A practical guide to fooling people on April Fool's Day

April Fool’s Day is approaching, which means nonsense is back in season. If you are planning to fool someone, it helps to remember that absurd statements rarely succeed because they are clever or creative. They usually succeed because they are delivered calmly enough to delay immediate doubt.

So if you intend to mislead responsibly, even for one morning, here are a few principles that may help.

Begin with unnecessary calm

Do not sound excited when you are saying something unreasonable. 

For example, if you intend to announce that mandatory blood pressure and blood sugar checks may soon apply to everyone aged 15 and above because of rising non-communicable diseases in Uganda, the sentence must sound like the early stage of policy, not gossip.

The trick is to say it as though somebody somewhere has already discussed it twice and only forgot to inform the public.

A calm voice helps because people often trust tone before they analyse content.

Add one detail nobody asked for

A strange statement becomes stronger the moment it contains unnecessary detail. It is not enough to say Parliament has decided to revise the national anthem.

It helps to add that the new lyrics have already been submitted, reviewed by MPs, and approved by a selected group of youth after donor concerns about references to God in publicly funded civic language.

That unnecessary detail often buys the statement extra life. People do not trust broad nonsense. Specific nonsense sounds researched and plausible.

Borrow authority you cannot be asked to produce

The oldest support system for weak information is unnamed authority.

Phrases like:

"They are already discussing it."
"Apparently it has reached higher offices."
"Someone from inside mentioned it."

Nobody knows who "they" are, but "they" have helped weak statements gain strength for generations.

Even a completely unreasonable sentence gains temporary authority when it appears to have passed through unseen corridors.

Say it, then allow silence to firm it

After saying something absurd, stop talking. Silence creates a small psychological burden for the other person. They begin checking whether they are the only one who missed something.

For example:

"Starting next term, schools may introduce compulsory swimming because of increased incidences of flooding."

Then pause. 

Very often, people will first search your face, or wait for what you are going to say next, before they search their own logic.

Keep your face controlled slightly longer than necessary

This is where many otherwise excellent attempts fail. A nonsensical sentence may survive a perfect pitch, but the face could sell you. A smile too early destroys everything. A straight face is often doing more speaking than the words themselves.

Timing helps nonsense more than intelligence does

Weak nonsense improves when people are distracted.

Early morning, lunchtime, or when a person is busy responding to emails or looking for keys that they have misplaced.

At the right hour, someone may briefly accept that because of worsening air quality in Kampala, authorities are considering donkeys for public transport, and that bids for donkey transport operators have already been issued.

It sounds improbable, but not impossible, especially to someone who is busy, which is often enough.

Let it sound as though it was written in a memo

The human mind is surprisingly respectful of sentences that sound administrative.

Compare:

"They may ban loud laughter in meetings."

Versus:

"There is discussion around regulating excessive laughter during formal meetings because it affects recording quality."

The second one has more potential.

Do not explain too much

The moment you begin defending nonsense too hard, it weakens. Strong nonsense should stand briefly on its own, almost as if explanation would be unnecessary because the statement seemingly has weight. Too much explanation questions legitimacy.

Mild inconvenience is usually more believable than new inventions

The most effective foolish statements rarely have too much drama. In fact they contain facts from the ordinary life and sound mildly irritating.

For example, do not announce restriction of cars entering the CBD. That is too ambitious.

You begin with something believable enough to disturb routine:"Because of road pressure, high traffic and floods, some traffic officers are proposing cars with odd-number plates move on rainy Thursdays."

This will hold for a while because it sounds inconvenient enough to be possible.

Leave before practical questions are asked

Avoid prolonged discussion. The longer it is discussed, the more likely someone will ask a practical question, and practical questions are usually where otherwise promising foolishness is caught.

So, good people, if you are going to fool anyone, at least respect the craft. Choose your sentence properly, say it calmly, breathe, and give it just enough detail to survive its first encounter with doubt. A weak statement can still travel surprisingly far if dressed and delivered properly.

From where my feet are, I am planning to fool, so stand watch.

Earth hour! When the world sits in darkness for one hour

EARTH HOUR! 

It is my favourite hour of the year. For one hour, lights go off all around the world.

Lights all around the world are deliberately switched off. This happens not because of a power cut. This darkness is chosen by the people of the world.

That is what makes it unusual: the world, on 28th March, however briefly, decides together to switch lights off.

One hour cannot cool the planet. It cannot reverse emissions, restore forests, or solve the tension between growth and conservation. It is too small for that but there is something quite powerful in a global act of unity in restraint, even though it might be symbolic.

Light has become one of those things we no longer think about. It stays on in rooms we leave, on the streets that never sleep, on buildings that remain brightly lit even at midnight. Darkness is now something we cannot relate with, as though something is missing when the lights go out.

Yet when the lights went out here, on EARTH DAY, something changed.

Outside, the sky became clearer. We noticed stars we might otherwise have ignored. We heard sounds that we usually do not hear. It felt as though darkness shone detail on things that light had been hiding.

I asked my close family and my dearest friends to switch off their lights too, and they did. My parents went further and switched off not just the lights, but appliances too. I was really touched by that, because the one hour may have seemed like a big ask, but the willingness was genuine.

Most environmental damage happens through regular habits repeated daily: what stays running, what we assume is too small to matter, etc. Perhaps that is why one symbolic hour still has meaning. It interrupts that world's routine and reminds us even the tiny habits can make a difference.

For one hour, darkness did not feel like the absence of light. The world was quieter and the surroundings calm. In fact even conversations were lower.

From where my feet were, lights were turned off and for that hour the world revealed things to me and the rest that light often hides. 

Museveni has made me a person of interest

For a long time, travelling within East Africa required an unusual type of preparation that had nothing to do with flights, hotel bookings, matooke withdrawal, etc. It required what I will call a small personal strategy about nationality. Yes!

In Kenya and Tanzania, between airport taxis, conference rooms, hotel receptions, and workshop tea breaks, someone would greet me confidently in Swahili, I would also respond confidently, usually with what little Swahili I know. And yes, I know enough Swahili to greet.

The moment the conversation moved beyond greeting, I would fail completely. Then I would smile, pause, and admit, actually, I do not speak Swahili.

Ha! That is when the flood of questions would begin.

But where are you from?

Uganda, I would say. 

And immediately the discussion would open.

How can you be from Uganda and not speak Swahili? Why is Uganda in East Africa like that? Even Rwanda is trying. DRC manages somehow. Huh? You Ugandans do not like Swahili. So what exactly happened?

It became exhausting not because the questions were hostile, but because they were always long, curious, and required explanations on history, colonialism, politics, a military explanation, and sometimes a personal apology, as though I had personally chaired the meeting where Uganda decided not to speak Swahili.

So for my sanity, I created a small lie. I started saying I was from Malawi.

Finally, nobody took it personally that I could not speak Swahili. Instead, they nodded respectfully and moved on, which was ideal except that lying about nationality quickly became a part-time academic assignment. People are naturally curious and when they hear Malawi they do not leave you in peace either because they want to learn more about this country. 

