In praise of African village dogs

Let's talk about man's best friend.

I've been travelling through different communities in northern Namibia over the past few days, and I had imagined that Southern African village dogs would be different from the East African ones.

They are not.They are exactly the same dogs.

At one community meeting we were seated under a tree discussing livelihoods when a dog wandered into the middle of the gathering, circled twice, sat down and listened to the proceedings as if it had been invited. Nobody chased it away or gave it a second thought. Maybe it belonged there, maybe it didn't, but it certainly behaved as though it did.

Then it happened again in another village. And another. Around the homesteads they moved exactly like the dogs back home with the same cautious confidence and the same expression that says, I know everybody here, including the people who think they own me.

Africa, it turns out, has one official village dog. In East Africa even their names have crossed borders.

Simba. Tiger. Poppy. Boxer. Blackie. Jackal.

If you shouted any of those names in almost any village across Africa, there is a reasonable chance that at least one dog would look up.

These dogs attend everything. Every funeral, wedding, community meeting, football match, evening around the fireplace.

They never seem to bark unnecessarily. They rarely appear sick. They love everybody while also knowing exactly who loves them the most. They know which children will share their porridge. They know which grannie always throws them leftovers. They know which drunk needs an escort home after dark.

They accompany children as they take goats and cattle to graze. They wait patiently while games are played. Then everyone walks home together before sunset.

When a baby is born, the dog is already there. The child learns to crawl with the dog watching. Learns to walk with the dog there. Learns to run while the dog chases after them. The child finishes primary school and the dog is still there. Secondary school, College, still there. It feels as though these dogs have defeated ageing altogether. Nobody knows exactly how old they are. They simply continue existing, season after season, like old mango trees and village footpaths.

They know not to touch the chickens. That lesson was learnt long ago. Even when an entire leg of goat is hanging, most will simply lie underneath it pretending not to notice.

Of course, every village also has that dog. The one with "sticky fingers." The professional thief. The one that has mastered the delicate art of entering a kitchen unnoticed and leaving with someone's lunch while maintaining complete innocence. These are accomplished criminals.

These dogs also appear remarkably interested in human conversations. Sit near them long enough and you will begin to suspect they are collecting village intelligence or gossip.

Sometimes they disappear for several days and nobody knows where they've gone. People ask about them casually, "has anyone seen Simba?" Then one afternoon they stroll back into the village wearing fresh battle scars, looking tired but deeply satisfied, as though returning from a diplomatic mission nobody else was cleared to know about.

They know every path, every shortcut, every compound, every family. They have visited every home often enough that everyone assumes nobody else is feeding them. That is the secret. They don't belong to one household but to the whole community. Nobody seems to own them, yet everybody looks after them. 

Watching these Namibian dogs reminded me that some things travel across Africa on their own. Things like hospitality, storytelling, children playing until sunset.

And village dogs.

I wonder whether Africans are as resilient as our local dogs or our local dogs are as resilient as Africans.

Either way, both have learnt to survive on very little, adapt to almost anything, find family wherever they go, and remain loyal despite everything.

That is why they never seem out of place. They aren't just man's best friend, they are Africa's oldest citizens.

There's a hole in the boat

A few days ago, I was on a boat with Ignatius, Solange and Vincent our captain. As we made our way across the lake, the boat rose and fell not so gently with the waves. Every few minutes, Vincent would lean over, scoop a container into the bottom of the boat and throw a little water back into the lake. I watched him do it a few times before curiosity got the better of me.

"The boat is leaking?" I asked. He smiled, almost as though I had just discovered something every boat owner already knew. "A little," he replied, and calmly went back to bailing. Many boats leak.

For the rest of the journey, I couldn't stop thinking about that. The boat was not in danger, of sinking, no, but it hit me that if the leak ever became serious, removing the water with a cup would no longer be what was important. Finding the hole would be the most important thing.

Imagine with me... there are several people in that same boat. Halfway across the lake, someone notices that the water is rising in the boat. There is a hole somewhere. If nothing is done, sooner or later, we are all going to sink.

The obvious response seems simple find the hole and plug it. Except that is rarely what happens when many people are involved. Someone immediately grabs a bucket and begins bailing. Another gets a bigger bucket. Someone suggests buying an electric pump. Someone starts calculating exactly how many litres the boat can hold before it becomes a real problem. A committee is formed to study historical boat leaks. An expert explains that every boat leaks a little. Another warns that trying to repair the hole could make it bigger. One passenger complains that all this talk about leaks is creating unnecessary panic. Another insists the leak only affects the people sitting on that side of the boat. Someone proposes waiting until the next docking because this isn't a convenient time for repairs.Meanwhile, the water keeps rising.

People are amusing. We rarely disagree that there is water in the boat. We disagree about whether we should pay attention to the hole. This is also true of families, organisations and even countries.

