How to run an ultramarathon: Wrong answers only.

Tomorrow, I am running 50 kilometres. Naturally, I have prepared. Here is everything I have learned about successfully completing a 50K ultramarathon.

Wrong answers only.

1. Do all your training the night before. There is absolutely no need to waste several months training. The human body learns very quickly under pressure. Run 30 kilometres the night before the race so your legs understand what will be expected of them in the morning. Think of it as orientation.

2. Wear brand-new shoes. Run day is the perfect time to discover whether your new shoes fit. Do not wear them beforehand as that would ruin the surprise. Extra points if you buy them on the way to the starting line.

3. Better still, forget your running shoes entirely. Shoes are just equipment, and equipment creates dependency. Get to the run venue, open your bag and discover that your running shoes are several hours away. This builds character and logistical creativity.

4. Sprint the first kilometer. You are surrounded by runners, there are spectators, and someone has started a stopwatch. This is no time for restraint. Establish dominance immediately. The run is 50 kilometers long, but that is a problem for later.

5. Do not eat breakfast. Food adds weight. You are trying to move forward efficiently. Therefore, the less you weigh at the starting line, the faster you will go. This is physics.

6. Avoid water. Water is also heavy. One liter weighs approximately one kilogram. Why would you voluntarily carry kilograms inside yourself during a race? Again: physics.

7. Never walk. Walking is a sign of weakness. If you need a break, simply run more slowly. If that becomes difficult, run more slowly than that. At no point should you admit that what you are doing has technically become walking.

8. Ignore the route markings. Race organisers put arrows everywhere because they lack imagination. Choose your own path. An ultramarathon is ultimately about self-discovery. Sometimes self-discovery happens 7 kilometers in the wrong direction. Congratulations. You are now running a 64K.

9. If something hurts, speed up. Pain cannot catch you if you are moving faster than it is. That is basic science.

10. Race everyone. That 22-year-old flying past you? Competition. The elite runner? Competition. The person doing their 20th ultramarathon? Competition. The boda rider beside the road? Competition. Nobody passes you without consequences.

11. Stop at kilometre 25 and celebrate. Halfway! Sit down, remove your shoes, have a proper meal, call some people maybe post photographs. There is absolutely no danger that your legs will interpret this as the end of the event and refuse to restart.

12. Constantly calculate how far you still have to go. This is particularly useful at kilometer 8. Say loudly, "ONLY 42 KILOMETERS LEFT!" Repeat this calculation every kilometer. Your brain will appreciate the updates.

13. Carry everything you might possibly need. 3 shirts, 2 pairs of shoes, a jacket, a power bank, a book in case you get bored, possibly a small camping chair. Be prepared.

14. At kilometer 40, try something completely new. New food, new drink, new running technique, new shoes. 40 kilometers into an ultramarathon is an excellent environment for experimentation. Scientists call this the control group.

15. If you get tired, simply stop being tired. This is the most overlooked ultramarathon technique. Fatigue is largely an attitude problem. At kilometer 44, remind your legs that they have had several hours to adjust to the situation. Frankly, by now they should be performing better.

16. Never check the weather. Weather is outside your control, therefore, technically, it does not exist. Dress according to your feelings.

17. Save absolutely nothing for the end. Energy left at kilometer 45 represents poor budgeting. Spend everything early and get to kikilometer  completely bankrupt.

18. When you finally cross the finish line, immediately announce your next ultramarathon. Do not wait for your body to recover. Do not gauge how your knees and feet are. Simply say, next week 80K. Leadership requires decisiveness.

And finally, when someone asks how the 50K went, smile and say wow it was a walk over, because apparently that is what runners do.

Anyway.

I haven't actually run the 50K yet. That happens tomorrow. So this entire article has been written from a position of complete ignorance and unjustified confidence, which, now that I think about it, may be the perfect preparation for an ultramarathon.

To be continued after 50K.

Imagine driving 4 hours for a 50km Ultramarathon... only to discover you forgot your running shoes.

Sometimes life doesn't need to be difficult. It just needs you to forget one very very very important thing.

So, I travelled to Hoima for an ultramarathon. I am running 50 kilometres for the first time. The Great Escarpment Ultra Run. This run is a dream run. It is one of Uganda's bucket-list runs, offering 25K, 42K, 50K and an intimidating 80K through the breathtaking landscapes around Hoima. Apparently, this is not like any other run. I have heard all sorts of myths and legends about it. I came to make my own story.  I have been looking forward to it for months.

In my excitement, I couldn't keep calm so I travelled 2 days prior to the run. Always be prepared. The 240km drive from Entebbe itself felt like the universe was cheering me on. I had planned to leave at 8:00 a.m. I actually left at 7:20am. 

There was hardly any traffic. The traffic police didn't stop me once. My coffee stayed hot, my playlist was perfect, and every kilometer closer to Hoima made me more excited. I could already picture myself crossing the finish line, looking like one of those runners in the adverts.

I arrived in Hoima just after eleven. Everything had gone according to plan.

Then I opened the boot to take out my luggage. I don't travel light so I had 4 bags for 3 nights. I took the bags out one by one, and finally, when it came to time to remove my shoe bag, it was no where to be seen. 

No running shoes! I closed the boot, opened it again, and still no shoes.

I had driven four hours to run 50 kilometers... without the one thing designed and needed for running 50 kilometers.

It's like going to dig without a hoe, or turning up to milk a cow without a pail, or arriving for a Maths A-level exam with a calculator. You can admire the effort, but you are not getting very far.

I had remembered everything else... the watch, energy bars, water bottle, socks. Yes... I remembered the socks, but just not the shoes that go with them.

For runners, shoes are sacred. People have long-run shoes, speed shoes, trail shoes, race-day shoes, recovery shoes. Some people own enough running shoes to open a small branch of a sports shop. I only have 6 pairs of active running shoes and I did not remember to carry 1 pair.

So, I just stood there wondering and looking for the silver lining behind this dark cloud, or maybe I could make some lemonade from these bitter lemons or better still find tequila and salt.

The silver lining came in form of a brain wave. This was going to be my moment to change the sport forever... What if shoes are overrated? What if I start barefoot ultrarunning? Forget carbon plates and fancy cushioning. How about running in socks? They are lightweight, breathable, and also guarantee you will know exactly where every stone, thorn and bottle top on the route is located.