They ask who the president is, about agriculture, population size, districts, economy, staple food, the national football team and suddenly you realise that if you are going to impersonate a country, you must do it professionally. I found myself learning facts I had never intended to know. I think at one point I probably knew more official things about Malawi than some people who live there.

All this simply because I did not want another discussion about why Uganda does not speak Swahili.

But something changed. These days, I say Uganda with confidence. In fact, with a small amount of pride, because now Uganda has become an excellent conversation starter.

The moment I say Uganda, the face changes.

Ah! Yoweri Museveni.

Suddenly, I become important. The questions come fast and people are almost in awe.

The man with the hat. M7. Is he standing again? How old will he be at the next election? Why do Ugandans keep voting for him? Does he really eat cassava? Does he actually call everyone bazukulu? Are you one of the grandchildren? Is his left hand fine? Is he truly still that funny in real life?

Then naturally the conversation expands to Kizza Besigye, to Bobi Wine, to elections, to rumours, to jokes, to things people have watched online that I did not know had travelled that far.

I am no longer explaining language policy, instead, I am hosting a national Q&A session.

Uganda has become a conversation starter.

Even clothing has become political theatre. Yesterday, I wore yellow and my colleagues teased me saying I look like I am dressed for cabinet and I only wear yellow when outside Uganda. Others took a photo saying they have evidence to use against me. Of course all of it becomes easy laughter, because everyone knows the reference.

It is fascinating how President Museveni has made an entire nationality a table topic.

I used to borrow Malawi to avoid long conversations. Now I proudly return to Uganda because Uganda guarantees conversation, laughter, curiosity, and usually at least ten questions.

In some strange way, President Museveni has made me internationally interesting and gives me a soft landing because being Ugandan now opens doors, opens jokes, opens debates and on occasion, opens an entire afternoon of strangers asking me questions, many of which I do not know how to answer. I become a person of interest.

From where my feet are, that is a kind of soft power. President Museveni has done something remarkable for my social life. He has made strangers curious before I have said very much.

The war behind my peace

I am wearing a jumper with the words "Today I choose peace." There is something very easy about saying, "I choose peace." Wow, hearing myself say it, it actually sounds mature. But I have learnt and I am still learning that peace is not always calm. Sometimes it is confrontation and sometimes it requires a fight.

When I say today I choose peace, I don’t mean I am avoiding conflict. I mean I am willing to go to war with the things inside me that disturb it. The old words that still hurt. There are assumptions, pride, fear, the stubborn need to be right, and the temptation to replay conversations in my head and win them later. This is a real war happening deep inside my heart and mind.

Just the other day, I drafted a long email in my head. It was such a detailed message proving every point. Eish, I was ready to correct, defend, and to make sure I was understood. But in that moment, I forced myself to pause and asked: do I want to win this, or do I want peace? The two are sometimes not the same. Choosing peace cost me the satisfaction of being right. It cost me the last word.

Look at the world and you see that war is usually justified in the name of peace. Nations go to battle claiming they are securing stability, defending territory, protecting people, etc. The language is always about peace in the end. And yet, not every war produces peace. Some wars create deeper wounds. Some plant seeds for the next conflict, creating a sort of quiet before the next storm. The goal may be peace, but the outcome is not always guaranteed.

And this is exactly what unsettles me. If the end goal is peace, why does it dissolve so easily? Why does it last for a moment and then disappear? Maybe because peace is not a one-time victory. It requires continuous effort. It is choosing to hold back when you could react. It is choosing truth when lies are convenient. It is choosing silence when ego wants to say something.

There are wars worth fighting, and there are wars that only make things worse. The challenge is knowing the difference. Fighting every battle does not make you strong. Avoiding every battle does not make you peaceful. Wisdom lies somewhere in between. I suppose then that lasting peace is built by daily decisions and in fighting the small internal wars. Peace, I think, is refusing to let anger rule and refusing to let fear dictate direction. It is also about having hard conversations when silence would be easier, and keeping quiet when speaking would only inflame.

So today, I choose peace not because everything is calm and definitely not because I have mastered my emotions. I am actually struggling there. I choose peace knowing it requires a fight within myself. I choose it knowing I may lose some battles before I win others. I choose it knowing that tomorrow I may have to choose it again. The real war is sometimes not against people, but against the parts of me that sabotage the very peace I say I want.

Today, where my feet are, I choose peace. Tomorrow, I will probably have to choose it again.

The same bridge that connects friends also gives access to enemies

Yesterday and today, I crossed several bridges.

Some bridges passed over rivers, others over deep valleys, and some carried us from one district into another. Crossing one of the bridges, it struck me that a bridge does more than help you reach somewhere. It also makes you reachable.

The same bridge that allows a friend to reach you also gives access to your enemy.

This means that a bridge is neutral in design, but never neutral in its effect.

What do I mean?!

A bridge itself does not choose/take sides. It does not decide who crosses first, who benefits most, or who crosses with good intentions and who does not. It just stands there.... available for crossing. Yet the moment a bridge exists, the environment around it changes.

Before a bridge is build, the isolation limits both opportunities and threats. The same distance that may protect a community from invasion will also limit or delay its opportunities.

After a bridge, access becomes easier, movement becomes faster. Influence travels more freely and in fact, competition increases.

The bridge itself does not choose, but its existence shapes what comes next.

In politics is where this becomes complicated. Nations build bridges because isolation is expensive, right? No country can afford complete separation from the world. Trade, diplomacy, financing, and external partnerships all depend on some kind of "crossing".

But every bridge expands not only access, but also consequence.

In Uganda, for example, this is visible in practical ways. Foreign investment brings roads, capital, systems, etc. New markets open, partnerships deepen, and goods move more easily than before. These are important gains, and few serious economies can grow without such openings.

This openness yet is rarely without consequences.

The same openness that attracts investors may also attract influence or control. The same diplomacy that secures allies may also create dependence. The same economic bridge that invites development may also place local businesses in competition they were never fully prepared for.

A foreign company often enters an economy with financing, tax incentives, technical backing, and scale. A local business often suffers expensive credit, slower approvals, and far less room for failure. Both are crossing the same bridge, but they are not crossing with the same weight.

And so the bridge that opens opportunity can also expose imbalance.

In construction, procurement, retail, and even in innovation, we can no longer afford to debate whether the bridge should exist, but whether those already standing on one side are strong enough to benefit from what the bridge makes possible.

What I mean is that perhaps a bridge should not only allow entry, but it should also strengthen or protect those who were there before it was built.

This is not unique to Uganda.

Even powerful nations are learning that once bridges are built, they become difficult to control. United States and China remain economically tied even while mistrust grows. Supply chains continue to hold steady even when political trust weakens. Digital platforms connect societies while exposing weaknesses or making them harder to hide.

Importantly, once movement across a bridge becomes part of a system, closing it becomes expensive.

I guess now it is not about deciding whether to build bridges, because economies no longer have that luxury. The hard task is learning how to stand on a bridge without forgetting that not everyone crossing it does so with the same intention, and not every crossing plants the same effect.