In Uganda, many of our conversations are spent discussing the water. We debate the consequences, measure the damage, argue about who should have brought the buckets and celebrate whoever can bail the fastest. We become good at managing symptoms.

Finding the hole is much harder. Finding the hole asks uncomfortable questions. It asks where systems are failing instead of who to blame. It asks why a problem keeps returning after years of projects, meetings, workshops, etc. It asks whether the institutions meant to keep the boat afloat are doing their job and, if they are not, what needs to change.

Building or strengthening institutions is not exciting. Nobody applauds a well-maintained hull. Strong systems are almost invisible because they prevent crises instead of reacting to them. We celebrate rescues far more than prevention. This is probably why fixing holes is such "lonely" work, yet every lasting improvement begins there. Better schools and healthcare, cleaner towns, stronger local governments, better conservation, more accountability. These are not bigger buckets. They are attempts, however imperfect, to repair the boat itself.

Of course, before you begin the repairs, you involve everyone. Some will say there is no leak. Some will say every boat leaks. Some will say they have lived with wet feet for years and don't mind. Some will worry that repairing one hole will create three more. Some will prefer another bucket because that's what they've always known.

Listening matters. Collective action matters as does public trust. People deserve to be heard, especially when everyone shares the same boat. But hearing every opinion does not change the location of the hole. Eventually someone has to kneel down, find it and begin the repair because there comes a point when the choice is no longer between fixing the hole and bailing water. It is between fixing the hole and sinking efficiently.

From where my feet are, Uganda doesn't lack people willing to carry buckets. We have never lacked hard work, generosity or resilience. Our greatest challenge has often been agreeing to stop, find the hole and repair the boat together.

The Empire has misplaced its user manual

As a Ugandan, a former British colony, I feel obliged to ask a simple question: is everything alright over there?

Please, I am just checking in, out of concern not criticism. 

 

Britain, the country that once sailed halfway around the world to explain governance to everybody else, is now preparing for its seventh prime minister since Brexit. One, Two, Three Four, Five, Six. Seven. 

In school, we were taught that Britain was a place of stable institutions and prime ministers were taken seriously, not treated like seasonal flu. Meanwhile, here we are in former colonies, watching with the same expression for seeing your mother forget your name or mathematics teacher forget what two plus two equals. We are trying not to laugh. Trying.

It is clear that these days, Number 10 Downing Street resembles a hotel reception desk.

"Good morning. Welcome. Checking in?"

"Prime Minister."

"For how many nights?"

"We do not know. We will see how the markets feel."

The rest of us are just confused. Should governance aid be dispatched?

Should Tanzania and Kenya send election observers?

Should Ghana offer training workshops titled Maintaining political stability: Lessons learned since independence?

Should Uganda provide a short course called how to keep one leader long enough?

Should Botswana be taking notes for a consultancy proposal?

There was a time when British governments outlived, for example, local village dogs. This was the country that gave us lectures on stability, and whose weather could not be trusted but whose institutions supposedly could. Now prime ministers are coming and going so quickly that official portraits will become confusing.

Imagine being a child in Britain.

"Dad, who's that?"

"That's the prime minister."

"But I thought she was..."

"No, no, that was last term."

"What term?"

"Tuesday."

Eish it is interesting how empires always seem eternal when they are giving advice or reporting on politics. It is only later that you discover they are also held together with duct tape, tea, fish and chips, and people pretending to know what they are doing, which, to be fair, makes Britain just like its former colonies. Underneath all the pageantry, the crowns, the BBC voices, the accents, the history books, it turns out they are just another country trying to figure things out just like the rest of us.

Countries are like families. The ones that look the most organised from the outside are often arguing over the TV remote control inside. Britain has become that uncle who spent thirty years giving everyone financial advice and is now borrowing salt from the neighbours. But bambi this is not because the uncle is bad but just because life eventually humbles everybody from empires to superpowers to former superpowers. Everybody gets their turn.

And so, from Uganda (and where my feet are), with love and concern, we wish them all the best. If yet another prime minister comes into office before this piece is published, please forgive me. I wrote this under the previous administration.

The unexpected gift of the young

I wasn't expecting a fifteen year old to restore my hope in the future. Without meaning to, I as an adult slowly stopped spending time with people much younger than myself. As adults, our circles tighten and conversations remain among colleagues, peers, and people roughly our own age. It then becomes inevitable as a result that entire generations become statistics or subjects to complain about. Teenagers are labelled "young people of these days" "abavubuka." We forget that young people are people.

I guess this is why I was surprised by how much I enjoyed spending time with a fifteen year old. She was simply delightful company, kind, funny, thoughtful, curious, unusually mature and exceptionally wise. She was that type of person around whom time moves so quickly. One conversation becomes another, one laugh becomes several, five minutes becomes an hour, and an hour becomes an afternoon.

