If at first you don't succeed... yes, try again. But also...

If at first you don’t succeed...

We were only ever taught one ending to this sentence. If at first you don’t succeed, try again. Life has taught me that this ending is too narrow. There are other ways to finish this thought. Let us explore how this sentence could continue differently.

1. If at first you don’t succeed… pause. Sometimes you just need to stop and breathe before you decide what to do next.
2. If at first you don’t succeed… ask why. Take a moment to understand what really went wrong instead of rushing back in.
3. If at first you don’t succeed… redefine success. You might have to adjust your definition of success so it reflects your capacity and your season.
4. If at first you don’t succeed… rest. You might simply be tired, and tired people do not always make the best decisions.
5. If at first you don’t succeed… try differently. Doing the same thing again rarely gives a different result. Shift your approach.
6. If at first you don’t succeed… simplify the goal. Break it down into something smaller and more manageable.
7. If at first you don’t succeed… grow thicker skin. Not every rejection or failure is personal, even if it feels like it.
8. If at first you don’t succeed… grow softer. Sometimes the issue is not strength but the way you are approaching it.
9. If at first you don’t succeed… laugh. It is not the end of the world, even if it feels embarrassing.
10. If at first you don’t succeed… let it go. Some things are not meant to be forced.
11. If at first you don’t succeed… check your timing. It could be right, just not right now.
12. If at first you don’t succeed… check your motives. Be honest about whether you truly want it or you just want to be seen wanting it.
13. If at first you don’t succeed… ask for help. There is no shame in admitting you cannot do everything alone.
14. If at first you don’t succeed… sit with the discomfort. Not every failure needs immediate fixing, sometimes it just needs reflection.
15. If at first you don’t succeed… change environments. You might be trying to grow in a place that does not support you.
16. If at first you don’t succeed… become a student again. There may still be something you need to learn.
17. If at first you don’t succeed… forgive yourself. Beating yourself up will not change the outcome.
18. If at first you don’t succeed… ask whether you even want it. Be honest about whether this is something you truly want, or something you just felt you should want.
19. If at first you don’t succeed… document the attempt. Write down what happened so you carry the lesson with you.
20. If at first you don’t succeed… lower your pride. Sometimes it is not the task that is hard, but the fact that we do not like being seen failing.
21. If at first you don’t succeed… protect your energy. Not everything deserves your time, your strength, and your peace.
22. If at first you don’t succeed… notice what worked. Even in failure, there is usually something in you did well.
23. If at first you don’t succeed… tell the truth about it. Call it what it is instead of dressing it up to sound better.
24. If at first you don’t succeed… allow it to change you. Failure can shape the way you think and act next time, if you let it.
    
25. If at first you don’t succeed… be grateful it failed early. It is better to learn a hard lesson before you have invested everything.
26. If at first you don’t succeed… question the expectations placed on you. Some ideas about success were handed to you, and you are allowed to examine them.
27. If at first you don’t succeed… do not be in a hurry to make it right. You do not have to fix it immediately just to feel better. Allow yourself time.

If at first you don’t succeed… What would you add to this list? I would love to hear how you would finish the sentence. 

Two wrongs can sometimes make a right

I was listening to "Two Wrongs" by Wyclef Jean, and that familiar line "two wrongs don’t make it right" caught my attention.

I have heard that phrase so many times without really thinking about it. That phrase has always made sense.

Two wrongs don’t make a right.

But as the song played, I found myself wondering… is life really that neat and mathematical? This is because from where my feet are, it doesn’t always look that simple.

O.K. hear me out. No one is perfect, right? Think about when an imperfect person meets another imperfect person and  neither of them has fully figured themselves out. One struggles with insecurity, while the other struggles with avoidance. One overthinks, while the other shuts down. They both bring their imperfect unfinished selves into the relationship.

Technically, that’s two "wrongs," isn’t it? Two incomplete beings trying to build something whole.

I remember sitting across from someone I cared about very much, both of us defensive, both of us trying so hard not to say the wrong thing, and realising neither of us actually knew how to be fully ourselves without fear. We weren’t bad people. We weren’t trying to hurt each other. We were just… unfinished.