In the end, remember that the same bridge that allows a friend to reach you also gives access to your enemy.  

Happy New Year 1405, Iran! Wait… What? I thought it was 2026

Did you know that 20th March 2026 is the Persian New Year (Nowruz) observed in Iran and several other parts of the region?

While much of the world is already settled into 2026, Iran is preparing to enter the year 1405 under the Persian Solar Hijri calendar.

1405 sounds like it should belong to another world entirely, yet it exists now, in the same present moment as 2026.

You hear 1404 and instinctively think of a medieval world of slow travel, handwritten letters, kingdoms, unclear maps, long before electricity, long before aircraft, long before nuclear science entered ordinary political language. In much of the Gregorian 1400s, much of the world was still moving at a pace shaped by horses, seasons, and survival. Europe was centuries away from modern industry, and the idea of uranium enrichment would have sounded impossible.

Yet in this other 1405, uranium is discussed, missiles and anti-missiles are being dispatched, sanctions are debated, and nuclear capability belongs to current international conversation.

I find it simplistically strange that the same number can hold such different worlds depending on which history counted it.

Then not very far from where my feet are, Ethiopia is still in 2018.

Only a short distance away, the calendar gives you eight years back.

2018 does not sound far away until you realise how much can happen in eight years. Governments change, friendships shift, businesses begin, children grow, and lives transform.

Then under the Hebrew calendar, marked each year by Rosh Hashanah, it is already 5786.

That number goes in the opposite direction entirely. It feels as though life there has already travelled far ahead of some of the questions I still have in 2026. It sounds like a year in which cars should be flying and cities suspended in air like in the movies. Instead, Israel is at war and the headlines still sound more familiar than futuristic.

And I admit there are days that sounds appealing in that the idea that I could borrow that future briefly, stand there, and look back at my present with more peace than I currently have.

And of course, those are only a few of the calendars still alive in the world. The Islamic calendar is moving through 1447, shaped by the moon and shifting its months across seasons. The Chinese calendar is in 4724, carrying its own long historical count (The Minguo calendar used by the Republic of China, it is Year 115). In Thailand, the Buddhist calendar places the present year at 2569. 

That may be what I like most about calendars as they remind us that time is not only measured, it is interpreted. Different systems, different beginnings, different years all waking up to the same morning.

Every culture counted from something it considered important enough to begin from like a birth, a migration, a creation story, a season, a moon.

Today is 2026 only if we agree to one calendar, because depending on where you stand culturally, spiritually, or historically, humanity is not living in one year. Of course, one shared calendar makes practical sense; economies, travel, contracts, and global systems would be difficult to run if every meeting began with a debate about what year it is. But beyond practicality, calendars reveal something deeper.

Different numerical histories are running side by side, sharing the same day.

If I could choose freely, I suspect some days I would go forward to 5786 and borrow hope.

Other days I would return to 2018 and correct a few things while they were still small, because maybe the mistakes I call old are still recent somewhere.

But whichever calendar I choose, one thing remains unchanged...

...Tomorrow still arrives.

Dating Lessons from Benjamin Netanyahu and Donald Trump

The world keeps offering strange lessons, and lately one of them has been that some political strategies and communication work almost perfectly as dating advice.

Take Benjamin Netanyahu’s communication style. When he speaks to civilians in places like Gaza Strip or Lebanon, the pattern is often very clear: first name the danger, then tell people to move, then explain that what is coming is necessary, and somewhere inside all that, still sound like the person trying to save lives.

The message usually sounds something like this: there are terrorists around you, they do not care about you, they are using you as human shields, so leave that place, move away, get out, because what happens next will not be gentle. It is a warning, yes, but it also does something clever because once you have warned people, you have already placed a little distance between yourself and what follows. You can always stand there afterwards, at least rhetorically, and say, hey, I told you.

That is what makes the warning interesting. It sounds protective, but it also protects the person giving it. It says: I am not only acting, I am advising. I am not only forceful, but being reasonable too.

Then comes the second part... drum roll... the promise that all this disruption is connected to a better future for you. Democracy, safety, stability, rebuilding, a better tomorrow. In politics, I have noticed that difficult things are often introduced using hopeful and safe language.

And honestly, the same thing happens in relationships more than we admit.

Some people do not begin by telling you they like you. They begin by helping you notice how badly everyone else has handled you.

They point out that you are too good for what you have accepted, that people around you do not fully understand you, that maybe you have been giving too much and receiving too little. By the time they are done, nobody has been directly attacked, but somehow your emotional surroundings now look less trustworthy than they did ten minutes earlier.

That is step one: create doubt.

Step two is to present yourself as the better arrangement.

How do you do this? You say to people, you deserve peace. You should be with someone who understands you. Life does not have to be this difficult.

Suddenly they are not just talking but are subtly becoming the alternative.

Donald Trump often uses a version of the same formula. First explain what is broken, then make the danger feel close, then present yourself as the one person willing to say it plainly, and finally promise that things will be better if people trust your direction. The words change, but the sentiment stays strangely familiar.

Given this is satire, one has to admit that human beings fall for this more often than we think. We do so not because we are foolish, but because anyone who explains your discomfort clearly can begin to sound like the person who understands you best.

It is not so different whether it comes from Benjamin Netanyahu warning civilians before what comes next, or Donald Trump repeating that only he can fix what others have failed to fix. 

If we listen carefully from where our feet are, political speeches can occasionally sound like accidental relationship advice.

When the right hand builds and the left hand burns: a reflection on the war in the Middle East

I burnt the fingers of my right hand while cooking and was forced to use my left hand for a few hours. It made me think about how naturally we assume both hands work together, and how quickly we notice that one hand can continue, adapt, or do something entirely different from the other.

That thought came to mind while reflecting on events in the Middle East. Much of what appears contradictory or confusing begins to make more sense when viewed through the lens of one hand building while the other burns.

In many governments, different institutions move at the same time but not always in the same direction. From the outside, it may appear coherent, yet underneath that surface several hands are often moving independently within the same body.

Once you begin to see the world this way, many contradictions begin to make sense.

When the United States publicly calls for restraint, urges de-escalation, and warns against widening the conflict, that is one hand at work. It is the visible hand, speaking in the language of diplomacy and careful calculation. At the same time, another hand is moving through military deployments, strike coordination, intelligence sharing, and weapons support. 

Many observers describe this as hypocrisy, and that interpretation is understandable, but it may not capture the full picture.

Hypocrisy assumes that a single actor clearly sees the contradiction and chooses to ignore it. But large states rarely function as a single actor.

The State Department is not the Pentagon. The Pentagon is not the intelligence community. The intelligence community is not Congress. And Congress does not always move in step with the White House.

Each institution carries its own institutional memory, its own strategic assumptions, and its own understanding of what national interest requires. When one part of the system speaks, it often does so sincerely according to its own framework, even as other parts continue pursuing different priorities.

What appears from the outside as contradiction may simply be several hands moving at the same time.

And once you notice that pattern, it begins to appear elsewhere.

Looking eastward, Iran presents a similar picture, though expressed in its own way.

