever mountain of dish we fed him on, he just refused to enlarge.

But then we discovered what Snap lacked in size, he could compensate with a loud hot bark.

As part of our raising him into a fierce dog to protect us from machete men, it was decided Snap would be locked up every day in a kennel. There was a theory going around that dogs kept outdoors tended to be too playful and rather weak. By then I had already seen a number of white expatriates who even drove around town with dogs tucked in one of the car seats. What a waste! This was not our idea of a dog. We wanted a mean dog, fed on a mug of bitter pepper, the kind that would maul attackers into minced meat without waste.

But getting Snap into his kennel proved some task. At the crack of dawn mother would task one us kids to motion him for his kennel. Snap would eye you wearily, with his sharp piercing black eyes, and start moving the other way. “Snap I say get in,” I would bellow at him. Still he would not turn back. Then I would move toward him. Fast he started sprinting off in the opposite direction. It was only after a spirited chase that would end up with any of us throwing hard objects at him that would finally get him inside his kennel.

He hated it. At first he would scratch frantically and push hard at the door, break loose on occasion, only to be pushed back. Then he would put out a load moan, till he tired of it and dozed off. It was after dusk that we would let him out. Immediately he set off into several quick laps around the house, with occasional barks, that made us feel safe. Through the night he would pitch out his loud bark, and take command of the house security.

Dogs do not have a very long life. As we all grew into teens, meanwhile Snap took a pause. His once fast legs started faltering that even a command of “Get in” wouldn’t provoke him into a fight anymore. He would just march quietly inside his dark kennel, where he let the hours pass by, just snoring away. Upon release, he settled into a corner, rarely and slept away without a single bark. All of us realized Snap was graying and started being easy on him. He had earned his badges of protecting us from machete wielding thugs, and now we only emptied into his plate all the bones he needed, and left him be.

One day I got home and found Snap was nowhere. “He died,” mother told me. “And we buried him under a traditional tree, jirikiti, where dogs are dispatched off.” The spot was actually not very far from home, about a 100 yards away, and seeing it I felt rather sad, to lose this character that had come into our life and warded off the machete thugs in their pitiful bloody thrust.

Strange, I thought, after hanging up the phone, that these thugs had returned and to forestall danger I might need a dog. Where I had thought that my brick fence wall with barbed wire, an iron gate, and a young man who keeps an eye around was enough, that was increasingly becoming less secure. Perhaps one day, my kids would return home to find, just as happened to me once, a long time ago- a dog at home!

One thing I have learnt to accept is, well, my country keeps ever moving in circles.

———————————————————————————————————————

@ Turning Point is authored by Dr Martin M. Lwanga with the purpose to inspire by reflecting on life through personal experiences and life observations. The first collection will be out in the last quarter of 2021 under the title of “Who is my Friend!” Those interested can book for an early copy on Whatsup # 0772401774 @ 30,000 UGX ONLY (for free distribution around Greater Kampala)!

“I tell you don’t worry,” so said Suubi to his wife, Njala who was generally pessimistic about anything she did. “The land we have just bought is good and we couldn’t have struck a better deal.”

Soon after the end of the long war in Luwero which had left many parts once teaming with people inhabited, Suubi learnt of a family that was selling over 35 acres of land there in Lutete. He had just retired after a long career as a public servant. After receiving his gratuity and social security savings he had decided to invest some of it in land, trusting that would not only yield fruits but also appreciate in value. Besides, Suubi had long realized that his ancestral home in Busiro had a lot of interpersonal conflicts, which he wanted to avoid. “Each time I go back to my birth place my family members are quarreling over something,” so often he had lamented to his wife. “They even quarrel about who gets buried where. I wish I could get my own place.”

“When shall we ever leave those people,” agreed his sour wife Njala, who had never warmed up to her in laws. “Besides, the land in Busiro is so dry and infertile.”

So, once the opportunity came, Suubi did not even bother consulting Njala. After his lawyer had searched and found there was no encumbrance upon the land in Lutete he hurried off and talked to the owner, Salongo, a grey haired man whom he found dressed in his kanzu dress. On Salongo discovering that Suubi was from the mpolologoma (lion) clan, which happened to be of his late mother too, he took to an immediate liking to him. “Even if you pay me slowly you are my mother after all,” Salongo said. He signed off the title, and went about to introduce him to his neighbors. “He is now the owner of all that land.” The neighbors who had much respect for Salongo gladly welcomed their new neighbor.