And yet, sometimes, it works. It will work not because people suddenly become emotionally mature and near perfect overnight, nor because they fix their every flaw. It will work because somewhere between the awkward conversations and the misunderstandings, they choose honesty. They admit, "I don’t always handle this well." They say, "I am still learning." They stop pretending they are the finished product. They extend grace to each other. Honesty makes the difference and honesty can actually be more right than perfection ever was. 

Let's also think about this in terms of failure. The first time you fail in a relationship, in a decision, in a boundary you didn’t hold, it feels like bad luck. You can blame timing, circumstances, the other person, etc.

The second time you fail at the same thing, it feels different. It feels like a mirror.

I have had moments where I thought I was just unlucky. And then the same situation showed up again, different face, but the same pattern. That was when it stopped being coincidence and started being a moment to learn.

Failure plus failure does not automatically equal defeat. It could equal awareness. The first wrong hurts. The second wrong is a revelation, and if you are willing to look at what it reveals, that is where we start to grow and become wiser.

How about with miscommunication, which might be the most common "wrong" of all. For me at least.

You say something and it lands badly. They interpret it through their own fears. You react to their reaction. Now you’re both defending yourselves from something that was not fully explained. Two misunderstandings!

I have walked away from conversations convinced I was right, only to replay them later and realise we were speaking two completely different emotional languages. I was arguing about tone. They were reacting from a wound. I was defending my intention. They were protecting their fear.

That sort of collision in relationships forces the real conversation  of the issues that lie beneath the surface. "When you said that, I felt small." "When you went quiet, I felt abandoned." Suddenly you are no longer debating words, but you are talking about history, insecurity and longing. Two wrong interpretations can lead to one honest clarification.

Please, I am not romanticising dysfunction. No. Some dynamics are unhealthy and should,  by all means, end. There are patterns that should be broken and the pieces thrown away. Staying in harm is unhealthy and unwise.

But what I am saying is that sometimes what we label as "wrong" is simply immaturity meeting immaturity and growth comes in as a result of facing issues. I think two wrongs stay wrong when there is pride. When we become humble, the wrongs start shifting.

I do not think that this phrase was meant to be mathematical. I see it as caution against revenge, or a warning to us against retaliation. But it was definitely not stopping us from trying again. 

From where my feet are, life has not been and can not be a neat equation. It has been trial and error. Falling and getting up. Conversations I wish I had handled better. Lessons I only understood the second time around. And sometimes, not always, but sometimes, two flawed attempts have produced something steadier and more solid than the first “perfect” try ever could.

Right does not come from never being wrong.  It comes from what we do after the second mistake.

An afternoon nap fiasco. I attended a meeting in my sleep.

The strangest thing happened to me today.

I woke up early, took my walk, came back feeling good and ahead of the world, ready for a rather packed day. The morning was full meetings, things checked off lists, etc. By lunchtime, I felt accomplished, productive and on top of things.

There was a one-hour gap between meetings. An hour seemed like good enough time to rest. I had earned it. I told myself I would take a short nap of just 20 minutes to refresh for the next meeting. So I lay down, closed my eyes and slept.

What happened next is both embarrassing and fascinating. 

I slept through the meeting. I was not "almost late." and not "joined halfway - late." I slept through the entire meeting. 

But here is the strange part: I attended the meeting in my dream.

It felt like I was there. I was so vivid. We were going through the agenda and discussions. Someone raised a concern and I responded comprehensively. I even used phrases like, "to build on that…" and "I think we need to consider the broader picture." I contributed to the discussions. I had counterpoints. I built arguments. I nodded at the right moments. I remember thinking, that’s a good point, and then adding to it. The conversation flowed exactly the way I knew it would, and it was quite productive. If someone had asked me for the minutes of the meeting right there in my dream, I would have delivered them.

At some point, the meeting began to wrap up.  "Alright, I think that’s a good place to end." And at that exact moment, at the exact time the real meeting would have ended, I woke up. 

I was quite satisfied with the meeting outcome. I even wiped a small line of drool from the corner of my mouth. I stretched. I blinked slowly. I felt refreshed. My brain was convinced: Well done. Great participation.