Publicly, the Islamic Republic speaks in the language of resistance and solidarity with Palestinians. Official statements reinforce the narrative of a regional axis standing against Israel and its allies. Support for proxy groups remains part of that stance.

At the same time, quieter signals move through other channels. Conversations about sanctions relief, discussions about nuclear limits, and messages carried through intermediaries suggest that there are also interests within the Iranian system that seek stability and economic breathing space.

The question of which hand represents Iran’s true position may not have a simple answer because both hands reflect real constituencies within the state.

For more than four decades, Iran has balanced tensions between hardliners and pragmatists, between revolutionary ideology and the practical pressures of governing a complex society under economic strain. Different institutions and factions navigate these pressures in different ways.

At least from the outside, it can look like a system where multiple strategies operate at the same time, each hand is serving a different audience inside the same state.

And if that sounds familiar, it is because this pattern is not unique to Iran.

Israel too finds itself operating with more than one hand.

For several years, one part of the political leadership has been engaged in a struggle over the internal balance of power within the Israeli state. Debates over judicial reforms, the authority of the Supreme Court, and the independence of key legal institutions have exposed deep divisions about how Israeli democracy should function.

At the same time, many voices within the security establishment have warned that prolonged internal divisions pose a long-term strategic risk. Military leaders and intelligence officials have repeatedly cautioned that internal fragmentation can weaken national resilience.

The February 28 attacks did not erase those internal tensions. They simply pushed them into the background under the urgency of a new external conflict. 

Yet the underlying questions about governance and institutional balance did not disappear.

When a state is still negotiating its own internal identity, it becomes harder to define what a stable end to a conflict should look like. In such circumstances, continuing the fight can sometimes be politically easier than defining the moment when it should end.

Which is perhaps why another pattern becomes visible when diplomacy enters the picture.

Diplomacy and conflict often move alongside each other rather than replacing one another.

The visible hand of diplomacy which includes negotiations, ceasefire proposals, international meetings, and humanitarian appeals etc appears to be trying to slow events down. Yet developments on the ground continue to move forward at the same time.

This dynamic does not necessarily require a single coordinating plan. It can simply emerge from the incentives facing different actors.

Diplomats pursue negotiations because the alternative could be escalation. Military planners continue operations because the strategic environment demands it. Political leaders maintain the process because it allows them to speak to multiple audiences at once.

In this way, diplomacy does not always stop conflict. It simply moves alongside it.

And often, the clearest clues are found not in what is said, but in what remains unsaid.

Listen carefully to the public conversations around this conflict. There are statements, press conferences, diplomatic visits, and carefully worded resolutions. Yet there are also long stretches of silence around certain questions.

Very few people speak clearly about the day after.

What will the political order look like? What security arrangements will hold? What regional balance will emerge once the fighting eventually stops?

These questions appear occasionally and then fade again, almost as quickly as they were raised.

What is missing from a conversation tells us as much as what is said openly. The omissions, the hesitations, and the issues that remain unresolved often reveal the limits of what governments are prepared to confront publicly.

This is because answering those questions would require something difficult; that the the different hands within many governments finally align their intentions.

And that moment has not yet arrived.

From where my feet are, watching events unfold from a distance, the pattern that stands out most clearly is that states rarely move with a single hand.

Different institutions, different interests, and different political pressures push in different directions at the same time. One hand negotiates while another prepares. One hand speaks the language of restraint while another continues shaping realities on the ground.

Seen from that perspective, many of the contradictions in global politics begin to make more sense to me.

The left hand and the right hand are often moving simultaneously, each following its own logic.

Until those hands finally move in the same direction, we will keep witnessing the same pattern: one hand building while the other burns. Of course, this is only one way of reading what is unfolding, but it is the lens that kept returning to me.

Means and Ends: why neither justifies the other

Someone dear to me lied to me, and at the time they probably felt justified. In a way, the lie even made sense.

I do not think they lied to me hurt me, nor to manipulate me, at least not obviously. The lie came "wrapped in care." It was offered almost as protection, as though the truth would have created more damage and in keeping quiet about certain things, they were being kind to me. For a while, it worked and everything moved peacefully. There was no conflict, no difficult confrontation, and no fights. The peace was protected.

But later, when the truth surfaced, I realised the issue was no longer only about what had happened. Trust had now entered the equation too, and trust changes the shape and outlook of things once it has been broken.

What struck me afterward was the difference between intention and effect, as in how something done to protect peace could still leave damage behind. The peace had been preserved, yes, but doubt and distrust had entered it too.

That is perhaps why the old debate does the end justify the means, or do the means justify the end?  feels to me like it is incomplete, not quite capturing context.

We speak as though the means and the end are separate. As though first there is the means/method, and then later there is the result. As though a difficult method can simply be left behind or ignored once a desirable outcome has been achieved.

But no. Many times, the method does not stay separate. It arrives with the result.

The lie had protected peace, yes, but it had also placed doubt and distrust inside that peace.

The same happens elsewhere in life.

A child raised under strict discipline may become obedient quickly. They learn when to answer, when to stay quiet, when not to challenge. From the outside, it looks like success. But sometimes what grows underneath is not understanding, only fear. And fear rarely disappears just because obedience has been achieved. It often stays, changing shape as the child grows older, becoming caution, hesitation, distance, or the habit of hiding mistakes rather than discussing them.

A country can also appear orderly when fear has become part of daily life. People choose words carefully. They know what not to ask, what not to repeat, what not to examine too closely. From the outside, order is visible. But fear remains in the tone of voices, in what is avoided, and in strange silences. 

Even in relationships, this happens. Sometimes after an argument, he says sorry quickly, not because everything has been understood, but because he wants the tension to end. The apology comes, peace returns, the conversation moves on to something else. Yet later it becomes clear that what ended was discomfort, not necessarily the issue at hand. The words "ok, I am sorry" are hurriedly said ignoring the real issues.

Perhaps this is what makes the whole means ends debate incomplete to me in that the means are not simply a road to the destination. They are already shaping what the end will be.

A lie can protect peace and still weaken trust because once doubt and distrust enter, even calm moments begin to have questions that would not have been there before.

Fear can create order and still do more than teach silence. It can narrow imagination, restrain honesty, and slowly teach people to live with folded wings, careful, measured, never fully certain which part of themselves is safe to release.

An apology can end conflict and still leave behind unfinished business. From a distance, the wound may seem attended to whereas underneath, it is festering.

From where my feet are, I suppose we need to pay attention to the means because the means begin shaping things long before the end seeing as the end is rarely untouched by the road that led to it.

A letter to my 60 year old self (written at 42)

Last Friday my uncle turned 80.

I found myself thinking about what it feels like to be 80. I thought about the years he has lived, the things he has seen, the person he is now, and who he must have been at 42.

At first I thought I should write a letter to my 80-year-old self. But 80 felt very far away, almost difficult to imagine honestly. 60 felt closer, still far enough to hope, but near enough to picture the person I might be at that age.

So I wrote to her...