That could be the next big trend. Next year's race will have a barefoot category. Runners will even say shoes have been slowing them down all these years.

Sigh! In reality, here I am, trying to figure out what to do next. 

Do I look for a sports shop?

Do I borrow a pair?

Do I ask another runner if they happen to have an extra pair of Asics gel Kayano 31 in size 7.5, my preferred long-distance shoes?

Do I become the founder of barefoot ultramarathoning?

Or do I just admit that the hardest part of an ultramarathon is not the running...

...it is remembering your shoes.

From where my feet are...

...I am still trying to figure out what happens next.

He waited 35 years to tell me he had a crush on me

There are many things I expected to happen at a car garage. Finding out I needed new brake pads? Sure. Fixing Z-links, Bushes, nuts, I do not know what? Entirely possible. Car service? Yes, that is why I was there. 

How about meeting someone who has had a primary school crush on me for more than 35 years? That one was not on my bingo card.

I was standing there waiting for the car when I noticed a gentleman looking at me rather intently. It was not in an uncomfortable way, but more in the way people look at a face they are really convinced they have seen before but can't quite place.

A few moments later he walked over.

"Forgive me if I'm wrong," he said in Luganda. "Is your name Peace?"

"Yes."

"You grew up in Entebbe?"

"Yes."

"You have a brother called Tony?" Now he had my full attention.

"Did you go to Lake Victoria Primary School?" "Did you use to go to Rocky to swim?"

Wow! Suddenly we were not in the garage anymore but children again in the 90's. We remembered Rocky. If you grew up in Entebbe in the 90's you will probably remember it too. Rocky was where half the children learned to swim and the other half got into trouble for going to the lake to learning to swim.

We would sneak off to the lakeshore with inflated car tyre tubes, spend hours in the water, then rush home and smear ourselves with bar soap or vaseline to remove the paleness, convinced that our parents would never know where we had been. They always knew because red eyes tell stories that soap and vaseline cannot erase.

We laughed about those days, about the swimming, the places kids would hang out, the jambula and mpaffu trees, sunday school at St. John's Church, and all the adventures that were exciting and reasonable when you were 8, 9, 10, 11 years old.

Then, completely out of nowhere, he smiled.

"You know... I had the biggest crush on you."

"Oh really?!" I said as I laughed. 

He continued. "You were so quiet. You hardly talked to anyone. You never smiled. We all thought you were proud."

I felt slightly obliged to defend my younger self. "I wasn't proud!"

He laughed. "No... it was not the arrogance type of pride. You just respected yourself. You stayed out of trouble and did not tolerate nonsense. That made you different."

Then he said something that made me laugh even harder.

"Seeing you today brought it all back. I think I still have that crush."

Now, I don't know what the official expiry date for a childhood crush is, but appears it is longer than thirty-five years. It also made me wonder how many primary school crushes never got declared. How many boys walked home rehearsing conversations they never had. How many girls had absolutely no idea someone thought they were the most beautiful person in the classroom. How many love stories ended before they even started because everyone was twelve and terrified.

Looking back, primary school crushes were just wonderfully innocent. Nobody was trying to impress anyone. If someone liked you, it was because you shared a desk once, lent them an eraser, beat everyone in class, shared your break time snack, you protected them from bullies, or apparently, because you never smiled.

As we exchanged numbers and promised to keep in touch, I drove away smiling. I smiled because life has a delightful sense of humour. You go to a garage expecting your car to be serviced but in addition, you discover that for more than three decades, someone had quietly been living with a childhood crush on you...

...and finally found the courage to tell you.

Thirty-five years later.

When your mother appears on the ballot

I used to ask myself what it is actually like when your parent runs for office?

My mother is running for LC1 Women's Representative. I know, the stakes are not as dramatic as MP, Mayor, etc, but for me this is as close to politics as I have ever been. For years, I have looked at the children of politicians and wondered what election season feels like inside their homes. Do they eventually stop saying "Mummy" and start saying "Honourable"? Do family dinners become campaign strategy meetings?

Well... I finally have my own tiny version of that experience.

So, the thing is that my mother several different people at once. At home, she's still Mum. To her patients, she will always be Musawo, Doctor. To neighbours, she is suddenly "our candidate." To campaign volunteers, she's "Madam." To the Electoral Commission, she's Candidate Number Whatever. And to me...

I'm honestly not sure who I'm voting for.

Am I voting for the woman who spent years reminding me to clean my room, wash my clothes, and brush my teeth at night? Or the doctor who has spent 40 plus years caring for people in our community? Or the smiling candidate on campaign posters who looks like she's about ready to solve the Women's economic development issues?

They are all the same person, and this election season is giving everyone a different version of her.

I have also realised that voting for your own mother raises complicated questions. Do I still evaluate the candidates objectively? Am I allowed to be biased? Is supporting your mother considered nepotism, conflict of interest, or is it being a child? Am I over thinking things or is this a very important ethical dilemma?

Today, the election day, and the situation becomes even more interesting. Where as for most elections, your vote is a secret ballot paper, with LC1 elections you line up behind the candidate you support.

Now this raises another question... What happens if I accidentally join the "wrong line?"

Does my mother pretend she hasn't seen me? Do I become that child who abandoned their own mother in broad daylight? Can I explain that I was just looking for shade? More importantly... will I still be allowed home for dinner?

The good news is that democracy gives everyone the freedom to choose. The weird part is that, in this particular election, your mother can literally watch you exercise that freedom. That is democracy.

To the public, candidates are names, posters and campaign promises. To me, my siblings, relatives, the candidate is Mummy. For the first time in my life, those two people happen to be exactly the same person.

From where my feet are, let me stand behind my candidate of choice. 

It's called football, except when it's called soccer

The World Cup did something really cool. For 39 glorious days, I think it is, billions of people around the world all stared at the same beautiful ball.

Unfortunately, we couldn't agree on what to call it. Most of the world watched football, but America watched soccer.

Ever so often, we come back to this argument where the rest of the world asks, why Americans call football, soccer. Americans reply saying its because that's what it's called. Then everyone spends a few minutes explaining and arguing before going back to actually watching the game.

To make matters even funnier, the American sport called football is a game where the ball spends an impressive amount of time not being kicked by feet. The actual sport where the foot kicks the ball for 90 minutes is called "soccer." That is one of America's plot twists.

Please, imagine naming swimming, "running", because a person runs to the pool before jumping in.