Suubi settled in fast. He arranged to plant a lusuku (plantation) of banana gardens of about 20 acres; a field of pineapples of about 5 acres; coffee trees of about 5 acres and he left 5 acres for his country residence, including burial grounds. “I am now freed from that old dry place in Busiro and their constant quarrels.”

However, when Suubi shared the news with Njala, came rapid fire. Njala was mad that she had not been consulted before the purchase. “That place is so far away,” she decided without first visiting. When she eventually did, almost after a year, she had no kind words for Suubi. “How could you buy such a dry piece of land,” Njala moaned. “I saw that soil and it can’t yield a single crop you are talking about. I looked at those neighbors and they all seemed evil. At least the people in Busiro knew and respected your family. But now you have decided to move among these Lutete strangers. I hear they practice a lot of witchcraft there as well!”

Suubi was disappointed to hear that stinker. But after getting over the fact that Njala had finally found something good about his old family land in Busiro, for he had never heard her say a good thing ever since he took her to where “we come from!”; he defended his purchase. “But can’t you be happy for once!” He knew Njala was always negative, and, perhaps for that, he had a tendency to do certain things without consulting her. “After all if I tell her,” he sometimes mused, “she will just look at the bad side and never the bright side.”

Having exhausted himself in defending the Lutete land, Suubi went ahead and hired a mupakasi ( gardener) to tend after it. The deal was that the mupakasi would first bring home any produce from the land before finding a market for the rest. The initial yields were not that good, which gave Njala an opportunity to vent, “See, I told you that land is no good. We are just wasting our money there.”

But Suubi held on to the land, though each time Njala made a sour remark he grew more discouraged. He was also not happy with the yields, especially from the banana plantation. Sometimes he found himself taking money to the village for the mupakasi, whom he was now maintaining. The mupakasi was aware that Njala despised Lutete as too dry for farming. So, whenever he came up with a poor yield, he would blame it on the poor soil. However, in truth the land was very productive, except he was swindling the owners and selling most of the produce to his gain.

One day Suubi got reports from a concerned neighbor about his duplicity. He decided to drive to Lutete without notice. Arriving before sunrise he found the mupakasi loading a pick up with bananas and pineapples. “So, this guy has been cheating me all this time!” He fired him.

Back home he shared with Njala about this theft. “See, I told you,” she quickly shot back. “Let’s start looking for another piece of land with better soils and neighbors, than there.”

Suubi was ageing and tired of constantly fighting Njala. He agreed she looks up a new piece of land. When news got out that he had lost interest in Lutete it didn’t take long for a buyer to show up. Suubi sold and waited for Njala to find a new piece of land to purchase.

Njala contacted some land brokers who started taking her around the country for land. However, it seemed like she would find an issue with each land they came up. “That one is too far,” she pushed off one. “Too dry!” she scoffed at another. “Who can live among those people,” she dismissed yet another.

Meanwhile Suubi was visibly getting upset as a year rolled without any land of his own, a dream he had long nursed. He started pressing Njala to buy anything. “We shall manage,” he advised. Finally Njala came across 15 acres of land that stretched near a stream of water, covered with a rich vegetation. “This is what I wanted all along,” she declared, urging Suubi to purchase. He discovered that here while it was less than his old land, in Lutete, it was double the price. Nonetheless he bought.

No sooner had Suubi settled here than a new claimant came up with a title for the land. Suubi was shocked and decided to go court, where he spent good money proving he had the right title. But just as he had settled that case, then he found there were some family members claiming the same land on account it was still part of the family estate. Suubi now started battling with this vicious family. It was such a nuisance that on occasion Suubi would drive to the village to find all his crops leveled to the ground because of their animosity.

“I wish we had remained in Lutete,” one day Njala lamented, after receiving news that yet another person had served court papers to Suubi also claiming this land. “We never had these issues in either Lutete nor your birth place in Busiro.”