Then I reached for my phone.

Missed call from my colleague. Messages in the group: "Thanks everyone." "Good discussion." "Let’s follow up on that action point." "Let me check in with Peace to see if she's ok."

What???

Check in with Peace? Why?? "She never fails to show up, and if she isn't attending, she always informs us."

Are you telling me none of this happened?

I was THERE. I spoke. I contributed. I used phrases like "to build on that." I had counterpoints. I built arguments. And now you’re telling me I was not physically present on this earth during that time?

The realisation came slowly. OMG! I had dreamt the entire meeting. OMG! Nooooooooooooo

But the funniest part is, I know exactly what they discussed. Because it’s exactly what we were supposed to discuss. My brain had prepared, and it delivered. Without me.

It is both impressive and embarassing.

I lay back down and started laughing. I really laughed out loud because how do you explain this? "Hi, sorry I missed the meeting. I attended it spiritually." Anyway, I called my colleagues and told them the truth. I slept and I dreamt the meeting. Thankfully, they laughed.

It is then that I realised that your body will shut down when it needs to, regardless of your carefully arranged calendar. I had started the day early, filled every hour and was quite efficient and productive. And then believed I could squeeze in "just a short nap".

The body said otherwise. The mind, however, refused to let the meeting go. Apparently, even in REM sleep, I am committed to my work.

An afternoon nap gone wrong turned into an afternoon reminder that rest is not something you can compromise on for too long. Sleep eventually catches up and if you are tired, you are tired. And sometimes, if you push too hard, your subconscious will log into the meeting without you. Ask me. 

Next time, I will set alarms. Plural. Because I refuse to attend another meeting in the astral plane.

Headaches we hide and carry quietly

Today I had the worst headache I can remember.

It was not those small cute headaches that respond to Panadol. This was a full-blown stones in my head type of headache. It started as pressure behind my eyes. I tried to ignore it at first. Drank water. Took a painkiller. Adjusted my glasses. I told myself it would pass. It didn’t. I had back-to-back meetings. Those meetings where you are not just attending but are leading, facilitating discussions and you are the one expected to be clear, sharp, present with the camera on. 

By mid-morning, the headache had settled in properly. The light from the screen felt harsher than usual. I found myself squinting at slides I had prepared myself. At one point, someone asked me a question, but I needed more than a couple of seconds to gather it through the noise in my head. And I couldn't exactly say, “hold on, my brain is buffering because my head hurts.” I turned my camera off once or twice and pressed my fingers into my temples like that would rearrange something inside. Then camera back on all composed and professional kumbe, I was not ok.

There is something strange about being in pain and still needing to look composed. You measure your tone. You slow your speech slightly so you don’t lose your thoughts. You smile at the right moments. You nod.  No one on the calls knew. Or if  they did, maybe they were kind enough not to say anything. 

And then I thought...

How many people are walking around carrying something behind their eyes? Something throbbing quietly while they smile in meetings or at dinners and say, “I’m fine.” We see people functioning and assume everything inside is working well. But sometimes someone is showing up and holding themselves together at the same time.

Sometimes it is heartache. Sometimes it is worry. Sometimes it is quiet grief or a heavy responsibility no one else knows about. Exhaustion? Things we do not have the luxury to postpone, ignore or forget? We carry so much quietly and keep going. Perhaps that is why we should be kinder with each other. 

From where my feet are, I realised that showing up does not mean you are okay. It just means you showed up. And maybe the wiser thing is not to power through every time. A headache is never just a headache.  Maybe the wiser thing is to listen. Maybe the wiser thing is to pause, or ask for help. 

Taking the photo and missing the moment

Today, I saw a meme on someone's status asking a simple questions: What are you going to do with the fireworks you recorded on 1st January?

I laughed. Then I felt slightly exposed. 

This was because somewhere in my phone is a blurry video of fireworks from New Year’s Eve 2024. The sky was exploding, bursting with beautiful colours. People were shouting at every explosion.  And instead of looking up, I was looking down for my phone, then adjusting my camera, zooming in, trying to capture the perfect burst of light.

I have never watched that video again. It is sitting there with a technical name like VID_20240101_000003.mp4, evidence that the year began with me watching amazing fireworks. 

