The First Rambling of Uncle Rwamiti: Adventures in the Knowing-Doing Gap

The year was 2050.

The closure ceremony was elegant.

The hotel was luxurious.

The food was excellent.

The speeches were long.

Very long.

The association was celebrating its fortieth anniversary.

And its final day of existence.

For forty years, the association had been regarded as one of the most prestigious professional bodies in East Africa.

Its leaders proudly listed their achievements:

• 38 annual conferences.
• 127 workshops.
• 412 newsletters.
• 29 strategic plans.
• 17 international partnerships.
• Thousands of members over the decades.

The PowerPoint presentation lasted nearly an hour.

Everybody applauded.

Everybody smiled.

Everybody congratulated one another.

Then the chairman cleared his throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen, after forty years of service, today we officially close the association.”

The room fell silent.

Some people wiped tears from their eyes.

Others nodded solemnly.

A few took photographs.

The next morning, the board waited.

Surely the newspapers would react.

Nothing.

They waited another day.

Surely social media would react.

Nothing.

A week passed.

Still nothing.

No public outcry.

No petitions.

No emergency meetings.

No angry letters.

No television debates.

Nothing.

The chairman was furious.

“How is this possible?”

“We served this profession for forty years!”

Eventually, someone suggested inviting Uncle Rwamiti.

This was generally considered a risky decision.

Whenever Uncle Rwamiti attended meetings, people either learned something or regretted inviting him.

Sometimes both.

Three days later, he arrived.

Not in a suit.

Not with a PowerPoint presentation.

Not carrying a strategic plan.

Just a walking stick and an expression suggesting he had already guessed the answer.

The chairman welcomed him warmly.

“Uncle Rwamiti, we are puzzled.”

“Good,” said Rwamiti.

“Puzzled people are easier to teach than certain professors.”

Several professors shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

The chairman continued.

“We have closed one of the most respected associations in the country.”

“Congratulations,” said Rwamiti.

The chairman blinked.

“Congratulations?”

“Yes.”

“You have conducted a successful experiment.”

“What experiment?”

“You have discovered your market value.”

The room became quiet.

The chairman frowned.

“What do you mean?”

Rwamiti leaned forward.

“If your association disappeared and nobody noticed, then perhaps the association was solving a problem nobody felt.”

A woman in the front row objected.

“But we organized conferences.”

“Very good.”

“We published newsletters.”

“Excellent.”

“We held annual meetings.”

“Wonderful.”

“We developed strategic plans.”

“Outstanding.”

The chairman smiled.

At last, somebody understood.

Then Rwamiti ruined the moment.

“My question is simpler.”

He paused.

“What problem were you solving?”

The room froze.

The chairman looked at the secretary.

The secretary looked at the treasurer.

The treasurer examined the ceiling.

The ceiling offered no assistance.

Finally somebody answered.

“We were promoting professional development.”

Rwamiti nodded.

“And how did anybody’s life improve because of that?”

Silence.

Another person spoke.

“We represented our members.”

“Excellent.”

“What changed because of that representation?”

More silence.

Rwamiti smiled gently.

Not a cruel smile.

A sad smile.

The smile of a man who had attended too many meetings.

“My friends,” he said, “you spent forty years documenting your activities.”

He pointed around the room.

“You forgot to demonstrate your importance.”

The words landed heavily.

One elderly board member sighed.

“I think I understand.”

“No,” said Rwamiti.

“I don’t think you do.”

The room laughed nervously.

Rwamiti continued.

“Let me tell you a story.”

Across town there was a small community group.

No office.

No annual conference.

No strategic plan.

No executive director.

No air conditioning.

No logo.

The group met under a large tree every Saturday.

Its members helped young people find jobs.

They connected widows to support networks.

They helped small businesses survive difficult times.

They organized mentors.

They solved problems.

“Suppose that group disappeared tomorrow.”

Everyone nodded.

People would notice immediately.

“Why?” asked Rwamiti.

Because people depended on them.

Because they mattered.

Because they created visible value.

Rwamiti looked around the room.

“Do you know what the most dangerous disease in organizations is?”

Nobody answered.

He tapped his walking stick on the floor.

“Activity addiction.”

The room erupted in laughter.

“People become so busy organizing conferences that they forget why the conference exists.”

More laughter.

“They become so busy writing reports that they forget who the report is supposed to help.”

Even more laughter.

“They become so busy measuring outputs that they forget to measure outcomes.”

Now nobody was laughing.

Because everybody knew he was right.

The chairman sat quietly.

Then he asked the question that mattered.

“What should we have done differently?”

Rwamiti smiled.

“You possessed something valuable.”

“What?”

“Knowledge.”

“Experience.”

“Relationships.”

“Success stories.”

“Lessons learned.”

“You had everything.”

“Except one thing.”

The room leaned forward.

“What?”

“Translation.”

The chairman frowned.

“Translation?”

“Yes.”

“You never translated your knowledge into stories people could understand.”

“You never translated your experience into value people could see.”

“You never translated your achievements into impact people could feel.”

The room was silent.

Outside, evening was beginning to fall.

Rwamiti stood.

The meeting was over.

As he walked toward the door, somebody called after him.

“Uncle Rwamiti!”

He turned.

“What is it?”

“If you could leave us with one final lesson, what would it be?”

Rwamiti looked back at the room.

Forty years of effort.

Thousands of volunteer hours.

Hundreds of good intentions.

Then he said:

“Organizations do not become important because they exist.”

He paused.

“They become important because people would notice if they disappeared.”

And with that, he walked into the evening.

Uncle Rwamiti’s Reflection

In every organization there is hidden knowledge.

There is hidden experience.

There are hidden stories.

There are hidden lessons.

The challenge is not acquiring more.

The challenge is unlocking the value of what already exists.

Because knowledge is not fully born when it is written.

It is born when somebody uses it.
Dr Petero wamala writes about bridging the knowledge -action gap.