“Excuse me!” Suubi blew up. “You never had anything positive to say wherever we have been. You only start seeing the positive things after discarding off what we used to enjoy. Maybe it is about time you started being a bit more positive with whatever we have.”

Pessimism is one of that human habit, amply possessed of others, just as some other people have boundless optimism. The pessimist tends to see only the negative side of things; while the optimist searches for the brighter side. If there is a dark cloud, the pessimist will mourn of coming floods with impassable roads. If there is a dark cloud, the optimist will cheer for the coming rains that will produce a great harvest and anticipate the smell of flowers.

There are cases where the pessimists due to their worrisome nature can forestall one from disaster with forewarning. However, left unchecked, the pessimist can lead one astray or even into the very dangerous waters they sought to escape, because they imagine a world without problems, which is yet to exist. A familiar vocabulary of pessimist is, “Look, I know it can’t work!” However, when they are proven wrong, and it so often happens, silence is their answer, or, “ Look, you just wait and see!”

But how would mankind have progressed to this day, if she was only worried over the worst. In the end it is the optimist who can achieve anything worthwhile and enduring, because he does not seek to avoid adversity, but rather embrace challenges with an optimistic and positive spirit.

Next time you encounter a pessimist listing an alphabet of disasters to strike, and why you must not take on a new challenge or give up because of encountering a roadblock, just pause, smile back and say, with a twinkle in your eye, “The sun will shine in the morning!” Then go up.

———————————————————————————————————————

@ Turning Point is authored by Dr Martin M. Lwanga with the purpose to inspire by reflecting on life through personal experiences and life observations. The first collection will be out in the last quarter of 2021 under the title of “Who is my Friend!” Those interested can book for an early copy on Whatsup # 0772401774 @ 30,000 UGX ONLY!

The news of discovery of gold in the town of Bifunna was greeted by almost everyone with drumming and clapping. Long after the coffee boom days when Bifunna boasted of the highest number of Mercedes Benz owners in the Central region of the country, courtesy of coffee sales, she had faced hard times as global coffee prices went south. Suddenly Bifunna looked like an abandoned ghost town as traders disappeared, with folks in the district giving up on their ageless coffee planting, which they now called Tebiffunna, in search of a new cash cow.

Unemployed, now, Bifunna was a dusty ghost town where villagers came and sat most of the days on vacant verandah, looking at once thriving but empty stores. Many would cling to lonely bottles in the few open bars around where they shared wistful memories of gone days when folks had their pockets ever bulging with cash, from coffee sales and, could order a spree of drinks. “We were the talk of everyone,” reminisced Mpewo, an old bald headed man, whose once thriving coffee farm was now desolate with a bush full of thorns and thistle.

But this was not the case with Lengela, one man who decided not to abandon coffee growing, a crop which he had grown up with, and pretty knew about everything. “I can’t learn new tricks late in life,” he would push off those who urged him to give up on coffee growing because of bad prices. Indeed he kept at it, though the earnings were far much less, something which made some of his neighbors pour scorn at him. “Look at this fool still pouring money in coffee growing! Cant he use his head to attempt on new promising cash crops like say plant eucalyptus trees or maybe ginger.”

Lengela listened to the criticism but he was not moved. He sought out the help of Agricultural extension workers. They confirmed that the Bifunna soils and weather patterns were best suited to coffee plants, unlike the new exotic crops, some from temperate climates, quick to whither and fall prey to local pest attacks. “Just stay on with what you know,” advised an extension worker. “Instead of getting scattered into new unknown areas.”

As a result of modernizing coffee growing Legela started realizing higher yields from an acreage.  However, he was just making enough to survive as the situation on the global market remained grim and his earnings were uncertain. Sometimes he thought of converting his farmland to something else as many around him had done, like planting eucalyptus trees too. But he held on to the crop he loved.

Then suddenly, when Bifunna had all but been deserted; someone discovered gold here. All of a sudden gold hunting hordes descended upon the nearly vacant town and quickly went about in the villages looking for land to purchase, lease or rent, and start scooping out gold.

“Lease to us your land,” one of the gold hunters came up and approached Lengela. “We hear there is gold down there.” Lengela waved him off. “I have better plans for my land.”