America is not entirely alone, though. Australia also commonly calls the game soccer, even though its national governing body is officially called Football Australia.

This means that Australia has decided not to choose sides. Officially, it is football, but in ordinary conversation, it may still be soccer. It joined this argument, agreed with both teams and decided to move to a safe distance (probably afraid of sanctions). Australia being Australia it decided to call it football in the office, soccer at the barbecue, then hope and pray nobody asks a follow-up question.

Picture the confusion the World Cup. Peter Drury the British commentator says, "Football is the beautiful game." An American hears that and immediately imagines quarterbacks, helmets, shoulder pads, explosive halftime shows, and rough plays. Meanwhile, Peter Drury is admiring a perfect pass.

The British insist it's called football because you play it with your feet. Americans nod confidently and say, "yes, exactly. That's why we have football... and soccer." The rest of the world blinks, looks at each other, then decides life is too short, and orders another drink.

The thing is, language (and Americans) like to do their own thing. Boxing rings are square, pineapples are neither pines nor apples, and the sport played mostly with feet became football almost everywhere... except in the country where another sport, played mostly with hands, had already claimed the name.

So whether you call it football or soccer does not say much about the sport than about where you learned to speak. Besides, once the match starts, nobody really cares what it's called, because everyone understands the universal language of screaming at the referee.

Fort Portal: Uganda's Best Tourism Advert

Have you ever travelled somewhere only to discover you were looking in the wrong direction the whole time?

I travelled to Fort Portal to run 21 kilometres at the Fort Portal City Marathon. I finished with a medal, a personal best, slightly unhappy knees, and a completely different understanding of the place. Why? Because at some point, I realised that Fort Portal is just the name on the map. What you are actually experiencing is Toro.

The race itself was a joy. Cool weather, excellent organisation, volunteers who were genuinely happy you had turned up, school children playing in a brass band, traditional dancers cheering runners on, a DJ whose speakers could probably be heard halfway to Bundibugyo. It felt like an entire community deciding that if you were going to suffer up those hills, they were going to cheer every step of the way.

The organisers got something else right too. It wasn't one of those events where people disappear behind VIP tents and security ropes. Conversations happened easily. The race coordinator was there talking to runners, the Toro Minister of Tourism was welcoming participants personally. Even the Prime Minister of the Toro Kingdom was there, chatting with participants. It all felt remarkably... Toro.

I finished the 21 kilometres feeling quite pleased with myself.

Most runners probably start regretting their decision somewhere around kilometer fifteen. I had a different problem.

My regret started after I crossed the finish line, when I decided to drive the 42km route to check it out. Within a few minutes, I was jealous. Jealous not because of the extra 21 kilometres. I was jealous of the scenery.

The route wandered through gentle valleys, climbed rolling hills, passed farms, beautiful churches, schools, tidy farms and homesteads and unfolded beneath the foothills of the Rwenzori as though someone had designed it to convince you never to leave.

Between those hills and those views, I became convinced I had accidentally wandered into Uganda's best tourism advert. The place was not trying to be anything it already wasn't. The landscape was just there being itself, the same way it is, day in day out. 

It was at that point that it struck me. Fort Portal is Uganda's Tourism City for good reason. Beyond the marathon are the chimpanzees of Kibale National Park, more than fifty crater lakes, tea estates, waterfalls, caves, the history of the Toro Kingdom, and traditions like the Empaako naming ceremony. 

We didn't experience all of those during the race, but we knew they were there. If anything, I found myself wishing the marathon had sold that story a little more boldly, because together they are what make Toro such a unique destination. The marathon is only the introduction.

Which is why I wonder whether calling it the Fort Portal City Marathon accidentally sells Toro short. Fort Portal is where you arrive. Toro, tourism and the Rwenzori mountains is what you experience.

After seeing that 42-kilometre route, I suspect I'll be back, not because I have unfinished business with the race, but because I have unfinished business with Toro.

Welcome to Matookestan where prevention is bad for business

There is an African proverb that says a bridge is repaired before someone falls into the river.

That proverb was clearly not written in Matookestan. Here, we have our own version.

A bridge should only be repaired after someone falls into the river. Otherwise, how will anyone know it really needed fixing?

Welcome to Matookestan, the land where wisdom is read, admired, quoted... and then totally ignored.

Take our proverbs, for example.

The rest of the world says prevention is better than cure. In Matookestan, prevention is a terrible waste of opportunity. Cure is far better. Prevention creates no emergency procurements, no supplementary budgets no task forces, no commissions of inquiry, no ribbon-cutting ceremonies. Prevention is terribly boring.

The rest of the world says, a stitch in time saves nine. In Matookestan, nine stitches are much better than one. Think of the meetings, allowances, consultants, procurement of wrong threads. Think of the reports explaining why the first stitch could not possibly have happened on time.

The rest of the world says, fix the roof while the sun is shining. In Matookestan, absolutely not! Wait until the rainy season. Let everyone get soaked first. The photographs are far more convincing when buckets are catching water inside the classroom. Besides, emergency roofing sounds much more important than maintenance and there's opportunity to steal ironsheets. 

The rest of the world says, don't wait until the well runs dry. Matookestan respectfully disagrees. A dry well is an opportunity. There can be emergency meetings and emergency funding for the dry well. Emergency workshops on sustainable dry-well management. Someone will even launch a strategic framework for future wells.

The rest of the world says, better safe than sorry. In Matookestan, sorry is far more useful. With it comes with condolences, televised speeches, Twitter posts, Webinars, talk shows, and hashtags. Safety has none of those things.

Government works a little differently here too because nothing is urgent until it becomes a traged. This is where Matookestan truly shines.

Watch closely. Within hours there will be statements. Within a day there will be visits. Then committees, investigations, task forces, independent inquiries, emergency budgets, etc. Experts will appear on TV. Politicians will appear at the scene wearing sneakers.

Everyone will promise accountability. Everyone will assure us that this must never happen again. The bridge will finally be repaired. One cannot help wondering whether the bridge required concrete... or a funeral.

That is the strange economy of Matookestan. Maintenance is expensive and disaster is priceless. It feeds headlines and fills conference rooms. It justifies new budgets and creates urgency where there should have been responsibility and accountability.

Then the laughter fades, because outside satire, people really do lose fathers, mothers, children, friends.

The cracks on the bridge almost always existed before the collapse. Someone noticed them and wrote a report. I am almost certain a concern was raised.