I found myself looking forward to her each morning because I was enjoying her company. In a way, this such ordinary thing to say about a person, except that as an adult I rarely speak about teenagers this way.

We, well or at least I, tend to talk about them collectively. We discuss generations, analyse trends, complain about phones and social media and attention spans, and yet every young person is first a person. A person who is a collection of stories, fears, hopes, dreams, kindness, awkwardness, and possibilities. 

I left feeling hopefuly hopeful, and this is not because one teenager represents an entire generation, that would be unfair, but because every now and then you encounter someone young and are reminded that the future is not being built by "young people of these days." It is being built by actual human beings, many of whom are wonderful.

Very often we think wisdom moves in one direction, that the old teach the young, that experience flows downhill but no. It is two directional. Every now and then, we learn, borrow, experience something from the next generation. It could be anything from their curiosity, enthusiasm, ability to laugh easily, openness, optimism, and if we are fortunate, like I was, they remind us that growing older does not mean becoming cautious when it comes to joy. 

My biggest lesson was that as I grow older I must remain humble enough to be surprised, be open to experiences and discover that good company comes in unexpected ages.

From where my feet are, hope for the future is not something abstract or blurry. Hope has a cute laugh and a lovely personality.

Happy Birthday! The curious case of your existence

Birthdays are strange, which is a strange way to begin a birthday tribute to someone special. 

Every year we celebrate the certainty that someone exists, but we don't often stop to think about how close they came to not existing at all.

I do not mean dying, I mean not existing, which are two very different things.

Think about it.

If your father had missed that bus, if your mother had gone to a different school, if they had sat on opposite sides of the room, if one of them had decided, "I'm not going to that wedding," if a friend had forgotten to make an introduction, if rain had fallen that afternoon, if someone had arrived at the function five minutes later...

...you, with your particular laugh, your smile, your strange taste in music, your fear of cats, your bad jokes, your love for mountains and budding love of birds, your ability to forget where you left your glasses, your curious mind, would simply never have happened.

The world would have carried on quite comfortably, but it would have done so without you, which is strange because you feel so permanent.

Your existence balances on millions of tiny decisions made by people who never imagined they were helping to create you. Most certainly, behind all those ordinary moments, God was writing a story long before anyone involved knew there was a story to write.

Someone chose a particular village, someone migrated from the East westward, someone survived an illness, someone said yes instead of no, someone stayed, someone left, someone forgave, someone took a chance.

All those decisions converged into one baby who was born screaming and has spent the years since trying to solve all the world's problems. Through choices, chance meetings, and grace, God brought together a family tree that eventually produced you.

And this isn't only true for you. Your friends, spouse, daughter almost didn't exist. That annoying colleague who replies-all to emails almost didn't exist. The boda rider or cab guy who takes you home every evening almost didn't exist. Even MK and your enemies almost didn't exist.

This changes how we see people because every person is the unlikely conclusion of a story that could have gone a thousand different ways. Every person we encounter is someone God intended and generations helped bring into being.

An African proverb says, "A person is people." Birthdays are really celebrations of that mystery. Yes, you have survived another trip around the sun as we like to say these days, but against impossible odds and through countless accidents, through generations of stories, prayers, choices, coincidences, and grace, God saw fit to bring you into the world at all.

And now here you are, laughing, working, debating with strangers online, falling in love, worrying, writing, establishing your business, arguing about politics, building rustic pieces of furniture, raising your daughter, sending voice notes that should have been text messages, saying you will arrive on time when you know you will be late, living a wonderfully ordinary life that almost never happened. 

This is exactly why birthdays matter.

Birthdays matter not only because we are counting years but also because we are pausing to appreciate the unbelievable fact that before we knew ourselves, before anyone called us by name, before our parents knew whether we would have our mother's nose or our father's stubbornness, God already knew we were coming.

From the sandy place where my feet are, birthdays in as much as they are about getting older, they are more about giving thanks for the astonishing fact that we got invited to existence in the first place. 

Happy Birthday to you! 

The lions were the least of his problems. Daniel, Babylon and the architecture of corruption

I (Tony too) have been reading the Book of Daniel recently. Like many people, I grew up thinking it was mainly a story about faith, prayer, and lions. But the older I get, the more I wonder whether Daniel is also a story about something else entirely.

It is also a story about power, institutions, identity, and one of the most long-standing questions in political philosophy: do systems shape people more than people shape systems?

To appreciate the significance of Daniel, one must first understand Babylon.

From what I have read, by the sixth century BC, Babylon was, one could argue, the most powerful political entity in the known world. Under Nebuchadnezzar, the Empire stretched across much of the ancient Near East. Its capital was renowned for its monumental architecture, administrative sophistication, advanced mathematics, engineering, astronomy, and wealth. To ancient peoples, Babylon represented power in its most concentrated form. It was, in many respects, the New York, London, Washington, and Beijing of its day combined.