Dear 60-year-old me,

If you are reading this, congratulations Peace. You have made it to 60. Eighteen years is not a small thing. I hope you did not spend 5 minutes looking for your spectacles only to find them already on your head. If that has happened, accept it calmly. We have always had many thoughts running through our mind. Some of them were bound to start getting jumbled up.

First, a quick check in: did Uganda finally make it to the Indian Ocean? I hope by now we did more than imagine it and we have actual real estate there, a small Ugandan 50 x100 plot with an ocean view, a large balcony and the Uganda flag flying high. 

At 42, I still explain too much sometimes. I still replay conversations after they are over. I still want certain things to make sense immediately. So I hope by 60 you are calmer and less pulled by small things. I also hope we are not taken up by things that take so much energy.

Please tell me you kept fit. Maybe not running exactly as imagined, but still kept up daily movement. We should be at day 7,300 of consecutive days of walking/running. I hope we ran the Comrades Marathon, or at least stood at the start line once and thought, Well, here we are. If we did not, I hope there is a proper reason, not laziness or fear.

And the mountains, did we climb them? Mt Kenya? Mt, Cameroon? Simien Mountains? Maybe even the Himalayas, because some things should still feel difficult enough to remind you that you are alive.

I hope you have that Z-shaped house by the lake with two chickens. I hope you sit outside, sipping wine while you read and do not feel guilty for soft living. And if the Z-shaped house by the lake with two chickens did not happen, I hope you found some other place that felt like home.

At 42, we are kinda impatient. I still want healing to be quicker, answers sooner, plans clearer. So I hope by 60 you have stopped treating delay like failure.

And love, eish I hope this one settled well. I hope you found love that lasts and love that fits. I hope you found love that brings you joy and a companionship that is consistent and brings you peace. And if love came differently than expected, I hope you recognised it and did not let caution talk you out of joy.

Please tell me you treated your body better than you do now. That you stretched, drank lots of water before and after wine. I imagine there is now a drawer somewhere with vitamins, other supplements, and one tablet recommended by someone your age that you accepted without argument because at some point experience and pain became pretty convincing.

And your beautiful mind... please tell me it stayed awake, and you are still curious, creative, and noticing what others miss. I hope you kept writing the blogs, because at 42 they already feel like small conversations with time.

I hope you continued to travel far and wide, whether alone or with your companion, and you visited all the places that on the list we kept.

Mostly, I hope you became lighter. By this I do not mean thinner. I mean lighter in that you let go of things that were never meant to stay forever, laughing more easily and napping without guilt. I hope you laughed at yourself when you entered a room and forgetting why, then waited there until the reason returned.

And because 60 means life has taught you things 42 cannot yet know, I know there must have been loss too. Some people who were here at 42 may not be there at 60. Some voices may now live only in memory. Some versions of life may have ended before you were ready. I hope you carried that gently. I hope grief softened where it needed to, and that love remained larger than absence.

And if life did not go exactly as planned, I hope you were gentle with yourself about that too. At 42, I still think there is time for many things, but I also know time moves quickly.

So if some dreams changed, if some people left, if some plans never happened exactly as imagined, I hope there was still enough joy to say the years were full.

Take care of your knees. Keep your joy. Protect your peace. And if anyone asks what your generation learned, tell them we survived interesting times and still found reasons to laugh. 

Maybe by 60 you will already understand something I only started to notice watching Uncle's 80th birthday, that after all the years, what you are left with is not always what we thought would matter most.

With faith, hope and love, 

Your 42-year-old self

The most ridiculous thing a traffic officer has charged me with

Almost everyone, whether as a driver or passenger, has at some point been stopped by a traffic officer. Usually it is the standard routine: license, third-party insurance, maybe a quick look around the car, then you are waved on. Often times it is about something genuine like tyres or windscreen water. And once in a while, you are stopped for something so unexpected that even the officer saying it sounds like he should laugh.

I found mine. The most ridiculous thing I have been charged with. 

I was driving on the Mbarara highway, listening to my killer playlist, driving within the speed limit, and probably thinking about what I would eat later, when a traffic policeman waved me to the side of the road.

I stopped.

He walked up slowly, looked around the car the way they do, looked at the tyres, looked inside the car like maybe I was hiding something illegal like a goat. Then he leaned slightly toward the window.

"Good afternoon, madam."

"Good afternoon, officer." I responded

"How are you?"

"I am fine, thank you, Officer."

"Eh, you are moving well."

"Yes, I’m moving well, Officer" I said, already slightly confused but polite.

"May I see your driving permit?"

I handed it over confidently. I had done nothing wrong. Seatbelt on, indicators working and no mysterious goats in the back seat.

He looked at the permit. Looked at me. Looked at the permit again. Adjusted it slightly, looked at me again.

"Madam Peace" he said finally, after reading my name "you are in the wrong."

My heart did a small jump. "What have I done?" I knew my permit was still valid. 

"You are driving while wearing glasses."

"Yes Officer," I said slowly. "I wear glasses for seeing. Why?"

He held up the permit. "In this photo, you are not wearing glasses."

I thought he was joking.

I smiled.

He did not smile.

"You are supposed to appear the way you appear in your permit," he continued very seriously. "Here, no glasses. But now, you have glasses. That is not correct."

I blinked at him through the glasses, very confused.

"Officer, when I took this photo, they told me to remove my glasses. They said the reflection would disturb the picture, and that my true identity is without glasses."

"No," he said firmly. "They should not have told you that. They were wrong. The way you appear in your permit is how you must appear."

"So…" I paused. "Does that apply to everything?"

He looked cautious. "What do you mean?"

"In this photo, my hair tied in two bututwa (plaits). Today I have it twisted. Is that also a problem?"

He glanced at my head, then back at photo where I looked innocent and almost like a cow with horns.

"That is different," he said.

"How?" I asked, genuinely curious now, but also pushing to see how far this would go.

"Hair can change."

"Ah," I nodded. "So hair can change, but eyesight cannot?"

He tried not to smile.

"And what about if I wear a headscarf tomorrow? or cut my hair short? Will you stop me and say, 'Madam Peace, yesterday you had hair’?"

He was definitely fighting a smile now.

I continued, because at this point I was enjoying myself.

"In the photo I am not wearing lipstick. Today I am wearing lipstick. Does that mean I am impersonating myself?"

He looked at me properly then. Then at the photo. Then back at me.

"Actually," he said, finally laughing, and falling into my trap "you look very different." 

"Different good or different criminal?" I asked because I was in my element now.

He laughed harder. "You look good with lipstick," now entirely off script.

“Officer,” I said, pretending to be scandalised, “are you saying the government-issued version of me is ugly?”

"No, no," he said quickly, still laughing. "I am just saying..... today you have improved."

"So improvement like lipstick and hair are allowed?" I asked. "Just not eyesight?" "Tell me Officer, are sunglasses allowed?"

At this point we were both laughing. The seriousness of the “crime” had dissolved into something absurd and human.

He shook his head, smiling. "You people."

"But honestly," I said, slightly more serious now, "if I remove these glasses, I will not see clearly. If I don’t see clearly, I will be a danger to myself and other road users." 