In as much as you won't find Matookestan on any map, it appears wherever prevention is ignored, warnings are rejected, public office becomes more about privilege than stewardship, and action only begins after grief of tragedy.

From where my feet are, I don't think we lack what it takes. We are just too selfish and short-sighted to act while the bridge is still standing.

There will be empty desks on Monday

Another bus. Another journey that began with excitement. Another community now wrapped in grief.

The children who boarded that bus were not expecting to become a headline. Teachers counting heads before the bus pulls away. Parents waving from the gate, reminding someone not to forget a sweater, promising to see them later. They were expecting laughter, songs, photographs, snacks shared between friends, and stories to tell when they returned home. Their parents expected them back. Their teachers expected them back. Their schoolmates expected them back. It is such an ordinary scene that none of us ever imagines it could end any other way. Until it does.

Then the photographs on our phones become the photographs on the news. The laughter on the bus is replaced by sirens, hospital corridors, and families waiting for answers they never imagined they would have to ask. Now we wait for the investigations. They will tell us what happened on that particular road, on that particular day, to that particular bus. 

But while we wait for those answers, I have a question.

How many more?

We call these tragedies accidents, yet they happen with such painful regularity that the word itself begins to feel too familiar. An accident suggests something unavoidable, but if a crash is made more likely by speeding, poor vehicle maintenance, driver fatigue, weak enforcement, unsafe roads, then we have to ask whether we are dealing with misfortune alone or with problems we have chosen to live with.

This is not about rushing to blame anyone before the facts are known. It is about refusing to become numb. Every major crash reminds us that road safety is not built on luck but is built on decisions. Decisions about how buses are maintained, how drivers are selected and supported, how traffic laws are enforced, how schools choose transport providers, and how seriously we treat the responsibility of carrying children.

We should never become so accustomed to these stories that they simply blend into the evening news. Every child lost had a favourite subject, a favourite game, dreams they had not yet spoken aloud, and people waiting for them at home.

On Monday, there will be empty desks.

There will be teachers struggling to begin lessons. There will be classmates looking toward seats that will remain empty. There will be parents whose homes will never sound the same again.

Surely that should disturb us enough to demand more than condolences.

Our children climb onto school buses trusting that the adults around them have done everything possible to bring them home safely. That trust is sacred.

We owe our children better.

I cheated myself

I have a confession to make.

I cheated. I have been cheating myself.

For years, I have had this habit of falling in love with people who don't exist. They are not imaginary people, but imaginary versions of real people. I kept falling in love with who people could become instead of who they already were. It was expensive with regards to time, energy, ... and heartbreak.

I have hired people who were going to become amazing employees once they had settled down became more organised. I have believed in leaders who were definitely going to get it right once they settled in. I have rooted for politicians who only needed "a little more time." Yes, I have loved people for the version of them that existed almost entirely in my imagination.

Potential is dangerously attractive. With potential, you ignore today's evidence in exchange for tomorrow's promises. This person has so much potential. They will change. They will mature. They will eventually see. They are almost there. We say the same things about businesses, friendships, careers, and if I'm honest, even my gym membership has had enormous potential for successive years.

I have realised I have a gift for writing stories in my head. I meet someone on page one and then I'm already reading chapter twelve. I meet someone and immediately begin writing Chapter Twenty while they are still introducing themselves. They are still busy showing me exactly who they are. Looking back, I don't think I was seeing potential at all. I was seeing hope, and hope, beautiful as it is, can sometimes wear very thick glasses.

I was not dating who they were. I was dating my prediction. I wasn't hiring the employee I interviewed. I was hiring the employee I hoped they would be six months later. I was not listening to what the politician was doing. I was listening to the speech I wished they had given.

The thing is that people do not disappoint us by becoming someone different. Most of the time, they simply continue being who they were from the beginning. It is us who edited the script. We added qualities they never claimed to have, gave them promotions they hadn't earned, handed them wisdom they hadn't shown, and mistook possibility for reality.

I must confess that some of the biggest disappointments in life are not caused by bad people. They are caused by good imaginations. Mine. My imaginations. I have done this with people, organisations, projects, even the potted plants on my balcony. I became more committed to what something might become than to what it already was.

When you think about it, you realise that potential is free, while reality comes across as expensive in that it asks difficult questions. Can they be trusted? Do they keep their word? Do they show up when they say they will? Do they listen? Where potential says "imagine" reality replies, "Peace, observe."

These days I'm trying something different. I'm trying to believe people the first time they show me who they are. I don't think I have become cynical, if anything, quite the opposite. No doubt potential is a wonderful thing. It inspires us, stretches us, and gives us hope. But potential should not be a foundation. It shouldn't be asked to carry a relationship, a friendship, a business, or even a country on its back. Those things are built on much more basic things like character, consistency, honesty, and simply showing up.

So yes, I cheated myself by falling in love with potential,with tomorrow while ignoring reality and today.

You can't outsmart the universe

People, have you ever wondered why the queue you leave immediately becomes the fastest one, or why a shortcut turns out to be a long route? 

There are certain laws of the universe that scientists have refused to study. They study gravity, black holes quantum physics but not the mysterious law of queues.

Why is it that the moment you change queues, the one you left suddenly starts moving while the one you have joined stands at a halt?

Why is it that a shortcut adds forty-five minutes to your journey?

Why is it that the one day you do not carry an umbrella is the day it rains cats and dogs?

Why is it that when you are already late, every traffic light is red red red?

Why is it that the one thing you came to buy is the only thing missing from the shelf?

Why is it that your phone is silent all day... until you step into the shower?

Why is it that you spend half an hour looking for your keys, give up, borrow the spare set... and immediately find the originals exactly where you had already looked three times?

Why is it that when you finally decide to wash your car, it rains?

I don't know whether these are laws of physics, psychology, probability, or simply the universe having a dry sense of humour. But I do wonder if they are little reminders that life is not a puzzle to be solved.

We spend so much of our lives trying to optimise everything. We search for the quickest route, the shortest queue, the cleverest decision, the fastest checkout counter, the best timing. We act as though life is a game that can be won if only we make enough smart moves. Then life smiles and winks and says, "not today ba dia."

These tiny inconveniences remind us that not everything can be controlled, predicted, or outsmarted. Life is asking us to loosen our grip, laugh often, and remember that everyone else is standing in the wrong queue too.