And it’s not just fireworks.

This evening, I was taking an evening walk at the farm in the village after it had rained. The grass was that shade of green that only comes after a proper downpour. Cows were grazing lazily. The air was fresh in that way that makes you breathe a little deeper without thinking about it. The sun was beginning to set turning everything gold. The kind of light that makes even ordinary things like "outside countries".

And then I saw them.

A flock of about 20 Crested Cranes rose from the grass and flew low just above my head. Their wings were wide and steady with a slow and graceful flight. Wow! The gold in their crowns caught the fading sunlight. For a moment, everything felt perfectly arranged. It was beautiful. Truly and fully beautiful.

My first instinct was to reach for my phone.

I stood there trying to frame them properly. Zooming in and out, adjusting brightness. Switching from photo mode to portrait mode. Tilting my head this way and that way.

By the time I “got it,” the Cranes were already further away.

Later, after reading that meme about the New Year's photo, I realised something uncomfortable: In trying to capture a moment, I was barely experiencing. I was working to document it instead of simply standing in it, feeling it and enjoying it. And you know what, I will probably never rewatch that video either.

And it is not just fireworks or cranes.

It is the sunset that turns the sky orange for five dramatic minutes, and instead of standing still, we are switching between portrait and video mode. It is the lake unusually still, the reflection so clean it feels unreal, and instead of breathing it in, we are crouching for symmetry.

There is something about this habit of ours. We see something beautiful and immediately convert it into content. As if the moment must be captured for it to be real. As if we do not trust our experiential memory. My concern is not that we have photos. It is that maybe in trying to preserve the moment, we step slightly outside it. We are there, yes, but not fully in the moment. 

I am not saying we should never take pictures. I love photos. I take them often, very beautiful ones, at that. I encourage people to take them. Some of my favourite memories are tied to images I almost forgot until I scrolled back and found them again. A single photo can reopen a whole season. Pictures do matter. a lot They hold our past and keep our memories. They turn "moments into memories."

But there is a difference between taking a picture and missing a moment. Sometimes the camera enhances the memory, and sometimes it interrupts it.

I am not against photos. I am against the automatic reflex, the way we rush to document before we have fully seen. It is not a question about whether or not we should take pictures. It is about whether we have stood in the moment long enough.

From where my feet are, I need to keep in mind that not everything needs to be archived. The next time I see Cranes flying past,  I hope I remember that not every moment needs proof, because some moments are enough just as they are.

When the cows went to court: The Republic vs. Five Cows

We all know the cows made it safely back home. If you have no idea what we are talking about, read about the cows that got arrested. 

A friend asked me, "what if the cows had actually had to go to court?" I thought about it and said, YES, WHAT IF?

We ask “what if” questions not because we enjoy trouble, but because they help us rehearse reality. We imagine scenarios so that, when life presents us with something similar, we are not surprised. We have already played it out in our minds and we are therefore prepared. 

So let us imagine, purely for academic purposes, that the five cows did appear before a magistrate.

This is how I suspect it would have unfolded.

The charges were read solemnly:

Count One: Grazing without permit beyond the accepted municipal boundaries.
Count Two: Obstruction of traffic along a major highway.
Count Three: Public nuisance (with visual documentation).

The cows stood quietly chewing curd. One adjusted its stance whisking a fly with its tail. Another blinked slowly at the ceiling fan. Another mooed.

Then came the most important question:

“Is counsel present?”

At first, there was talk of a state appointed lawyer, but word spread quickly that these were not ordinary roadside cows. These were cows of reputable lineage. Their maternal history was documented. Their dairy contributions had supported important tea tables. They had to have the right counsel. 

And so the right senior counsel arrived.

The type of lawyer who reads a file in silence and finds one misplaced comma that can undo an entire case. The kind who understand that in court, it is rarely about what happened but about what can be proven, and most importantly, what cannot be proven. 

He rose.

“My Lord,” he began gently, “before we discuss grazing, we must address procedure.”

Of course. We  know this but we do not admit that it is never about the case (in this case, grazing). It is about the procedure.