Babylon's greatness was built on conquest. In 597 BC and again in 586 BC, Babylon invaded the Kingdom of Judah. Jerusalem was besieged. The temple was looted and eventually destroyed. Members of the political, intellectual, religious, and administrative elite were taken to Babylon as captives, we know that story from the Bible. 

Among them was Daniel. This detail matters. Daniel was not a voluntary migrant seeking opportunity in a prosperous city. He was part of a defeated people, a captive.

From reading around this, many historians view Babylon's policy toward conquered elites as a form of assimilation designed to integrate talented individuals into the imperial system. Future leaders were educated in Babylonian language, culture, administration, and schools. The objective was not only political control. It was strongly social and cultural integration.

Empires, kingdoms, and governments have long understood that it is easier to govern people who gradually begin to think like the empire, the kingdom or government.

The first chapter of Daniel reflects this. The young captives received new names. Remember Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego? Daniel also had a new name - Belteshazzar - although the Bible doesn't use it. They were educated in Babylonian literature and learning. They were prepared for careers within the imperial bureaucracy. Their environment, incentives, and social identity were systematically redesigned, basically it was institutional socialisation. Babylon was not just occupying territory. It was shaping or re-shaping identity.  

This is where Daniel becomes interesting.

What is interesting for me is not whether Babylon influenced him. It clearly did. The question is why Babylon did not completely succeed. This question is not theological. It is sociological, political and I must say highly relevant to Uganda today.

Public discussions about corruption in Uganda often focus on systems. We blame weak accountability systems, inadequate enforcement, political parties, abalimukintu, low public sector salaries, poor oversight, the concentration of power, etc. These are not trivial concerns.

We know from research and have also seen that institutions in the broad sense of the word shape behaviour. Incentives significantly matter a lot. People generally move toward what is rewarded and away from what is punished.

I mean if dishonesty is rewarded, dishonesty will increase. If accountability is absent, corruption will grow. If integrity has personal costs while corruption carries personal benefits, predictable patterns will emerge. In this sense, we see systems matter a lot.

But there is another side to the story. If systems determine behaviour, then how do we explain individuals who remain principled within flawed systems.

Uganda is full of such people. The procurement officer who refuses a kickback. The accountant who declines to manipulate figures. The teacher who refuses to sell examination papers. The civil servant who does the right thing despite watching colleagues profit from doing otherwise.

Such people exist. Do they exist in large enough numbers and voice to solve the problem? I do not think so but they are in sufficient numbers to complicate the theory. Their existence means that systems can influence behaviour without fully determining it, which is where Daniel becomes less of a faith figure in this angle and more of a case study of interest.

Daniel thrived in a system that should, by every structural logic, have transformed him. I mean, look, he was educated by Babylon, promoted, rewarded, protected by Babylon. His career advanced within the very system that had conquered his people. Yet he retained a sense of identity that remained independent of Babylon (which eventually led him to the lions den).

The political philosopher Hannah Arendt observed that evil often appears not as monstrous intent but as ordinary behaviour that has ceased to be questioned. Corruption frequently operates in precisely this way.  It quickly becomes normalised. A favour, facilitation fee, token of appreciation, lunch. small exception whatever words we choose to soften or musk it. This for me is why the Ugandan corruption debate comes across as disjointed and incomplete. We spend considerable time discussing the corruption of institutions and too little time discussing the corruption of identity.

Let me ask at what point does a person stop seeing themselves as an honest person? At what point does compromise become normal? At what point does survival become a justification? At what point does participation become acceptance?

The relationship between systems and individuals is circular. People create systems. Systems shape people. People then reinforce the systems that shaped them. The cycle repeats. This is why neither the purely moral explanation nor the purely structural explanation is sufficient. Corruption is not only the failure of individuals, nor is it only the failure of systems. Corruption emerges from the interaction between the two.

Which brings us back to Daniel.

The actual threat that Babylon possessed was not military conquest. Military conquest destroys cities. Babylon sought after something more fundamental. It sought to reshape identity. The point therefore was not whether Daniel would work for Babylon. The central point was whether Daniel would become Babylon.

That distinction matters.

Most of us will never face lions. Most of us, however, will spend our lives inside institutions: governments, businesses, universities, churches, NGOs, professional associations, and political parties. One defining challenge of  life is whether we can participate in systems without allowing them to redefine our moral centre.

Babylon, in this sense, is not an ancient city. It is a recurring human phenomenon. It appears wherever power rewards conformity, wherever compromise becomes normal, and wherever institutions encourage people to become something other than what they once intended to be.

The significance of Daniel is more than that he survived the lions. It is that he survived Babylon. And for Uganda, from where my feet are, that may be the more relevant miracle.

If I could I would...