The gold diggers were not short of those willing to sell them land. Prices were low as most of the land had been rendered into disuse after folks had given up on coffee farming. The gold hunters would offer ridiculous low prices to the natives, who after happily selling, quickly set off on to a jolly ride from their land sale bonanza.

“The good days are back again,” said Mpewo, the old bald headed man after dispensing off a square mile. “I can now marry a third wife and purchase a Boxer motorcycle. I am hot!”

When he heard of the sales going on, Lengela, paused with a mixture of bemusement and inescapable indignation. He shook his head as his neighbors all around gave up on their land, which had been passed on to them for generations. Once the gold hunters took possession of the land they quickly curved it into plots and started digging underneath where every now and then gold muds would be found. You could hear ululations of joy once a digging party hit a gold mud. Pails came flying from underneath full of gold to the owners jubilation.

However, no one had taken trouble to first research on the extent of the gold. So, after a year of gold rush the yields from most of the pits that now littered all over Bifunna, had all but dried up. The gold had been exhausted. Those that had sold out their land where now empty handed.

“I want my land back,” Mpewo walked up to a gold digger. He was a land speculator, he had sold to his square mile for a third of its current market price.

“If you come up with this money,” said the land speculator giving him a mind boggling price, “you can get back the land title.” Mpewo had spent all the money from his sale on booze and merry making. He walked away sullen.

And it is then that the coffee prices started gradually recovering. There was a shortage of supply on the global market. Suddenly Lengela who had never given up on coffee was back in business. He was now the largest landowner around Bifunna as he had never given in to the gold hunters. Lorries started driving up to his farm, park and stay overnight, waiting to be loaded with coffee sacks.

Once loaded, having paid off Lengela at premium prices,  the Tata lorries cruised off, leaving behind a happy man. “If I had given up on coffee growing,” he mused. “ I would now be like those villagers who are now squatters on their land.”

As long as there is life there will never be short of quick to get rich schemes. For those in farming cyclical changes in the economy might mean that once their favorite cash crops are no longer as profitable as before. But should they then abandon them and rush to embrace the latest fancy crop!

The challenge with this path is that enduring success is often after years of skills that one has horned and stands to lose all that generational knowledge in favor of the latest gold wand. Here, in this story, success smiled to Lengela because he had the staying power and kept plowing at his age old trade even against all new gold bagging schemes. He didn’t fall prey to them. For he knew he already had the gold.

“What’s wrong with you sending Atuuse to camp for play when he has school homework!” wondered Manyi,”“I have told my Ayite to forget attending those time-wasting camps when he has tests coming up!”

“But I told you I believe children learn more out of classroom than behind those walls,” Mutufu, crisply explained. Manyi and Mutufu were childhood friends. But after school, having married, once they started raising families, soon discovered they would never see eye to eye on how to raise children. Manyi expected her son Ayite to walk in her footsteps. She always recalled how she had made it to Engineering school through hard work. “If I had loused around in clueless games like those other failures where would I be!”

Meanwhile Mutufu held an opposing view. When she started looking for a school for her son Atuuse, one aspect she kept looking for was if the school had a huge play field, covering all sorts of games.

“What games do kids here play?” she pressed a principal in one famous school, she approached.

“Here children are always in class studying to pass exams and this is why we are ranked the best school,” reported the principal.  Almost immediately Mutufu got up and started looking elsewhere. However, when Manyi called on the same school and the principal showed her how many first grades they had in the last national exams, she was immediately sold on. “I want my son Ayite to end up at the top with his name mentioned in the newspaper.”

Ayite was promptly admitted. Being the youngest in class, he was cheeky, though, eager to spend time out playing in the field. At the end of the year he was graded at the bottom of class.

“You are not going to shame me boy!” Manyi screamed, once she got hold of his report card. “You will now be getting up at 4 am in the morning to cram letters and numbers!” Under this regime, Ayite, with the belt ever looming on top of his head, had his grades improved. Soon he was topping his class to Manyi’s joy. And when he reached P6, Manyi asked if the school could have him sit P7. “My boy is a genius and has no time to waste.”

Some of Ayite’s teachers thought it wouldn’t do him good to skip a class. “Yes, we have no doubt he will pass,” his maths teacher pleaded. “I fear he will lose his friends.”