He argued that the cows were apprehended without sufficient notice. That they were transported under stressful traffic conditions. That their rights to food and water were delayed.

“And furthermore,” he continued gravely, “the chain of custody of the evidence has been compromised.”

The courtroom leaned forward.

You see, during their time in police custody, someone had milked the cows.

Exhibit A, originally presented as five full, productive dairy units, appeared the following morning significantly reduced in volume.

“My Lord,” counsel said solemnly, “this court cannot proceed on tampered evidence.”

The prosecution objected, arguing that milking the cows had nothing to do with the case. 

The defense insisted it was sabotage.

An adjournment was requested to assess the integrity of the milk.

The court agreed that the evidence required further examination. Naturally, one would expect it to be sent to the police forensic laboratory.

It was not. Instead, the milk was transported to the agricultural laboratory, where technicians diligently tested for butterfat content, protein levels, and overall dairy quality. Charts were drawn, percentages calculated and graphs were printed on headed paper, stamped, signed and placed in a white envelope.  

By the time the results were returned, the court was thoroughly informed about the richness of the milk, its excellent nutritional value, and that consumers would do well to buy milk for their families from this particular supplier. Eh! How did we end up there? But no one seemed to mind and instead took the herdsman's number for milk supply arrangements. 

What remained entirely unclear was whether the milk had been tampered with. The defense nodded thoughtfully, noting the possible win, the prosecution appeared uncertain and rather confused, while the magistrate maintained composure. Clearly the case has taken another tangent. 

Anyway, attention shifted to paperwork.

The impoundment form was missing a signature.
A date had been written in blue instead of black ink.
A stamp appeared faint and therefore not admissible in court.

Procedure is procedure. Even for cows.

The law itself was clear: no grazing within municipal boundaries.

Simple. But simplicity in wording rarely guarantees simplicity in outcome.

By mid-afternoon, it was no longer entirely certain whether the case was about grazing, milk, or ink.

The magistrate adjusted his glasses.

“This court finds that due to procedural irregularities and concerns regarding the integrity of the evidence, the matter cannot proceed in its current form.”

This was not an acquittal. The cows were not declared innocent. It was simply a procedural conclusion.

“The accused are therefore released.”

Outside the courthouse, opinions were divided. Commentators debated implications. The Mayor promised stricter enforcement in the future.

The cows stepped out calmly into the sunlight. Of course without commentary and without learning anything at all, they lowered their heads and began grazing on the grass and eating the flowers outside the courthouse.

In the end, the law may be the law, equal for all in writing, but legal representation, documentation, and timing often decide how the case goes. And in the words of that friend who led me down this pathway of cows in court, "there is nothing good senior counsel cannot fix."

When cows got arrested. "You have the right to remain Moo.."

I respect cows. They are peaceful. They mind their business. They provide milk. They chew slowly. They have beautiful eyes and blink knowingly.

But cows in the city?

Well, today I was walking like I always do and met cows being grazed. It is not unusual to see cows on the streets of Entebbe (is this why we are not a city yet?). There were eight. I counted. It wasn’t exactly Entebbe Town. It was a residential area, but still.

One was chewing someone’s hedge. Another had positioned itself fully on the sidewalk, so pedestrians had to “find their level.” Two were in the middle of the road, causing boda bodas and cars to move cautiously around them. The rest were generously redecorating the tarmac with dung.

And no one cared. Not the herdsman. Not the drivers. Not the pedestrians. They are an inconvenience, yes, but a tolerated one.

This situation reminded me of the day my brother’s cows were arrested.

Yes. Arrested.

My brother used to keep cows for milk. Good, hardworking cows. One day they wandered slightly beyond what the municipality considered acceptable boundaries, and some council officials arrived in their battered double cabin and impounded them like seasoned livestock detectives.

The cows were marched...well, walked, approximately three kilometers to the police station. They were coming from near the airport, which meant that to get to the station, they had to cross the very busy Entebbe–Kampala Road.

Now let’s pause there.

Imagine escorting five cows through Entebbe Road traffic to the police station, which sits right in the middle of town. Did they wait for the traffic lights? Did they have to wait for the pedestrian crossing? Did the cows instinctively understand that red means stop? They had to navigate traffic lights, weave through fast-moving cars rushing to the airport, and somehow make it across one of the busiest roads in Entebbe.