Think about it... if every shortcut worked, every queue aligned, every traffic light cooperated, and every plan unfolded exactly as expected... life would be more efficient, yes, but it would also be a lot less interesting, because from where my feet are, the best stories usually begin with someone saying, "you won't believe what happened to me."

Today, the sky feels heavy

Today, I have no inspiring words. I don't feel strong. There is a heaviness sitting inside me that I cannot explain. A cloud has settled over my thoughts, and everything feels quieter than it should and yet loud at the same time. The things that usually make me smile have gone silent, hidden behind the dark clouds.

All I want to do is cry. 

The thing about days like this is how invisible they can be. You answer messages. You smile when someone looks your way. You say, "I'm fine," because it is easier than explaining a sadness you don't fully understand yourself. One of the hardest parts is not the sadness but realising that the people closest to you don't always notice it. Our storms can be invisible even to those closest to us, and sometimes we hide the storms from them.

I am not feeling sorry for myself, and no, there is no need for anyone to rescue me. I just have nothing left to hold the tears back. Why does the heart sometimes wake up with a sadness it cannot name?

Part of me wants to stop crying, to be stronger, to explain it away, to hurry back to feeling like myself again. But another part of me knows that tears do not always mean there is a problem to solve. 

We speak so often about finding joy that we forget sadness also has something to teach us. It slows us down. It reminds us that we are human. It tells us that beneath our routines and our smiles, there is still a heart capable of feeling deeply.

So today, I will not fight the wave. I will let it wash over me. I will cry until there are no more tears for today. Today is asking me to let the rain fall and to stop pretending that every cloud must be chased away immediately. Then I will drink some water, open the curtains, and trust tomorrow to carry whatever strength it has for me.

If you are reading this while carrying your own invisible storm, know this: you are not strange and you are not failing and you are certainly not the only one lying still, waiting for the weight to become lighter.

Today, I will let myself cry. Tomorrow can ask something else of me.

But today...

...today, this is where my feet are.

South Sudan: Keep the flag flying

When the flag of South Sudan was raised on 9 July 2011, one battle had been won.

It was the battle for the right of a people to determine their own future. It was a victory paid for over decades by countless ordinary South Sudanese, by families who lost loved ones, and by leaders such as Dr. John Garang, whose vision and sacrifice helped bring the dream of independence within reach.

But independence did not end every battle in the wider war, it changed them.

The struggle is no longer against a distant ruler. Today's battles are against poverty, division, corruption, hunger, insecurity, weak institutions, and the temptation to see one another as enemies instead of fellow citizens. Some of these struggles are inevitable for a young nation,while others should never have been fought at all.

Every conflict that takes the life of or displaces a South Sudanese is a reminder that the greatest threat to a young nation is sometimes not from outside its borders, but from within. But that does not have to be its future, which is why Independence Day matters even more.

The greatest way to honour those who fought for independence should not only be about remembering how they died, but to protect what they hoped future generations would live for.

Black on the flag of south Sudan speaks of the people, whose resilience has carried the nation through unimaginable hardship. Red reminds us of the blood shed in the struggle for freedom. Green points to the land itself, rich with possibility and life. White represents the peace that every generation continues to seek. Blue recalls the waters of the Nile, a river that has sustained communities for centuries. At the heart of the flag shines the golden star, a symbol of unity and hope for all the states and peoples of South Sudan.

So raise the flag! Raise the flag because the journey continues. Raise the flag not only to remember the day freedom was won, but to renew the commitment to build the country that freedom was meant to make possible.

Happy Independence Day, South Sudan. Here is to a peaceful South Sudan. A prosperous South Sudan. A united South Sudan.

The road may still be long, but hope is what carried this nation to independence in the first place. It may yet be what carries it the rest of the way.

May the next chapters of your story be written not by the sound of guns, but by the work of classrooms, farms, businesses, churches, families, and citizens who choose, day after day, to build the nation that so many sacrificed to make possible. May the star on your flag never stop reminding us that even after the darkest night, people can still choose to believe in tomorrow.

Tell me, who is teaching our politicians?

Every profession trains its next generation. Doctors train young doctors. Pilots train young pilots. Architects train young architects. Even plumbers, mechanics and electricians have apprentices.

So when it comes to politicians and our leaders, why do we talk about them as though they appear just like that?They don't!

Every politician is a graduate of somebody's political school. Some learned in student movements. Others in liberation struggles. Some in military barracks. Some inside political parties. Some worked under several leaders and governments. Others learned by watching a parent, a relative, or a political mentor. Some learned in parliament. Others learned on social media.But everyone learned somewhere.

What this means is that every country has a political education curriculum, even if nobody ever explicitly wrote it down, and so that makes me wonder.... If today's leaders and politicians are teaching tomorrow's politicians, who is updating the syllabus?

This actually explains why politics often feels repetitive, like you have seen it before. We see new faces on the scene, in the media speaking the language of change, yet not before long they begin sounding exactly like those who came before them. The slogans change and sometimes even the ideologies change but their habits remain almost exactly the same.

We complain about personality cults, about leaders who struggle to imagine life after office, about politics becoming a family business in some places and a winner-takes-all contest in others. But when you think about it, where did anyone learn something different?

All countries in the world passes down an idea of power. Britain inherited one, China teaches one, the United States has one, Singapore, Rwanda, Botswana, Uganda, Ghana, Brazil, and Japan all have political cultures, whether formally taught or absorbed. Every generation watches the one before it and (un)consciously concludes, this is what leadership looks like.

In some countries, such as Botswana and many of the Nordic countries, political culture has built stable institutions that outlive individual leaders. In others like Russia and Turkey, politics has often revolved around powerful personalities. The United States how polarised politics can become when confrontation becomes part of the political culture, while Switzerland and Singapore for example demonstrate different traditions of consensus, continuity, and long-term thinking.

What I am trying to say is that political culture is inherited way more often than it is redesigned or reconstructed. For many former colonies, there is another layer to this story. The first generation of post-independence leaders inherited institutions and systems designed for administration rather than participation. Colonial governments were efficient at organising authority, collecting taxes, and maintaining order. They were not designed to teach democratic leadership or shared ownership of power. Independence changed the flag but it did not always rewrite the "operating manual." Every generation since has added its own chapters to that manual.

This got me thinking about what should tomorrow's leaders be taught, not who should win the next election or take over when Mzee sleeps permanently (as we all will one day).