“You want my child to stick behind with looser friends!” roared back Manyi, in disgust. “I will take him to another school.” She threatened. The private school feared losing kids because it would affect its profit margins. Ayite sat and excelled. Manyi took a picture with her son which she sent to the newspapers to plant on front page with a caption, “We made it!”

Thereafter Ayite joined one of the best secondary school in the country. Whenever he got back home Manyi would ask one question, “I want to see your grades, don’t tell me anything about games and stuff!” If Ayite had a poor showing, then she would explode. “It is because you were out playing and yet these poor grades will take you nowhere!”

Meanwhile, after Mutufu rejected a school without a playing field she came across one which impressed her. “Here every child must enroll in a club of some interest,” the principal reported. “For every lesson we arrange kids to go out in the field so that they can pick up real life lessons. We place strong emphasis on games because they help kids pick up social skills. We encourage kids to use their local languages since they will need them to get around the country. Every child is appointed to lead something. On weekday we hold debates and quizzes so as to help kids overcome shyness and learn articulate themselves before crowds. Ours are not traditional kids because they spend more time outside class, visiting zoos, parliament, plantations, factories, etc, to supplement their book knowledge.”

“This is exactly what I have been looking for,” Mutufu brightened, and immediately enrolled Atuuse. Almost with every single opportunity she was at school cheering Atuuse, through his many games. Once, Atuuse happened to be lumbering behind in a 200M dash, she cheered him to race faster. Encouraged, he speeded up and won. “Atuuse now I want you to go and lift up all those you raced with,” Mutufu counseled.

Maybe because he was so busy into games, for his P7 Atuuse didn’t score a first grade. A concerned friend approached Mutufu. “If you get me some money I know someone important to get him admitted to an elite school.”

Mutufu rejected the idea right away. “If my boy wants to get to that school let him repeat P7, work hard and earn his way up there,” she said. “Is he going to cheat his way through life whenever he comes across a road bloc?”

Having had him repeat, Atuuse suspended some of his game activities, worked hard and this time passed with flying colors. He ended up in the same school with Ayite. The two rarely crossed paths. Ayite was always locked up in the library cramming to pass exams. But Ayite was out playing or participating in a club activity.

For his hard work, Ayite excelled and made it to Engineering school, which Manyi had chosen for him. Atuuse also joined the same university but with average grades. He was offered to do a social sciences course that because it was less academically demanding had been baptized as “General happiness”. However, Atuuse enjoyed it thoroughly for it gave him as much time to meet people from all over the country whom he made fast friends. He really enjoyed his time at university for he was always up and about in some interesting activity, like going for cross country runs and acting in plays.

In fact, Atuuse merely scrapped through to get a Lower honors degree.  Soon after one of those friends he had met during cross country runs tapped on him that there was a vacancy for young graduates in a new telecommunications company. Atuuse promptly showed up for the interview. He found that he had already met a number of those interviewing him during his multiple games and extracurricular activities. “This is the kind of person we need here who can help our business expand contacts,” said the CEO, whom Atuuse already knew as a Rotarian, having once invited him to give his Rotaract club a talk, where he was then President.

Once he joined Atuuse was involved in most company activities, which he found exciting. Before long, he had been promoted to head an influential business expansion unit. Early one day he was invited to chair an interview panel. After interviewing several candidates, then whom does he see entering? In walked Ayite. He suddenly recalled that while at university Ayite had dropped out, preferring to pass hours fraternizing campus bars, where he would push off any who dared pull him back to class, insisting, “I am sick and tired of this school business. Let me chill.”

When Manyi called him, with a sudden alcohol-fueled boldness, he told her to give him a break. Eventually, after losing a couple of years, he came around, got back to university. But this time switched to a business degree course. And so here was looking for a job.

Throughout the interview, Atuuse pretended he had never met Ayite. But he gave him near perfect scores on all questions, strongly recommending his appointment. The committee agreed.

On day, soon after Ayite had reported to work, Atuuse, met him at the company cafeteria. “My old friend,” he pulled him aside. “I know back in school you were hardly out on the games field playing with us. But if you want to get ahead here my tip is get involved and make as many friends. You will need them all the way. Good luck!”