Every now and then, usually while walking, waiting, or avoiding work I should probably be doing, I find myself playing a game, sometimes with an equally bored friend of mine.  The rules are simple. The sentence always begins the same way...

If I could, I would...

The answers are hardly hardly sensible, but they tell me a lot in that what we wish we could change says as much about us as what we choose to accept. 

If I could, I would move Mondays to Wednesday. Nobody likes Monday. I do not even think Monday. likes Monday

If I could I would give every child one day as President mostly because children ask better questions than adults and are far less impressed by nonsense.

If I could I would charge interest on unsolicited advice. If you are going to run my life from the sidelines, the least you can do is contribute to the mental airtime you are consuming.

If I could I would replace networking with bird watching. Both involve standing around hoping to spot something interesting, but birds are generally more authentic.

If I could I would ban replying "noted." A study of the most passive-aggressive word in professional communication. 

If I could I would put politicians and toddlers in the same debate, not because they are similar and one reminds me of the other but because the outcome would be informative.

If I could I would rename midlife crises. Most of them are not crises. They are just software updates, some long overdue.

If I could I would put a counter above every person's head, to count the number of times they changed their mind and were too proud to admit it.

If I could I would tax greed instead of income. The richest countries on earth would probably become bankrupt overnight.

If I could I would ask every Grandmother where their wisdom comes from because they know exactly how life works despite never having attended a leadership retreat.

If I could I would follow One Thousand Shillings - a single note travelling through a taxi, chapati stand, church offertory, sports betting,  the market, etc The biography of money.

If I could I would install Customer Care for life. "Press 1 if adulting is not working as expected."

If I could I would audit every family WhatsApp group. There is no institution in Africa contains more economists, doctors, lawyers, pastors, political analysts, and conspiracy theorists.

If I could I would open a Museum of Abandoned New Year's Resolutions. It would be the most crowded museum on earth. 

If I could I would count how many times we have been saved by Aunties. An auntie with food, with advice, a place to sleep for 10 people, common sense, etc. Society is held together by aunties.

If I could I would know what my ancestors think of WiFi. Imagine surviving lions, droughts, wars, and kingdoms only to watch your descendants spend three hours arguing online with strangers.

If I could I would ban people from saying "it's a small world." The world is enormous. Ugandans simply know everyone.

If I could I would create a warehouse of "almost." For businesses that almost started, books that were almost written, apologies that were almost made, people who almost said "I love you."dreams that were almost pursued. 

If I could I would read the Terms and Conditions of adulthood. I would particularly like to review the section on procrastination, lactose intolerance, knee pain, taxes, and WhatsApp groups.

If I could I would ask every tree what it has overheard, especially the ones at trading centres. Those trees know things.

If I could I would...

In the end most of these things will never happen, but that's not the point. Many a time, ridiculous questions can lead us to honest answers.

Eden, the Serpent, and the birth of corruption

Most discussions about corruption begin too late.

They begin with the bribe, the stolen funds, inflated contracts, the missing medicine, the envelope passed under the table. By the time corruption reaches that stage, it is already fully grown.

Where then does corruption actually begin?

For that, one must go back much further than government offices, procurement committees, politics, or public scandals.

One must go back to a garden.

The Garden of Eden is often presented as a story about disobedience. Adam and Eve were told not to eat from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. They ate from it anyway.

That is true, but there are also other important things happening in the story like, why did they disobey?

The serpent never grabbed the fruit and forced Eve to eat it. The serpent never even instructed her to eat it. Instead, the serpent introduced an alternative interpretation of reality by asking the question...

"Did God really say...?"

Notice the elegance of this strategy. The serpent's strategy was not coercion but it was suggestion.

The serpent did not begin by attacking God's command. The Serpent attacks reality. The serpent's genius lies in understanding that before behaviour changes, perception must change. Before disobedience and corruption there is rationalisation. The serpent began by inviting Eve to reconsider God's command, to view it differently, question whether the boundaries she had accepted were truly necessary, whether the restriction was unfair, or wonder whether she was missing out.

I think the first corruption was not theft. It was doubt. The first corruption was not greed. It was dissatisfaction. This is what makes the Genesis story psychologically profound.

Adam and Eve lived in abundance. The bible describes a garden filled with provision, beauty, and possibility. They were free to eat from virtually every tree in the garden. Their lives were defined not by scarcity but by abundance.

Yet the serpent managed to redirect their attention from everything they possessed to the one thing they did not.

This pattern is quite familiar.

We humans have an extraordinary ability to overlook abundance and become obsessed with absence. We stop counting what we have and begin counting what others have.

The serpent did not create scarcity. The serpent created the perception of scarcity. Perception sometimes matters more than reality.

Corruption frequently begins in exactly the same way. Rarely does a person wake up one morning and decide to become corrupt. The process is usually more subtle. Why does that person have more than I do? Why should I be the only honest one? Why am I following rules that nobody else follows? Why should I struggle while others prosper? Why should I settle for what I have?