Imagine if politics borrowed from medicine. Surgeons do not become surgeons because they write surgeon speeches, nor is one handed an aircraft because their surname is familiar or he is his father's son. They study, write exams, practise, and are supervised. They make mistakes in environments designed for learning before being trusted with enormous responsibility.

Politics is one of the few where someone can wake up on Monday with no experience of governing and by Friday be responsible for the lives of millions. We have made it normal when it really shouldn't be.

If I were designing a political curriculum, I would begin with a course unit on listening, then how power works and how it shouldn't, then institutions before individuals, then public finance is not personal finance, then systems thinking, then ethics when no one is watching, then governance without threats and abductions, public service not peraonal glory, then other course units like conflict resolution, negotiation, etc. 

I would require every aspiring leader to spend months living in communities completely different their own to experience public transport, public hospitals, unreliable electricity, empty taps, overcrowded classrooms, and those small daily frustrations that national statistics don't capture.

I would even include a course unit on how to leave office well. We have since seen and learnt that the greatest test of leadership is not how tightly one holds power, but how confidently one prepares someone else to take it.

I think that is what it really means to decolonise political education. It is not replacing one ideology with another or swapping foreign ideas for local ones, but having the mind to examine inherited lessons, ask whether it still serves the people, and rewrite the curriculum where it does not.

After all, every country eventually becomes the classroom that its leaders graduate from. If we want different politics twenty years from now, we should ask who is teaching the politicians today. 

Congratulations. You have successfully put out my fire

I have just returned home after being away for quite some time. Naturally, I was excited to be back, to eat matooke and boiled chicken, sleep in my bed, be disturbed by MY mosquitoes, etc. I was so excited that all I wanted to do was call my people because, in my mind, they are definitely going to be just as happy as I was. I was even smiling before I called. 

So I called.

Reader, it was like hugging a giant pillar of ice. I came in carrying fireworks of excitement, they picked up the phone with a fire extinguisher. I was a happy dog running toward its owner, and they responded with the emotional equivalent of, "Yes... noted." I was playing a trumpet and they handed me headphones and wore their noise canceling headphones.

By the end of the conversation, I almost wanted to apologise for returning. In fact, I was not even sure I had returned. I almost wanted to ask if they were speaking to the right person.

It made me realise we do this to people far more often than we think. Someone says, I got the job! Response: Hmm... but is it permanent? Someone says, I'm engaged! Response: Let's see how long that lasts. Someone says, I wrote something I'm really proud of.  Response: Did anyone actually read it? Someone says, I finished the marathon. Response: Did you improve your time. 

Someone comes back after weeks away, practically wagging their tail with excitement. Response: "Oh... you are back." Just like that, these three words and the funeral service complete.

I know we do not mean to do it. People are not trying to be unkind. Sometimes they are distracted. Sometimes they are tired. Sometimes they are simply being practical, realistic, balanced, or adult. Meanwhile, someone else's excitement gets unintentionally extinguished. 

When I eventually mentioned how it had landed on my side, I discovered there was a reasonable explanation. They had literally just woken up. My call woke them up. Fair enough. In hindsight, expecting fireworks may have been a touch ambitious. It turned into a tiny storm in a teacup, but it was clear to me that our timing, mood, or tiredness can accidentally pour cold water on someone carrying sunshine.

Next time, I will wait until they are caffeinated.

Excitement is a fragile little thing. It does not ask for much, and many times it just wants, "I'm so glad you are back" or, "that's wonderful" or even, "tell me everything." Those few words can make someone feel seen.

It is amazing how often we underestimate our ability to add life to another person's day. We don't always need solutions, we at times simply need someone to share our excitement with and it is genuinely received. 

So here is my thought. If someone comes to you with their good news, don't immediately inspect it for defects. Let it breathe like a bottle of red wine. Celebrate first and analyse later. There will be plenty of time to discuss risks, budgets, statistics, and possible disappointments tomorrow. After all, there is a reason they came running to you. If every time they come carrying fireworks they leave with ashes, don't be surprised if, one day, they stop coming.

Today, just let people have their fireworks. The world already has enough rain. It doesn't need us carrying buckets of water around too.

Praying the Serenity Prayer a little differently

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.

On the surface, it sounds simple. In practice, I think it is a hard way to live.

Most of our stress comes from mixing up those three categories. We spend energy trying to control people, outcomes, the past, the weather, politics, markets, or what others think of us. Meanwhile, we neglect the few things that are actually ours to shape like our words, our effort, our choices, our response.

I recently found myself in a situation I had absolutely no control over. I was getting increasingly frustrated. My head started to ache and I could feel the tension building in my body. The harder I mentally wrestled with the situation, the worse I felt. Yet there was nothing I could do to change it.

Then, in that moment the Holy Spirit brought the Serenity Prayer to mind. I recited it two or three times. Then, without thinking, I found myself praying it differently, in response to my situation.

God, grant me peace to release what I cannot control, courage to take responsibility for what I can, and wisdom to stop confusing the two.

Wow. Nothing around me changed, but something within me did. The peace that comes from releasing. 

I immediately wrote it down and sent it to myself on WhatsApp because I didn't want to lose it. Then another thought came. What if this wasn't just a prayer for difficult moments? What if we use it as a framework for navigating stress, relationships, work, leadership, anxiety, loss, and everyday life?

I realised I could begin almost any difficult situation with three simple questions unpacking the Serenity Prayer:

• Is this mine to control?
• If yes, what is the next step?
• If no, can I let it go?

So I started reimagining the Serenity Prayer for different situations.

Around stress: May I stop carrying burdens that were never assigned to me. May I faithfully carry the ones that are. And may I know which is which.

Relationships: Give me grace to stop trying to change other people. Give me courage to change myself, or to walk away if I need to. Give me wisdom to know that only one of those jobs is mine.

Work: Help me stop worrying about outcomes I cannot guarantee. Help me focus on the work I can diligently do today. Help me remember that effort belongs to me. Results sometimes do not.

Leadership and management: Grant me peace when I cannot control every decision, courage to influence where I can, and wisdom to know the difference between leading and controlling.

Parenting (for me, being an Aunt): Help me accept that I cannot live my children's [nieces' and nephews'] lives for them. Give me courage to love, teach, and guide them well. Give me wisdom to know when to hold on and when to let go.

When anxious: Help me notice when my mind is trying to solve problems that are not mine to solve. Give me courage to act where action is possible. Give me peace where it isn't.