He thought about that.

"That is true," he admitted.

"So really," I concluded, adjusting my glasses confidently, "I am protecting the public. I am practically a hero for putting the public first."

At this point, even he couldn’t keep a straight face.

He handed back my permit. "Okay, madam. Go. But next time…"

"Next time I should do what? Remove the lipstick? Or remove my glasses and drive blindly?"

He laughed again and stepped back from the car, and waved my off. "Just go."

As I drove away, I kept thinking about it. If traffic law required us to remain exactly as we appeared in our license photos, half the country would be in violation. New beards, shaved heads, wedding rings, weight gained, weight lost, different frames, different moods.

Imagine the national chaos.

"Sir, in this photo you had hair, but now you are bald or now it is grey."
"Madam, here you were smiling."
"Excuse me, you have aged since 2020. That is suspicious."

What I kept thinking about afterwards was not even the argument about glasses, but how easily an ordinary roadside stop became a conversation and then laughter. In Uganda, random encounters can suddenly turn into funny conversations you did not see coming. You stop because an officer wants your permit, and before you know it, you are discussing lipstick, braids, eyesight, and whether any of these should also appear officially on your license.

The women who shaped us without ever knowing it

International Women’s Day usually celebrates women who lead movements, run companies, or break ceilings, and rightly so because those stories deserve attention.

But today I find myself thinking about another group of women. I am thinking about the women who changed me without ever knowing it, those whose influence often goes unnoticed. In many ways, that feels in keeping with the spirit of Women’s Day itself like a reminder to see the work and contributions that are often invisible.

There was a teacher once who demanded more than I thought I could give. At the time it felt unnecessary, even unfair. But somewhere along the way I learned that sometimes people push you not because they are difficult, but because they see something in you that you have not yet seen yourself. Teachers do that. They correct you when you would rather not be corrected, and they insist on standards when you would happily settle for less. At the time it feels like pressure, but years later, you realise it was belief.

And then there were the school matrons... part counsellor, part disciplinarian, part caretaker. They handled the practical lessons of growing up that never appeared in the syllabus. They taught us how to keep ourselves and our spaces clean, how to wash clothes properly, especially the collars and underwear, how to keep a dormitory tidy, and how to carry ourselves with a little more order and self-respect.

Sometimes they spoke gently, but most times they were firm when we were being careless. But behind that firmness was a kind of watchful care. They were often the people students went to when something felt confusing or overwhelming. At the time we saw them as part of school rules. Looking back, they were teaching us how to take care of ourselves and how to grow into responsible adults.

Then there were the nannies or house helps, the women who helped raise many of us at home, who looked after us while our parents were at work. They fed us, bathed us, chased us around the compound when we were being stubborn, and told us firmly when we were crossing the line. They reminded us to greet properly, to say thank you, and not to do the things children naturally try to do when no one is watching.

Many of the small manners we carry into adulthood were not taught in classrooms but in kitchens and living rooms by women who may never appear in family photos or speeches. They quietly held the home together. They played with us, comforted us when we cried, and made sure we did not burn the house down while the adults were away. At the time they were simply part of everyday life. Looking back, you realise they were shaping us too.

And then there were the neighbours.

In many parts of Africa, it really did take a village to raise a child. The mothers of your friends or playmates fed you when you were hungry, called you to order when you misbehaved, reprimanded you when you had clearly crossed the line. You could not misbehave freely because someone’s mother was always watching, and if she saw you doing something foolish she would tell you immediately. Sometimes you were corrected before your own parents even heard about it. A whole circle of women shaping your understanding of respect, behaviour, and community.

And then there are others...

The interesting thing about influence is that the people who shape us most often do not know they are doing it. They are simply living. They probably do not remember the moment, nor do they know someone was watching, learning, and  taking mental notes.

But that is often how real influence works, through ordinary example. Teachers, matrons, nannies, neighbours, nurses, etc, women whose names may not appear in headlines, but who shape the people we become. And perhaps that is also part of the deeper reflection of Women’s Day: not only celebrating the visible achievements of women, but recognising the work that holds homes, schools, communities, etc together.

Somewhere today, someone is becoming a better person because of something a woman did years ago, something she probably does not even remember. And that, in its own way, is a kind of legacy.

Most of these women will never know the role they played in shaping the people we became. Their names may never appear in speeches, and their work may never be formally acknowledged. Yet their influence remains in the way we greet people, the way we carry ourselves, the way we care for others when it is our turn. 

From where my feet are, one thing I realise today is that we did not become who we are alone.

An open letter to men on Women's Day

Dear Men,

First, thank you for the Women's Day messages.

Today, many of you have posted something thoughtful on WhatsApp that says, "Happy Women’s Day to all the amazing, strong, beautiful women out there." Some of you added flowers and  a few added a crown emoji. One or two even typed "Queens." We appreciate the effort. In fact, many of us received the same message from several men… husbands, brothers, colleagues, friends, and from two uncles who copied it directly from WhatsApp groups. Progress is progress.

But come here small small. Since today is International Women’s Day, perhaps we can have a small conversation. It is not anything serious but just a few everyday observations from the women who have been quietly watching you for years.

Let us begin with listening. Men have a fascinating habit. When a woman begins telling a story, many of you assume it is the opening scene of a problem that needs immediate fixing.

A woman says, "today something strange happened at work." The man, already preparing a strategic intervention, replies, "ok, what you should do is confront the issue directly, restructure communication, and escalate if necessary." Meanwhile the woman had only reached sentence two.

This is difficult for men because you are trained from birth to fix things. A car breaks down, fix it. The sink leaks, fix it. The Wi-Fi stops working, panic briefly and then fix it.

Men, sometimes we are not asking for a solution. Sometimes we are simply narrating. The correct response in such moments is something simple like, "hmm, that sounds annoying," or "tell me more." not a three point action plan.

Now let us move to another everyday mystery on how homes function. Many men walk into a house that is running smoothly and assume this is simply how houses behave naturally. Food appears, laundry disappears and returns clean, children remember sports day, she remembers that someone’s aunt is upset with someone’s cousin for something that happened in 2009.. 

But somewhere behind the scenes a woman is running a complex operation that would qualify as a multinational corporation if properly documented, involving groceries, school notices, emotional diplomacy, meal planning, and locating things men have been staring at for ten minutes.

For example, a man can open a refrigerator, stare directly at the juice for two full minutes, and then confidently say, "there is no juice." A woman walks in, moves one tomato slightly to the left, and immediately produces the juice. To be fair, the same woman may later spend fifteen minutes looking for her phone… while holding it.

But let us move on.

Let us talk briefly about ambition. When a man works late or pursues big goals, we say he is driven, focused, building something. When a woman does the same thing, society suddenly becomes concerned and asks, "but how will she manage everything?" The answer is the same way everyone manages everything... with stress, coffee, effort, mistakes, occasional panic, and determination. Ambition is not a male personality trait. It is simply what happens when a human being has ideas and energy.