Honestly, it must have been spectacular to watch.

By the time my brother arrived at the Police Station, the cows looked like they needed legal representation, which was fortunate, because he studied Law. Naturally, a family meeting had already been convened to address this crisis.

Imagine the charge sheet:

Offense: Grazing without permit.
Exhibit A: Five exhausted cows.

Some challenges were encountered...

First problem:
Where do we put the cows?

Second problem:
Where do we get water for the cows?

It was a hot day. They had walked a long distance. The herdsman insisted the cows needed water immediately. Suddenly, the officers who had confidently arrested the cows were now searching for basins to feed the thirsty cows. Someone was dispatched to look for water.

Third problem:
What do government-arrested cows eat?

The cows had hardly grazed before they were impounded. By the time they reached the police station, they were hungry and they were not quiet about it. They began mooing loudly in front of the station, announcing their displeasure to all.  An officer was sent to search the police quarters for matooke peelings. Nothing. So my brother had to go and buy maize bran, while the herdsman was asked to find grass to cut. 

Meanwhile, as all this was happening, the cows stood there in front of the police headquarters chewing calmly, as though they had hired senior counsel and were waiting for proceedings to begin.

Then came the paperwork issue.

Apparently, the person who was supposed to register the case had left the station before completing the required documentation. No paperwork, no release. I suppose this also meant they could not obtain hoof prints.

So technically, the cows could not be released.

Procedure is procedure.

Even for cows.

An officer was therefore assigned night duty to guard five cows. They were officially in police custody, and they could not risk the suspects escaping, being stolen, or worse, contaminating the evidence. I still wonder what his report looked like.

“Night was calm. Suspects remained cooperative. One attempted to moo assertively at 23:00 hours.”

By the time everything was sorted the next day, fine paid, paperwork located, and the cows finally released, etc, everyone involved had learned one important lesson: arresting cows is more complicated than it sounds. The logistics were bigger than the crime. 

If we are going to have urban cows, perhaps we need designated cow lanes and proper bovine holding facilities. Eish, because what begins as a simple “arrest the cows” operation quickly becomes an unexpected comedy.

But one thing is for sure, the officers cared for the cows. And that, oddly enough, was heartwarming.

Post Script

Are you curious to know what it would have looked like if the cows went to court. Read: The Republic vs. Five Cows

They love me. They love me not.

This evening I saw a group of kids walking home from school. They had stopped by a fence that had flowers and were plucking them. Some were making bouquets, some were putting flowers in their hair, and others were plucking off petals and scattering them.  

This took me back to my own childhood when we would pluck petals of flowers to determine whether a boy loved or didn’t love us.

He loves me. Pluck a petal.

He loves me not. Pluck.

He loves me. Pluck.

He loves me not. Pluck.

The suspense was exciting. We were not joking around just pulling apart a flower, but we were discovering the truth. And if the last petal landed on “he loves me not,” we would simply find another flower and begin again as if the flower had made a small mistake.

Back then it was harmless. The stakes were imaginary and as a matter of fact the boys in question probably didn’t even know our names.

But I think sometimes we never really stopped playing that game. We just replaced the petals.

They called.
They didn’t call.

He/She said good morning.
He/She left my message on blue tick.

They remembered my birthday.
They forgot the thing that mattered most to me.

They say they misses me.
They disappear for three days.

He/She makes plans.
He/She cancels.

They apologise.
They repeat.

And there I am again, plucking invisible petals off a relationship, trying to land on the right ending.

He loves me.
He loves me not.

The thing about the flower was that the outcome depended on how many petals it had. It was random. Pure chance.

And yet as adults, we try to calculate love from the same way. We treat inconsistency like a crazy puzzle instead of seeing it as a pattern. We convince ourselves that if we just count the calls, the dates, the silences, the promises carefully enough, we will finally reach a stable answer.

But love is not supposed to feel like probability, is it?

If you are constantly oscillating between certainty and doubt, between warmth and withdrawal, between “of course he loves me” and “I am not so sure,” then you are not in a love story. You are in a guessing game. And guessing games are exhausting.