The questions are different, but the logic is the same. Like the serpent's question, they introduce uncertainty into convictions that were once settled.

The danger of corruption is not that it suddenly changes behaviour. The danger is that it first changes perception. Once perception changes, behaviour change eventually follows.

The philosopher Hannah Arendt observed that evil often becomes possible when people stop critically examining what they are doing. Corruption follows a similar path. Before people justify wrongdoing, they first redefine it.

A bribe becomes a facilitation fee. A theft becomes a token. A favour becomes networking. Conflict of interest becomes helping one's people. Societies first learn to rename corruption then they learn to excuse and justify it.

When Ugandans discuss corruption, the conversation usually focuses on institutions. We speak about weak accountability systems, poor enforcement, political patronage, and inadequate oversight.

These are important discussions but we need to go deeper because corruption is not only an institutional problem, but also a human problem.

Institutions become corrupt because people become comfortable with corruption. People become comfortable with corruption long before they participate in the corruption.

The process often begins with comparison. The neighbour builds a bigger house. The colleague buys a better car. The classmate seems to be advancing more quickly. The politician accumulates visible wealth. The businessman appears to prosper through questionable means.

Soon, what we have begins to feel insufficient. The garden starts to feel small. The fruit we can reach becomes less interesting than the fruit we cannot. The serpent's question echoes again... are you sure this is enough?

That question may be the hidden road to corruption, not because ambition or success are wrong but because corruption often begins when comparison starts.

The tragedy of the Eden story is that Adam and Eve were not expelled from a place of scarcity. They were expelled from a place of abundance because abundance no longer seemed sufficient.

Today,  many societies struggle not because they lack resources, opportunities, or talent. They struggle because people become convinced that what they have is not enough, what they earn is not enough, what belongs to them is not enough, and what is available through legitimate means is not enough.

The serpent understood something that political scientists, economists, and advertisers understand today: If you can convince people they are missing something, you can influence what they do next.

The story of Eden therefore offers a deeper understanding of corruption in that corruption does not begin with a transaction. It begins with a question. A question that turns abundance into scarcity and contentment into desire. A question that makes people reconsider truths they once accepted.

"Did God really say?"

The serpent asked the question in a garden. Humanity has been answering it ever since.

From where my feet are, that may be where corruption begins.

The worst insult my brother ever called me

The worst insult my brother ever called me was when I was about five or six years old. It was also my first identity crisis. 

I was playing with my brother Tony as usual. As brothers and sisters often do, we were exchanging insults of the highest order. At some point, he looked at me and said:

"You human being." I was devastated. I immediately burst into tears.

"I'm not a human being!" I protested.

"You are a human being," he replied, doubling down with the confidence 

"No! I am a person!"

The argument escalated.

"You are a human being."

"I am a person!"

"Human being!"

"Person!"

Eventually, I did what any reasonable child would do. I abandoned the debate and sought higher authority. I ran to my mother crying.

"Mummy! Tony has abused me!"

My mother, concerned, asked what terrible thing my brother had said.

"He called me a human being!"

There was a pause. It was a very long one where she was trying to understand whether she had misunderstood the situation or whether this child of hers was crying her usual nonsense.

My mother looked at me.

"You are not a human being?"

"No."

"What are you then?"

"I am a person."

Even now, decades later, I have no idea what distinction I was trying to make. In my young mind, however, the difference was enormous. A person was somebody special. A person had a name. A person had favourite foods and favourite colours. A person had important opinions about cartoons.

A human being sounded generic or ordinary like being called a chair or a potato.  

I was a person.

Looking back, I suspect many adults are still having the same argument. We spend much of our lives trying not to be ordinary. We want to be known as professionals, leaders, experts, managers, founders, directors, influencers, visionaries, and all sorts of impressive things.

Anything except simply human beings.

Human beings get tired. Human beings make mistakes. Human beings forget birthdays. Human beings get frightened. Human beings don't always know what they are doing. Human beings cry because their brother accurately identifies their species.

Could it be that growing older is the slow process of accepting what five-year-old me was fighting so hard against?  That beneath all the titles, achievements, and carefully constructed identities, we are all just human beings.

Human beings trying our best. Human beings figuring things out as we go. Human beings occasionally making complete fools of ourselves.

And if my brother is reading this, I would like to formally acknowledge that after more than 35 years of reflection, investigation, and soul-searching, I have finally reached a conclusion.

You were right.

I am, in fact, a human being.

Every villain is someone else's hero

Heroes Day got me thinking more about villains than heroes.

Stay with me.

One person's hero is often another person's villain. The goat thief who steals your goat is definitely a villain. There is no debate there, but when he gets home with meat and his children eat for the first time in days, he is their hero.

History is full of this problem. 

