There was once a businessman in Kampala named Ssemanda who had a terrible reputation.

Not for theft.
Not for lies.
Not for women.

For batteries.

Every year, sometimes twice a year, batteries died in his office.

The secretary feared blackouts more than tax season. The accountant flinched whenever the inverter beeped. Staff saved documents every three minutes like people living near a volcano.

And whenever the system collapsed, Ssemanda would stand dramatically in the corridor and announce:

“These battery people are thieves!”

Then he would buy another battery.

New battery. New hope. Old habits.

After the fifth funeral, word reached Uncle Rwamiti.

Now Uncle Rwamiti was known for two things:

1. arriving slowly
2. leaving people embarrassed intelligently

He entered the office carrying a walking stick polished by time and sarcasm.

He found five old batteries lined near the wall like disgraced ministers.

He looked at them carefully, removed his hat, and sighed.

“My condolences,” said the secretary.

“For whom?” asked Rwamiti.

“For the dead batteries.”

Rwamiti shook his head.

“No. For the innocent batteries.”

The room went silent.

Ssemanda frowned.

“What do you mean innocent?”

Uncle Rwamiti pointed to the inverter, then to the tangled wiring, then to a blocked ventilation corner where heat collected like gossip.

He asked a few questions:

• How often does power go off?
• What loads were added recently?
• Who changed the charger settings?
• When were terminals last cleaned?
• Why is the battery room hotter than a political debate?

No one answered confidently.

He smiled.

“Ah. As I suspected. You have been burying witnesses, not culprits.”

The accountant dropped his pen.

Rwamiti continued.

“A battery is like a donkey. It can carry weight. But overload it, starve it, beat it, deny it rest, then call it lazy when it collapses — the fault is not the donkey.”

The secretary nodded so hard her earrings shook.

He then inspected the setup.

The charger was undercharging.
The load had doubled.
The cooling was poor.
Connections were loose.
Half the office appliances had been secretly added without upgrading the system.

In short:

The batteries had not died.
They had been worked to death.

Ssemanda sat down slowly.

“So all these years…”

“Yes,” said Rwamiti. “You have been replacing victims.”

The next week the system was corrected.

Proper settings. Better ventilation. Smarter load management. Clean terminals. Honest expectations.

Months passed.

Then a year.

No blackout drama.
No funeral speeches.
No accusations against battery sellers.

One morning Ssemanda met Uncle Rwamiti in town.

“You have changed my life,” he said.

Rwamiti waved him off.

“No. I only taught you what many men never learn.”

“What is that?”

Rwamiti leaned closer.

“When the same problem keeps returning, stop replacing the victim. Examine the system.”

Then he walked away, leaving behind silence, wisdom, and one unpaid tea bill.

Moral of the Story

Most dead batteries are dead systems.

Before buying another battery:

• check charging
• check load
• check heat
• check settings
• check discipline

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