Regarding the future: Grant me peace about tomorrow, courage for today, and wisdom to remember that today is the only place where I can actually do anything.

Politics and the world: Help me care without carrying the weight of the whole world. Help me contribute where my hands can reach. Help me recognise the difference.

Everyday life: Help me accept what I cannot control, improve what I can, and resist the temptation to confuse the two.

I think the reason the Serenity Prayer has remained pertinent through time is that it isn't about being passive, but about knowing where to spend your limited energy. It has certainly brought more peace into my life. Maybe it will bring some into yours.

The next time you feel overwhelmed, ask yourself:

• Is this mine to control?
• If yes, what is the next step?
• If no, can I let it go?

From where my feet are, peace comes from releasing what is not yours. Courage comes from doing what is. Wisdom is knowing which pile is which.

Southern Africa, we need to talk about your sunsets.

I have spent the last couple of weeks travelling through Southern Africa - Zimbabwe, Namibia, Botswana and Zambia, and I have arrived at a thoroughly unbiased conclusion. This place is showing off.

The wildlife is amazing, of course. Lions laze beneath trees with occasional yawns and stretches after a healthy meal of the numerous antelopes. Leopards if you are lucky enough to see them vanish into the bush remind you they are there, just elusive. Cheetahs sit upright with graceful posture and scan the horizon with gait of seasoned professionals. Every night, somewhere in the darkness, hyenas begin calling to one another, a sound that is equal parts laughter and an ancient animal language.

Then morning comes, and the sand tells stories. Fresh footprints reveal who walked past your tent while you were asleep. An elephant, a hyena, a lion, all of them? You realise the night shift has been far busier than you imagined.

One thing surprised me most. Unlike many places in East Africa, the animals in Southern Africa are interestingly unconcerned by vehicles. The impala linger on the road looking at you curiously, elephants continue feeding, giraffes turn their long necks to show off their beautiful eye lashes. 

Part of that freedom comes from something interesting. Across the vast Kavango-Zambezi (KAZA) landscape, several countries have worked together to keep wildlife corridors open, allowing animals to move across borders that exist on maps but mean nothing to elephants, lions, or wild dogs. Communities, too, speak about "their" wildlife with genuine pride, not because they own it, but because they live alongside it and understand that its future is tied to theirs. It is conservation on a landscape scale, and you can feel it.

None of this comes cheaply though. By the time you've paid for flights, accommodation, and transport, your bank account is bleeping (relatively speaking). But some journeys repay you in ways that never appear on a receipt.

Then evening comes.

Just when you think the wildlife has already won the day's competition, the sky quietly clears its throat.

Southern Africa produces spectacular sunsets with almost unnecessary confidence and brilliance. Gold gives way to orange. Orange melts into pink. Purple may appear because restraint is not part of the regional character. The sky must put on a great show. The horizon becomes so beautiful that conversations fade away into one word - wow.

It occurred to me that this is God's most consistent daily habit. Every evening He paints a masterpiece, leaves it hanging above the horizon for a few glorious minutes, and then rolls it away until tomorrow. That is the finest performance of the day and it is completely free.

If you're wondering whether Southern Africa is worth visiting, my answer is simple. Come for the lions, the leopards, the cheetahs, the African wild dogs, the elephant trails, the hyenas calling through the night, the landscapes, and one of the world's greatest conservation stories.

Stay until sunset.

That's when this part of Africa really starts showing off. From where my feet are, I hope it never stops.

The Uganda Self-Referral Anti-Corruption Programme

I came across this while reading the BBC: How Scotland Changed the Way It Tackled Violence.

The article describes how parts of Scotland began treating violence not necessarily as a moral failure alone and also as a public health problem. Instead of only waiting for people to commit crimes and then arresting them, they looked at what causes violence in the first place, intervened early, offered support, and even encouraged people at risk to seek help before they hurt someone else. It is a surprisingly simple idea: prevention sometimes works better than punishment.

So,  of course, my mind wandered to Uganda. Imagine if we borrowed this philosophy and applied it to our corruption, moving away from the old-fashioned method where everyone shouts and tweets that they are "fighting corruption".

This is a modern approach. The National Self-Referral Programme for Corruption Recovery. Under this system, people would not wait to be caught. They would report themselves early, before temptation becomes a mansion in Najjera, a farm in Mbarara, or a government vehicle permanently parked at a private school.

It would begin with TV and radio adverts. "Have you recently awarded your cousin a government contract worth UGX 48 billion? Are you struggling to stop buying government vehicles every election season? You are not alone. Corruption is a condition. Help is available."

A toll-free number would be introduced.

0800-I-ATE-THE-MONEY.

Civil servants would be encouraged to come forward voluntarily. "Hello... yes... I accidentally built three mansions using road maintenance funds. I would like to book an appointment." "Excellent, sir. Are mornings or afternoons better for your recovery journey?"

Instead of police stations, we would establish Corruption Wellness Centres. People would sit in circles introducing themselves.

"My name is Katushabe."
"Hello Katushabe."
"It has been six weeks since I last inflated a procurement invoice."

Someone else would stand up slowly....

"My name is Anita."
"Hello Anita."
"I recently attended a workshop and returned the balance of the facilitation."

At this point, the whole room would go quiet. Even the counsellor would remove their glasses. Then everyone in the room gives a round of applause. Graduates would receive certificates. "Congratulations! You have now gone ninety consecutive days without eating money."

Relapses, of course, would happen. Someone would walk past a procurement budget and suddenly feel dizzy. The counsellor would calmly remind them to breathe. "Remember your training. Not every budget is yours."

There would be outreach programmes, mobile clinics visiting ministries, peer support groups for people tempted by fuel allowances, emergency counsellors for anyone experiencing sudden urges to create twenty-seven ghost employees. Parliament would even hold an annual Recovery Week.

Imagine, instead of declaring assets, members would declare temptations. "I almost approved an unnecessary foreign benchmarking trip." The Speaker replies, "Thank you for your honesty. Recovery begins with openness."

Would it work? Probably not. But then again, neither has pretending that corruption is committed exclusively by the mysterious people called "the corrupt" who are always somewhere else.

Corrupt system are sustained because ordinary honest people slowly become comfortable with extraordinary dishonesty. The first person who needs to report corruption is not the neighbour, the accounting officer or the activist. It is the voice inside us that keeps whispering, "Everyone does it."