• The revolutionary is called a freedom fighter by one side and a rebel by the other.
• The whistleblower is a hero to some and a nuisance to others.
• The activist is brave according to supporters and an annoying irritation according to people whose acts are exposed.

Even in ordinary life, the lines are blurry.

• The teacher who confiscates a student's phone is a villain until exam results come out.
• The traffic officer who fines you is a villain until you survive a nasty accident.
• The mother who refuses to give her child sweets is a villain at 10pm and a hero at the dentist.

Perspective is such a powerful thing.

A number of heroes seem to spend part of their lives being disliked, and I think this is because heroism looks very different in the present than it does in hindsight.

When we look back at history, everything seems obvious. We know who the heroes were. We know who was right. We know whose face ended up on posters, whose statue was built, or whose story was taught in schools.

But the people living through those moments did not know any of that. Here are some examples: 

• Nelson Mandela spent 27 years in prison before becoming a global symbol of freedom.
• Wangari Maathai was ridiculed and attacked before becoming a Nobel Prize winner.
• Galileo was condemned and excommunicated for saying something that children now learn in school.

History does that thing where it polishes people up after they are gone. It edits out the less glossy parts. It conveniently forgets how many people thought these individuals were troublesome, stubborn, unrealistic, or simply wrong.

The hero of today more often than not looks like a nuisance. He is that person who asks uncomfortable questions. She is the person who refuses to go along with the crowd. He is the person who points out a problem everyone else would rather ignore.

An African proverb says, "until the lion learns to write, every story will glorify the hunter." The story depends on who is telling it. The hunter is a hero to the village because he brings meat home. The lion is a villain because it threatens livestock. Ask the lion and the story might sound very different.

Of course, not every villain is secretly a hero. If you steal my wallet, let us not get carried away with philosophy. Some people are simply villains, but Heroes Day reminds me to be a little humble when "judging."

Many of the people we celebrate today spent part of their lives being criticised, mocked, ignored, imprisoned, or misunderstood. The village often throws stones at the person ringing the alarm bell, only to thank them later when the floods come and we know this is true about heroes.

They do not always look like heroes while being heroic. They sometimes look stubborn, appear disruptive or like the person everyone wishes would just keep quiet. We celebrate heroes after the story has ended.

I attended a funeral today of a friend's Aunt and asked myself whether the people around her recognised her courage while her story was still being written, because what I have learnt is that heroes rarely carry a sign that says HERO. We need to celebrate heroes while they live.

From where my feet are, today's villain may be tomorrow's hero. And today's hero ... well... let's read their detailed biography.  

An exclusive interview with Ebola

Following recent developments, I was fortunate enough to secure an exclusive interview with Ebola.

The virus came forty-five minutes late.

"Sorry," it said. "I was causing an international incident."

We sat down.

Peace N: Thank you for speaking with us.

Ebola: My pleasure. It is important to engage with stakeholders.

Peace N: How many people work for you?

Ebola: Just me.

Peace N: Just you?

Ebola: Yes.

Peace N: No communications department, finance team, strategic plan?

Ebola: No.

Peace N: Yet you have managed to trigger travel advisories, emergency meetings, conference cancellations, tourism losses and diplomatic discussions?

Ebola: I believe in efficiency.

Peace N: Impressive.

Ebola: Thank you.

Peace N: What is your annual budget?

Ebola: Zero dollars.

Peace N: And yet governments across the world are spending millions discussing you?

Ebola: I prefer to think of it as influence.

Peace N: Some people say there seem to be more outbreaks these days. Ebola. Marburg. Monkeypox. Bird Flu. What's going on?

Ebola: We have always been here.

Peace N: Then why are we seeing more of you?

Ebola: You keep coming to visit.

Peace N: Visit?

Ebola: Forests, wildlife habitats, places that humans previously left alone. For centuries bats, monkeys lived in forests. Then humans come with machetes, roads, settlements, etc. Now everyone is surprised that species are exchanging more than just neighbourly hellos.

Peace N: So habitat destruction is helping?

Ebola: You call it encroachment. We viruses call it stakeholder engagement.

Peace N: Hmmm....! Climate change is also mentioned frequently

Ebola: Climate change is another excellent human invention that has an impressive contribution. As the climate changes, animals and insects move, habitats shift and with that diseases move. Things that used to live over there now live over here. Things that could never survive somewhere suddenly can. 

Peace: Are you saying climate change helps diseases spread?

Ebola: Let's just say many organisms are finding new opportunities in a changing world. Unfortunately, humans are among them.

Peace N: But are there really more outbreaks?

Ebola: Sometimes yes. Sometimes no. You are also much better at finding us.

Peace N: Better diagnosis?

Ebola: Exactly. Years ago somebody got sick in a remote village and nobody knew why or blamed it on witchcraft. Today there are laboratories, surveillance systems, genomic sequencing, epidemiologists, dashboards and WhatsApp groups. Half the world knows before the patient finishes registering at the clinic. Humans are becoming annoyingly competent.

