A petrol station conversation about brilliance, reliability, and broken trust

Paul arrived late, as usual.

The petrol station forecourt was already quieter than normal. Uncle Rwamiti had finished his tea and was wiping the rim of the cup slowly, the way people do when they are not in a hurry to be anywhere.

“You said you would be here at nine,” Uncle Rwamiti said, without looking up.

Paul smiled apologetically.
“Client call. Very urgent.”

Uncle Rwamiti nodded.
“Urgent things often arrive when other things are already waiting.”

Paul laughed, relieved that no lecture followed. He placed his laptop bag on the bench and sat down.

“I don’t understand these clients,” Paul said.
“They want everything immediately. They don’t respect time. And then they complain when things are not perfect.”

Uncle Rwamiti remained silent.

“The problem with the gig economy,” Paul continued, “is that talent is undervalued. People don’t see how skilled you are. They just want cheap and fast.”

Uncle Rwamiti finally looked at him.

“Paul,” he said,
“if talent paid well by itself, would you still be here?”

Paul paused.
“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Uncle Rwamiti said gently,
“you are very good at what you do. Everyone here knows that. Yet you are always rushing, always apologising, always waiting for the next job. That is not how rare talent usually behaves.”

Paul frowned.
“I’m independent. That’s the point. Freedom.”

“Freedom,” Uncle Rwamiti repeated.
“Yes. Freedom is expensive.”

Paul laughed.
“Now you sound like my uncle.”

“I am old enough to be many people’s uncle,” Uncle Rwamiti replied.

“Tell me something, Paul. When you promise a delivery date, who chooses it?”

“I do,” Paul said.
“But sometimes things come up.”

“Of course,” Uncle Rwamiti said.
“Things always come up. The question is not whether things come up. The question is whether people trust you to manage them.”

Paul shifted in his seat.

“At the petrol station,” Uncle Rwamiti continued,
“the pumps that work perfectly but fail randomly are not trusted. People queue at the pumps that are predictable—even if they are slower.”

Paul looked up.
“So you’re saying I’m slow?”

“No,” Uncle Rwamiti said.
“I’m saying you are impressive once, and uncertain afterwards.”

The forecourt was quiet.
A boda-boda rider adjusted his helmet nearby.
A car drove off without stopping.

“In gig work,” Uncle Rwamiti said,
“talent is the entry fee. Reliability is the currency. Reputation is the bank.”

Paul sighed.
“But clients should understand pressure. I’m juggling many things.”

“They do,” Uncle Rwamiti replied.
“Which is why they quietly stop calling the people who make pressure their problem.”

Paul stared at the ground.

“You know,” Uncle Rwamiti added,
“people rarely fire gig workers. They simply hesitate the next time. And then they forget.”

Paul closed his laptop bag slowly.
“So what should I do?”

Uncle Rwamiti stood up.

“I didn’t say you should do anything.”

He smiled.

“I only asked whether you would hire yourself.”

Paul arrived late the next week too.
But he sat quietly this time.

Uncle Rwamiti noticed that more than punctuality, silence often meant something had finally been heard.

⸻

Dr Petero Wamala
Translating examined and lived knowledge into public narratives, including audiobooks and documentaries.