The most dangerous part is just like with the flower, when we don’t like the answer, we restart and then try to argue it out to get the answer we want.

“He/She loves me not.”
No, wait. That was a bad week.

“He/She loves me not.”
No, they just stressed.

“He/She loves me not.”
No, I’m overthinking.

So we find another flower and another explanation and another reset because accepting the result feels a lot tougher than plucking again. I don't think love should require counting. It should not need decoding, analysing, or tallying. You should not need to gather evidence like a detective building a case. 

From where my feet are, if I still have to count petals to feel secure, then I already have my answer. Love should not swing between extremes nor should it leave me guessing. From where my feet are, if it feels like a game of chance, then it probably is exactly that, and I am too grown to keep plucking petals.

The best pickup line I have ever heard

This morning, as I was walking, I had to jump over puddles of water left from last night’s rain. You know those large ones on our pothole riddled roads. So I was doing that careful calculation with every step where you  lift the pants slightly, lean forward and jump. 

This reminded me of something that happened about ten years ago.

The best pickup line I have ever received.

It was also a rainy morning. I was walking to work, doing exactly what I was doing today, really trying not to dirty myself on a muddy road. Above me was a building under construction with the usual noise of metal clanking, men talking loudly, someone laughing so hard at something that probably wasn’t that funny.

As I jumped over a puddle, a voice from up on the scaffolding shouted in Luganda:

“Tofayo Bebi, ne bw’ogwa mu mazzi, nja kulongosa”

“Don’t worry, baby! Even if you fall in the puddle of water, I will clean you up.”

I stopped.

Looked up.

There he was up there confident, amused, and very serious about what he had just said.

And I laughed.

It was bold, smooth and poetic. It was built on-site (pun intended). It was customised to the weather and was tailored to the moment.

And that is exactly why it worked.

He didn’t shout something random. He used the moment. He saw the situation and built his case around it. Very builder-like, if you ask me. Problem? Mud. Solution? “I will clean you up nice.”

What also made me smile was the imagination. He did not say he would save me from falling. He did not say he would carry me. He simply accepted that life has puddles and if I land in one, he is ready to clean me. How very thoughtful and practical.

There was no pressure after that. No climbing down. No “give me your number.” He just laughed when I laughed and went back to work.

Ten years later, I remember that line clearly.

Sometimes the best pickup lines are not the polished ones. They are the ones that fit the moment so perfectly.

This morning, as I successfully avoided falling into any puddle, I smiled to myself, not  because I needed to be rescued, but because somewhere in Kampala, there is a builder who once believed he could offer cleaning services as romance, and for that brief, muddy second, it absolutely worked.

The next 40 days

Lent, the 40 days before Easter. These 40 days forty echo the wilderness where Jesus fasted and prayed before stepping fully into His Ministry. He was alone with God and you could say it was a time of preparation. 

During Lent, some people fast, pray (or at least try to pray more), and give up something. Some people give up sugar in their tea, others give up soda and cake, social media, etc.

The next 40 days should not only be about subtraction or giving up something in your life. They should also be about adding something into your life.

If you give up TV, what are you replacing that time with? If you give up sugar, will you build discipline into your life? If you give up scrolling at night, will you replace it with more sleep and real conversation? If you give up complaining, are you going to start practicing gratitude?  If you give up gossip, will you add kind words? If you give up reacting quickly, will you add patience? If you give up comparison, will you try to be more content? 

I am saying this because I believe you don’t just remove something and leave the space empty. You need to replace it. And what you replace it with is what begins to shape you.

The hunger of fasting does something. That small discomfort of saying no to yourself reveals things you didn’t even know were running you. When you deny yourself something small, it exposes the bigger things like what you rely on, what fills your time, what comforts you when you are stressed or bored, etc. It is in that space that something spiritual begins to shift and is where growth starts.  

Maybe the next 40 days are about replacing distraction with attention, replacing rushing with patience, replacing bitterness with grace, replacing excuses with responsibility. These are all light things that just require us to be a little more intentional.

Then there is a part we do not always talk about and that is what happens after the 40 days.