“Why not take the children to any of the old traditional schools!” my mother expressed concern, once she heard I had different ideas. I did not commit but offered I would think about it. As my kids reached school going age, I started thinking of a school which had children not just from Uganda, but from all over the world, a sort of global village. But this was not something easy to explain to my mother who considered Catholic boarding schools as the ultimate choice. A longtime ago at an early age my folks had gathered me through a number of parochial schools, where morning chapel was compulsory and the stick was amply used to wire us into super pupils with astonishing grades. Well, I had since outgrown all that, and looked at life with a wider span.

Upon graduation with a Masters degree in one leading US state university, I started going around looking for a job. I happened to be attending a church with a number of influential people: state representatives in the Senate, leading business personalities, attorneys, physicians, academicians and senior managers. So, I approached one old gentleman who ran a successful financial firm. Immediately, he took up my case. “I see you have just graduated from my university,” he smiled, warmly. He called up a number of his old mates, and I could hear him chuckle, “I have a chap here just graduated from our old school!”

Easily, I found that in this state, one ticket a person needed was the university you attended. They were two prominent universities famous as rivals, particularly when it came to basketball and football games. Both boasted of a roaring passionate alumni who would buy yearlong tickets for any of those games. But that passion extended beyond university campus gates. Graduates shared a camaraderie, like kindred souls. Their cars and trucks bore mascots of their old schools. And, in fact, there was almost an immediate obligation to help out an old schoolmate, once one chanced upon any.

This was my first real experience how the school you go to matters. Here, in this state, it was not just the degree certificate that mattered, which of course counted, but also what school you went to. It was like once you came out then you were brothers ( or sisters). Yes, it has been years since I left that university and state, but tell you what even as of now whenever I bump into someone who went there and we discover a common origin, our eyes light up. “So, you too, are a Sooners!”

Once, in one of my graduate classes, a professor of public administration introduced to our class a book authored by Thomas R Dye, “Who is Running America?” I still have it on the shelf even after moving through different addresses. Once in a while I thumb through its pages. Why I found it so intriguing, to this day, was its central argument that power in the world’s most powerful nation was concentrated in a network of individuals who all but went to particular Ivy League schools. Yes, it looked like they all took out of their universities more than a conventional degree. Out of school they also came with friends who would go on to support each other through life, including ascending to the most important office in the world. How else do you start explaining how a son of an African student gets into White House? Well, among others, he happened to have gone to Harvard university!

Years ago I called up a retired Permanent Secretary, F D Gureme, who in his sunset years had taken to scribbling a popular column, “Old Man of the Town” He had just written something about his classmate while at King’s College Budo, Professor Senteza- Kajubi, the former Vice Chancellor of Makerere and Nkumba universities. He was a bit lonely as in his “Trojan –class” which had included a former Prime Minister, Eng Abraham Waligo, he was apparently the only one now living. “There was a time when we used to run this country,” he mused. “Everywhere you went you found an old schoolmate running the office. You could get any door open for you!”

I think schools give us more than certificates or degrees. They also gift us with friendship that open doors, once out of school gates. There was once a case in which I happen to be involved that made this so obvious to me. I had been hired as a Consultant to help one organization locate a CEO. We failed to find the right fit through normal processes. So I was tasked with head hunting. Now, one day, soon after, almost out of nowhere I came across an old boy, who just happened to be looking for his next post. Immediately I connected him to the Board. All I remember was unanimous assent. “After all he is from our school.”

So you can see why I didn’t know how to explain to my mother that my children were going to live in a globalized world, and if they could pick up friends from different nationalities, sooner but not later, it was all the better for them. In her world it was still grades that counted after faith. In my case I thought it was friends you made that counted more. Of course they could pick them from any of the old schools, as I had, but I thought theirs was going to be a less localized world than mine.

Well, in Uganda, national exams have just returned and I see a lot of anxiety about grades. Not much talk about networks the kids have built in their school journey and must continue. What I know and want to share a person can have a powerful degree with stars, but if they do not know someone to pass it along to the right decision maker, it might well end up with just a lot of dust. It is one of those things you get to know how the world works, along the way.