Finally, let us talk about respect, and please I do not mean the once-a-year respect with flowers and inspirational quotes, but the everyday respect that includes listening without interruption, sharing responsibility without waiting to be asked, taking women’s ideas seriously the first time they are said, not when another man repeats them fifteen minutes later.

Men sometimes imagine women are asking for something complicated, but we are not. We are mostly asking for partnership, and occasionally for you to learn where the salt and sugar are kept. This alone could transform many households.

So today, dear men, after the Women’s Day messages have been posted and the emojis deployed furiously, perhaps we can try something slightly "revolutionary". by not just celebrating women for one day, but making life a little easier for the women who have been quietly keeping the entire system running.

Trust me, we notice everything. We have been quietly collecting data for years.

Warmly,

A Woman who has been observing you all for quite some time

Chased a barking dog: fight, flight, or freeze?

This morning, I decided to test my ankle to see if I could resume running.  It was 7 a.m. in Mbarara. The sun was shining warmly - a beautiful morning. The mist was still sitting over the fields, and the road was quiet except for the occasional bird and the sound of my shoes on the gravel.

I had just passed a farmhouse when I noticed a dog.

The dog started barking. To me, his bark did not signal that he acknowledged me. It was the serious farm-dog bark that says, you are not from here. I do not know you. 

Then he started coming toward me.

So of course, I ran. And no, I didn't run quietly; I was screaming as I ran. 

Behind me I could hear someone shouting in runyankole, "Don’t run! Stop running! When you run, it will chase you!"

I remember thinking, What sort of advice is that? The dog is coming for me. This is not the moment for strategic reflection.

So I kept running.

The dog kept running too. He was gaining up on me. I tripped a couple of times, but somehow found my balance and continued running. 

Eish! I was forced to stop running. This was not because the farmhand told me to stop. I stopped because I was so out of breath. My lungs were screaming for air, but also my injured leg had started to complain. I simply could not keep running.

Something interesting happened.

The dog kept barking, yes, but it stopped chasing me.

Suddenly we were just standing there, a few metres apart. It was barking. I was breathing heavily. But the chase had ended.

For a moment we just looked at each other. I see you. You see me. Now what?

We often talk about our instincts as fight or flight, either confront the threat or run away from it. But there is another response that people talk about less: freeze.

Sometimes the body simply stops. It stops not out of strategy or bravery, but because we are tired, overwhelmed, or simply out of options.

That morning, I didn’t freeze out of wisdom. I froze because I was exhausted. But in that moment of stopping, something changed.

The dog was still a dog guarding its space. But once I stopped running, I was no longer something to chase. I was just a person standing there.

And it made me think about how often in life we keep running from things, like, uncomfortable conversations, decisions we don’t want to make, fears we don’t want to name, problems we hope will somehow disappear if we keep moving fast enough, grief, etc.

We keep running. We change routes. We distract ourselves. We tell ourselves we will deal with it later. But it keeps chasing us and sometimes barking louder. 

But sometimes the very act of running keeps the chase alive. Sometimes the thing chasing us is reacting to our movement. And sometimes the most unexpected change happens when we stop.  What? Yes! The most counterintuitive advice is the one that works: stop running.

Stopping does not mean the problem disappears. When I stopped, the dog lost interest in the chase. It didn’t become friendly. The dog was still barking. It was still a dog guarding its territory. But the dynamic changed. I wasn’t prey anymore. I was just… there. When you stop, you can actually see what you are dealing with. You can decide whether to walk away slowly, stand your ground, or take a different path entirely. But at least now you are responding with awareness, not just instinct.

Now, let me be clear... this is not reckless advice. Some dogs will bite you and you should absolutely avoid them. Some situations require distance. Be wise and ensure safety first.

But there are things in our lives that gain power precisely because we keep running from them. That hard conversation? Stop and have it. That fear of failure? Stop and examine it. That lingering doubt about whether you are good enough? Stop and question it back.

Because when you turn around and face something, even if it’s still barking, you begin to understand it, and once you understand it, you can decide what to do next.

Run strategically.

Walk away calmly.

Or stand your ground.

This morning, I didn’t run as I had hoped. I didn’t defeat a dog. But I learned that not everything chasing you is meant to bite you. Some things are just reacting to your running.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is stop.

Turn around.

And face it.

The Goalkeeper's Burden

I have been watching bits of the Premier League matches and reading a lot of football news. This is partly because once you are part of a football club, the conversations and updates somehow find their way to you. Unfortunately for me, my team, Liverpool F.C., was beaten. That was that. 

As I watch and follow the discussions around the games, something about the role of the goalkeeper has always lingered on my mind.

You can make a hundred brilliant saves, diving left, stretching right, reading the game before it unfolds, staying alert for 91 minutes. You can prevent disaster over and over and over again.

But then one ball slips past you. One misjudgment or one second too late or one angle slightly off...

... that is the moment people remember.

The goalkeeper stands apart for a reason. They wear a different jersey, play by slightly different rules and carry different expectations. From that position they see the whole field, the buildup and the risks developing. They celebrate the wins with everyone else, but they also carry a different kind of exposure because when something goes wrong, they are the last line as there is no one behind them.

When a striker misses, it is unfortunate. When a defender miscalculates, it is shared. But when a goalkeeper misjudges, it is a goal. A clear, visible and undeniable goal, and if anyone is still unsure, VAR will review it just to make sure everyone saw it properly.

That combination of visibility and responsibility makes it quite... tough... from my perspective.

There are roles like that in life. The team leader, parent, first born sibling, the one who signs off, etc. The ones whose names carry the outcome and are expected to anticipate risk before it materialises.

You can spend years managing crises, preventing conflicts, keeping teams steady, and absorbing pressure, etc. But that kind of work is mostly invisible. Stability then becomes the expectation and of course no one applauds the meeting that didn’t explode or the problem that never surfaced.

I think we are wired to remember failure more than protection. The conceded goal is obvious and easy to point to, while the saves quietly fade into the background.

And if you are not careful, you begin to internalise that same scoreboard. You measure yourself by the one thing that slipped through rather than the many things you held together. You forget that the very nature of being the last line of defense means you are exposed.

The loneliness of that position is not just physical but also psychological. You carry the awareness that if something goes wrong, the spotlight will turn to you. You stay alert even when nothing is happening. You cannot afford emotional collapse because the game continues.

But there is also something dignified about being the one who holds the line at the back.

To be trusted with that position is not accidental. It means someone believes you can see the whole field. It means you have steadiness. You have earned that different jersey.

The burden and the scrutiny may be real, and the unfairness can feel sharp, but one goal does not erase a hundred saves. It never has.

The better response is not to deny the goal, but to remember the full picture. To reset, stay in position and continue reading the game because the game is longer than just that one moment.

From where my feet are, watching the matches, reading the commentary, and thinking about how often life works the same way, the lesson is clear. If you find yourself in the goalkeeper’s position in life, the conceded goal will eventually come. That is part of the role. But it does not cancel the saves. It does not erase the effort that kept the game together for so long.

I will try to remember that strength is staying in position, holding ground at the back, even when the scoreboard and the crowd remember the goal more than the saves. 