If we simply return to everything we stopped, then it was only a temporary break. But if we have been replacing, choosing differently, building habits even in small ways, then something takes root. Will we nature and grow those things we have established?

Just like Jesus’s wilderness, the next 40 days are “preparation”, not just for Easter, but for the person you are becoming. What you practice during Lent will not disappear overnight. It will settle into who you become, how you choose, how you show up long after Easter.

So as these 40 days begin, for those who choose to embark on this spiritual journey, as you plan what you are giving up, you could also consider what you are adding or replacing it with. Think about who you will be when the 40 days are over.

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Post Script:

Interested in other blogs?

• We often say time heals all wounds, but does it? Sometimes wounds fade because we face them, not because time passes. Click here to read. 

• We know the chicken crossed the road. But there are more questions than answers. Read here.

• If you would like to read more reflections, click here. 

The chicken crossed the road. We demand transparency

We are not going to ask why the chicken crossed the road. We know chickens cross roads. They always do. That part is not the issue. We are interested in the process. The chicken crossed the road and we just want transparency.

So: 

Did it submit the required documentation?

Did it receive official clearance from the Inter-ministerial committee on road crossing?

Was there a feasibility study?

Did it conduct a comprehensive traffic impact assessment, particularly regarding boda bodas?

Had it mapped out the potholes in advance?

Did it secure clearance from the local poultry authority (LPA)?

Did it carry the approved umbrella colour?

Did it pay its crossing tax?

Was there a stamped crossing permit?

Did it secure a "safe corridor" before crossing?

Did it budget for "miscellaneous approvals"?

Was there a contingency plan for unexpected infrastructural realities?

Was there a pre-crossing workshop titled: “Strategic movement: maximising outcomes across lanes”?

Did it attend the compulsory half-day seminar on risk, resilience and responsible relocation?

Was there a launch event?

Did it declare its intentions publicly or just wake up and cross the road?

Did it review the manifesto of the other side before committing?

Did it notify the group chat?

Did it prepare a response in case the outrage merchants took over the narrative?

Did it confirm that the grass was greener on the other side?

Did it check Google Maps?

Did it draft a five-year crossing strategy?

Did did negotiate short cuts behind closed doors?

Did it update its LinkedIn bio to “Open to relocation”? Or  “Now thriving across the road”?

Did it unveil a 3-year road transition framework?

Were there informal understandings with chicken traffic control officers?

Did it appoint a spokesperson (Spokeschicken)?

Did it draw lessons from previous attempted crossing?

Did it draft a vision statement for the other side?

Did it check whether the grass was organic or just brilliantly marketed?

Did it announce, “new beginnings ✨”?

Did it get a second opinion from a duck?

Did the chicken appoint a task force on strategic migration?

Was there a road-crossing steering committee?

Did it form a subcommittee?

Did it conduct a pilot crossing before full implementation?

Was there a ribbon-cutting ceremony across the road?

Did it livestream the crossing?

Did it analyse historical data on poultry mobility?

Did it create a hashtag? #CrossingWithPurpose

Was there a baseline survey of worm availability?

Did it submit accountability for crossing expenses, with receipts attached?

Did it receive endorsement from three senior roosters?

Was there a benchmarking trip to another village to observe best practices in road navigation?

Did it produce a policy brief?

Was there a mid-term review when it reached the yellow line?

Did it secure LC1 approval?

Did the village WhatsApp group debate it for six hours?

Did someone respond, “Following.”?

Did it get environmental clearance from the ducks?

Did it prepare a crisis communication plan in case things went left?

Was there a post-crossing impact report?

Were influencers and content creators invited to control the crossing narrative?

Did it sign an MoU with the other side?

Did it draft Terms of Reference for the crossing?

Did it hold a stakeholder validation workshop?

Did it get audited mid-crossing?

From where my feet are, the crossing itself is not the headline. Chickens cross. People move. Decisions are made every day. The way I see it, it is not the movement, but the processes surrounding it, or the lack thereof.

The chicken crossed. We simply want transparency.

The chicken crossed. We are still drafting the framework.

For any further concerns regarding the chicken’s movement, please submit them through the proper channels in the comments.