Peace N: Social media?

Ebola: That is my communications department. 

Peace N: Your communications department?

Ebola: Yeah. Twenty years ago I needed newspapers. Today a rumour can circle the globe before I have infected anybody. Remarkable technology.

Peace N: So social media exaggerates things?

Ebola: Sometimes. But it also helps people detect outbreaks faster. Humans have essentially built the world's largest disease notification system and called it social networking.

Peace N: Let's talk about funding. There used to be large amounts of money for preparedness and disease surveillance.

Ebola: Yes. Good times.

Peace N: What happened?

Ebola: People got bored. Humans have a fascinating habit. They only believe in a fire while they can see the flames. The moment the smoke disappears, they sell the fire extinguisher, and then they act shocked when the building catches fire again.

Peace: There are reports that some countries are tightening travel restrictions.

Ebola: I love that part.

Peace N: Why?

Ebola: Because the tourist gets cancelled, businessman gets delayed, conference delegate gets denied, and Me? I still make headlines.

Peace N: Why do viruses seem to be winning?

Ebola looked genuinely confused.

Ebola: Winning?

Peace N: Yes.

Ebola: We are not winning. Humans live longer than ever. Medicine is better than ever. Science is better than ever. The real mystery is that despite all that progress, people continue creating perfect conditions for outbreaks. You cut forests. You move wildlife. You warm the planet. You build giant connected cities. You fly across continents in hours. Then when diseases take advantage of the opportunities, everyone looks at us. My success also comes from panic, politics, short memories, underinvestment and human behaviour. 

Peace: That sounds like you are blaming humans.

Ebola: I am just a virus. The rest is teamwork.

At that point Ebola stood up and checked its watch. "I have to go." Then it disappeared.

Just as it was walking out three countries had issued travel bans on all of Africa.  As far as I know, Ebola had not actually done anything yet.

What Tanzania's toilets reveal about tourism

You can say anything you want, but Tanzania has the best toilets in East Africa.

I know that is a strange way to begin a safari review, but hear me out.

Over the last few days, I have visited Lake Manyara National Park, the Ngorongoro Crater, Makuyuni Wildlife Park, Lake Duluti and Arusha National Park.  I have stopped at public facilities, picnic sites, visitor centres, and various places along the way. And everywhere I have gone, I have noticed the same thing.

The toilets are spotless.

The floors are clean and dry. The bowls are clean. There is no smell. There is tissue paper. There is soap. There is water. There is none of that familiar balancing act where you try to enter a public toilet without touching anything, stepping in anything, or breathing in too deeply.

These toilets look like somebody actually cares. 

Before anyone accuses me of having unusually low standards, let me say this: clean toilets are not really about toilets. They are about systems, attention to detail and pride. A clean public toilet is a love letter from a country to its visitors.

When a country can keep its public toilets clean in the middle of a national park visited by thousands of tourists, it tells you something about how that country thinks about tourism.

I have always visited Tanzania expecting great wildlife. I mean everyone knows Tanzania has wildlife. What I did not expect was to be impressed by the washrooms. Yet here we are. The more time I spend here, the more convinced I become that Tanzania is East Africa's safari powerhouse.

The wildlife is spectacular. The landscapes are stunning. The cultural experiences have been wonderful. Visiting the Hadzabe and Datoga tribes was fascinating. The parks are well managed and the tourism infrastructure works.

Even the packed lunches deserve their own mention. Every day I open the lunch box expecting the standard boiled egg and a piece of fruit. Every day I discover something else tucked inside. A surprise snack, a special treat, a little something that demonstrates true hospitality, packed with affection.

The only real complaints I have are that safari here is expensive  (although entrance fees are low for East Africans) and some places are becoming victims of their own success. The Ngorongoro Crater was breathtaking, but it was also crowded. At one point I counted twenty-six safari vehicles gathered around a single rhino. Twenty-six. The poor rhino had more audience than some musicians performing live in Kampala. Still, that is the price of popularity. People travel from all over the world to see these places, and it shows.

As for language, yes, English is not always as widely spoken as it is in Uganda or Kenya. But honestly, that has never been a problem. Safari has its own language. A pointing finger, a smile, shared excitement when someone spots an elephant, the collective gasp when a lion appears, the laughter when a monkey steals someone's snack. 

You find a way to communicate, they find a way to communicate, and everybody understands each other. Could that be because the real language of travel is curiosity? Or maybe it is because people on safari everywhere are already speaking the same language. I do not know. 

Whatever the reason, Tanzania has now won me over completely. I arrived knowing what to expect when it came to wildlife. I am leaving impressed by wildlife, hospitality, packed lunches, and yes, public toilets.

Especially the toilets.

From where my feet are, that deserves recognition.