Conservation and development — do we have to choose?

Today, 3rd March is World Wildlife Day.

Most of us did not wake up thinking about wildlife. We woke up thinking about the rain, fuel, deadlines, the meeting we might be late for. We sat in traffic and did the usual calculations of time and money.

And somewhere above all that, a crowned crane, a sunbird was visit a flower, a frog was croaking, a lion was roaring. We put the crane on our flag and we are proud of it because it represents us. But I sometimes wonder, do we love it enough to leave it space?

Wetlands are shrinking and forest edges are thinning. Roads and estates are rising where papyrus grew wildly in swamps and wetlands. We call it development, and yes development matters. People need houses, roads, jobs. Economies do not grow by good intentions alone.

But wildlife needs space too.

When monkeys appear in kitchens or snakes show up in new neighbourhoods, we call it invasion. But who was there first? Who approved the construction? Who filled the wetland and then complained about flooding These are not environmental catch phrases, but are planning questions.

Conservation is often framed as a luxury, like something to think about after we have grown rich. Yet biodiversity is not there just for decoration. Wetlands filter water. Forests regulate climate. Pollinators sustain agriculture. When ecosystems weaken, the consequences are economic as well as environmental.

And yes, we can be honest, development will always compete with conservation. Agriculture needs land. Cities expand. Infrastructure cuts across ecosystems. The matter at hand is not whether we grow, because indeed economies must grow. We need to focus attention on the how we grow.

Can we expand agriculture without constantly clearing forests? Can we protect critical wetlands instead of treating them as empty land? Can environmental impact assessments be more than paperwork to tick a box and appease investors? Can policy think beyond the next few years?

Growth always has a cost. What we need to be deliberate about is who or what pays the price. A country that erodes its ecological base for short-term gain may grow quickly, but it also grows fragile. Flooding, soil degradation, water stress are not abstract environmental concerns, but are economic risks.

Beyond policy and planning, there is also something personal.

After a long day, when you stand by a lake and watch the sun set, something in you settles. When birds cut across the morning sky before the noise begins, something feels correct. We are not only here to earn and eat. Yes, we must survive. But if life becomes only about transactions and land titles, what exactly are we building toward? A bird is not "just" a bird. It is beauty we did not manufacture, and is a reminder that we share this space.

So on World Wildlife Day, I am thinking as Uganda grows, and it is and will continue to, can we grow wisely? Can we grow our economy without shrinking nature? Can we build cities that remain "liveable"? Can we protect what sustains us, even as we pursue prosperity and protect gains of development? 

Development builds but conservation protects. The future will depend on whether we can make development and conservation work together so that the crane remains more than a symbol on a flag, and continues to have somewhere to land, feed and breed.

Rain rain go away...

Rain, rain, go away, come again another day. Back then it was simple. We wanted to go outside to run around barefoot. Rain was the enemy because it interrupted play, and that felt like a perfectly reasonable grievance at seven years old.

Now I am grown, and I caught myself thinking the exact same thing today.

Rain, rain, go away.

I was singing it not because I wanted to play, but because I had plans. I had already mapped out the day in my head, and just as I was stepping out, it started raining, alternating between a heavy down pour and a light shower with no plan of stopping. 

What surprised me was not the rain itself, but was how quickly I became irritated by it. Now that my plans were ruined, I was forced to sit there with the irritation for a moment, and it actually felt slightly embarrassing. I do not actually hate rain. I hate disruption. I hate when something I did not schedule interferes with something I carefully planned. I hate when my perfectly planned day just collapses just like that. I was chatting with a friend who was doing laundry when it started raining and we realised it was not that we hate inconvenience, but we hate losing control.

Rain does not consult our calendars before it falls. It does not care about our plans and urgent meetings and whatnot. It simply falls, and then we blame it for everything. The flooding? It is the rain. The traffic? It is the rain. The delays? Obviously, the rain.

But we know it is not. 

When parts of Kampala flood after two hours of steady rain, is the problem really water? Or is it drainage that was never properly planned? When roads become rivers, is rain being vengeful, or is it our infrastructure failing under pressure?

Rain is just water. It is consistent and fairly predictable, even. We know when it will come (to a large extent despite changing seasons). The issue is rarely the rain itself, but what we built or didn’t build to handle it.

And I wonder if the same thing happens in our own lives.

We say rain ruined our mood, but maybe we were already slightly irritated. We say rain destroyed the plan, but maybe the plan had no flexibility to begin with. We say rain delayed everything, but maybe everything was already running on thin margins.

Rain becomes the scapegoat because it is easier to blame the sky and water than to admit fragility. It is easier to curse the clouds than to question the structure.

As children, we sang rain away because we wanted to play outside. As adults, we still sing it away, just a little bit more quietly, because we have built lives that only work when the weather is perfect, when nothing interrupts us, when traffic flows, when schedules align and everything behaves as it should. 

Maybe that is why rain unsettles us. It reminds us that control is a bit of an illusion. It reminds us that not everything will work in accordance with our plans. It exposes how quickly we panic when something small shifts.

From where my feet are, listening to the rain, I realised the problem is not the rain. The rain was doing what rain has always done. The issue was that me and my plans could not handle a little pressure. 

So instead of singing rain, rain, go away, I need to ask myself  if a small storm disrupts me this much, how stable was my structure to begin with?

It is March. So let's march.

This morning I went for my usual walk thinking about the general busyness of life. Then I remembered the date. It’s March. Without planning to, I found myself changing the way I was stepping. My back straightened slightly. My pace became firmer. I wasn’t just moving anymore, I felt like I was going somewhere. I was marching. 

There is something about the word March that feels different from walk. In walking, one can wander. Marching feels intentional with direction and rhythm. It is deliberate. As I walked, or rather, marched, I thought about how easily the first two months of the year can pass in activity. January is full of promises and resolutions. February still carries some momentum. But March? March asks, "so how is it going?"

This is the last month of the first quarter. A full quarter of the year is about to close. That alone is worth pausing over. The goals we set in January, are we moving toward them, or have we subtly adjusted our lives around something easier instead? Are we still committed to what we said mattered, or have we allowed urgency to replace importance? Sometimes we don’t abandon our goals abruptly, but we simply drift. We stay busy. We attend meetings, respond to emails, show up. But are we marching toward anything intentional?

March for me feels like an invitation to review. And I do not mean harsh self-criticism, but an honest reflection. What needs adjustment? What needs recommitment? What needs to be released? In Uganda, the year often picks up speed quickly as work intensifies, projects demand attention, etc. Life does not slow down for reflection. But perhaps this is the month to change the way we step, even if nothing else changes immediately.

If you notice, marching is not about speed but about consistency. It is about showing up again tomorrow and placing one foot in front of the other in the same direction. It is about discipline more than inspiration. Some days you will feel motivated. Most days you will not. But cadence carries you further than emotion ever will.

So maybe this month is not about setting new goals, but about firming up the ones you already have. Maybe it is about choosing not to drift. Let us decide that even if progress feels small, we will keep stepping forward.

It is March. Let’s not stroll through it. Let's march.