If Scotland can ask people to seek help before violence destroys lives, Uganda could one day build a country where admitting temptation is considered a strength instead of a political career-ending mistake.

Faith, Hope and ... Reality

My good friend is praying for a miracle. He's stuck right now. There doesn't seem to be an obvious way forward. Every door seems to lead back to the same room.

We were talking about it the other day, and after he shared what was happening, I found myself doing what many of us do; offer practical advice. Call this person. Try this option. Maybe there's another route.

He listened patiently and then, casually, said, "I'm praying for a miracle." That was the end of the conversation, but it wasn't the end of mine.

It struck me that I hadn't really been talking to my friend. I had been listening to an argument, but this argument was not between the two of us but between faith and practicality. Hope was there too.

Practicality had a convincing case. Look at the facts. Count the money, read the forecast, work with what you know, which of course is a wise thing to do, right? Most of life falls apart because people ignore reality.

Ha! Then faith spoke. It looked at the very same facts as practicality, but reached a different conclusion. This wasn't because the facts weren't true, but because they weren't the whole story.

That was a light bulb moment.  If everyone had only ever been practical, I wonder how many things would never have happened. Someone planted the first vineyard before they knew it would grow, be fermented and turned into a drink I love. Someone started a business before there were customers. Someone asked a difficult question before they knew anyone would listen. Marriages and relationships begin without guarantees. Every child enters a future no parent can predict. None of those decisions came with certainty.

We admire people who take leaps of faith, but only after the leap works. Before that, we usually call them unrealistic. Faith does not pretend or assume reality doesn't exist. Faith simply refuses to believe that today's reality is the final word.

And hope?

Hope is the quietest of the three. Hope doesn't argue with the facts. It leaves a small window open for surprise. Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe the rains will come. Maybe this isn't where the story ends.

Of course, practicality deserves its place. Someone still has to count the seed before planting, budget for the journey, remember to put enough fuel. Faith without action becomes wishful thinking. Practicality without hope becomes resignation. Hope without either is like ... well... a couch potato.

The mistake I made is making faith, hope and practicality compete, when they were never meant to. We can look at them as travelling companions. One reminds us to look at the road. One reminds us that roads sometimes bend in unexpected ways. And one gives us the courage to take the next step anyway.

I still don't know whether my friend will get his miracle. I hope he does. I left that conversation realising that sometimes the most practical thing you can do is make the phone call, and after you've made every phone call you can think of...

...you pray for a miracle.

From where my feet are, wisdom is learning when to do both.

The Tweeting Prince of Matookestan

Once upon a time, in a kingdom called Matookestan, tucked somewhere between the Equator and good judgment, there lived a king.

The king had ruled for so long that children genuinely believed presidents simply grew old in office. Many people could not remember another ruler. 

The king also had a son.

Like many royal sons, he received the finest education, the finest uniforms, the finest promotions and enough stars on his shoulders to outshine the milky way. Every time you looked away, another star appeared. If promotion were a crop, this prince alone could have fed the whole kingdom.

Everyone understood the arrangement. The prince was being prepared for the throne. Our elders say, "The chick that will become a cock is spotted while it is still young." Unfortunately, nobody stopped to ask what kind of cock it would become.

Then the prince discovered Twitter, or Twitter discovered the prince. Either way, peace left the kingdom. My friends... That app finished us.

Every morning Matookestans wake up the same way. Before brushing their teeth, before saying their prayers, before checking whether there's electricity, they first ask one question. "Eh... what has the prince posted today?" 

Royal decrees once arrived on parchment. In Matookestan they came as notifications. His Royal Tweetness had spoken.

With this prince, you cannot plan your day. You sleep knowing Matookestan is at peace. You wake up to find the prince has declared war on a country. Tomorrow he is challenging another president. The next day he is insulting journalists. The day after that he is arresting somebody in a tweet. Then he posts a selfie. Then shuts down a newspaper. Then a joke.

The funny thing is that government officials themselves check the prince's posts before attending the morning meetings. One man's thumbs have become a national remote control.

Meanwhile, back in the kingdom, ordinary life continued. People were still being picked up in drones, opposition politicians still disappeared into long nights of uncertainty, journalists still wondered whether tomorrow's headline might also become tomorrow's court case, families still waited outside prisons, lawyers still waited outside police stations. Citizens learnt the ancient Ugandan skill of lowering their voices in public. The prince, His Royal Tweetness kept posting.

Our elders say, "When the drumbeat changes, the dance also changes." The problem in Matookestan is that the drummer has discovered unlimited airtime. The beat changes every five or so minutes. One day the prince is discussing international diplomacy, the next day he is threatening somebody. Tomorrow he is ordering arrests on Twitter, the day after that he is tweeting who needs to found and punished.

After a while, the kingdom stopped asking, "Why did the prince say that?" People asked, "mpozi which tweet are you talking about?" That is when you know a kingdom is in trouble.

What was interesting in Matookestan is no longer the prince, but his power. Power is interesting in that the longer it goes unchallenged, the more it mistakes itself for wisdom. The longer it escapes consequence, the more it begins to believe that consequence is for ordinary citizens. Soon, "laws become suggestions", as I read somewhere.  Systems become background music. The kingdom develops two legal systems. One for citizens, another for royalty.

Our grandparents had another saying, "When termites begin eating the centre of the pole, the roof still stands... until that fateful afternoon."

That is how kingdoms get into trouble not just in Africa. Everywhere. A prince discovers that nobody can tell him no. Courtiers laugh when they should advise, advisers clap when they should caution. The kingdom mistakes fear for peace. Then one day everyone asks, "How did we get here?"

One thing we should remember is that kingdoms are not protected by the strength of the lion. They are protected by the wisdom of the pride. Every pride reaches the day when the old lion must decide whether he is preparing a successor... or just creating a louder version of himself.

Wise lions do not teach young lions only how to roar. They teach them when not to roar. They teach restraint because strength without restraint frightens the jungle. Power without restraint weakens the kingdom.

A prince who grows up believing he can do anything simply because he can eventually believes there is nothing he should not do.

Our grandparents had yet another saying. "When the child starts carrying a panga carelessly, he is not the only one in danger." That is Matookestan today. If this is how the prince behaves before wearing the crown... What exactly will happen after someone finally places it on his head?

Fairy tales normally end with, "And they lived happily ever after." Matookestan's fairy tale is still being written.