Uncle Rwamiti’s Musings on the Danger of a Single Story

There is something I admire about storytellers.

Not because they tell stories.

Because they expose the ones we have been telling ourselves without noticing.

Years ago, I listened to a young Nigerian woman explain what she called the danger of a single story.

She argued that the greatest misunderstanding is not what we know.

It is believing that what we know is the whole truth.

Since then, I have developed a habit.

Whenever someone tells me what they do, I quietly ask myself:

“Is that the whole story?”

Most times, it isn’t.

That was how I met Maama Jane.

Her real name was Jane Namuganga.

Most people in Kampala knew her simply as Maama Jane.

If you asked around, they would point you towards one of her two restaurants.

“The food is excellent.”

“The service is fast.”

“She is a hardworking woman.”

Some would add,

“She started in Entebbe before opening the Kampala branch.”

That, it seemed, was her story.

Restaurant owner.

End of story.

Or so everyone thought.

One afternoon I sat quietly in a corner of her Entebbe restaurant.

Not to eat.

To observe.

Old men play strange games.

We watch.

Young people think we are doing nothing.

In truth, we are collecting evidence.

Customers arrived one after another.

A family celebrating a birthday.

Two construction workers.

An airport driver.

A group of university students.

An impatient businessman demanding his food immediately.

A child crying because her juice had spilled.

Through it all, Maama Jane moved calmly.

She noticed everything.

She saw a waiter becoming overwhelmed before he admitted it.

She recognised an argument beginning long before voices were raised.

She settled a misunderstanding between two employees with remarkable firmness but without humiliating either of them.

When a suspicious-looking man lingered near the entrance, her eyes found him instantly.

She didn’t panic.

She simply walked over, greeted him warmly and asked whether she could help.

He smiled awkwardly and left.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

When the lunchtime rush ended, I invited her to sit.

“My daughter,” I asked, “how long have you been in the restaurant business?”

She laughed.

“Twenty-three years.”

“And before that?”

She hesitated.

“I was a police constable.”

Now my curiosity was fully awake.

“For how long?”

“Seven years.”

“And why did you leave?”

“A health condition forced me out.”

She looked away briefly.

“I thought my life had ended.”

I nodded.

Many people think life ends when one chapter closes.

Sometimes that is simply where the real story begins.

She continued.

“I had no training in hospitality.”

“No experience in restaurants.”

“No business education.”

“So how did you manage?” I asked.

She smiled.

“I learned.”

Did she?

Or was that another single story?

I pointed towards the dining room.

“When that customer became angry a few minutes ago…”

“…how did you know exactly what to say?”

She shrugged.

“I suppose experience.”

“When those two employees disagreed…”

“…how did you stop the conflict before it became serious?”

Again she shrugged.

“I’ve dealt with people all my life.”

“And the man near the entrance…”

“You noticed him before anyone else.”

She laughed.

“Old habits.”

Exactly.

Old habits.

Or perhaps…

Old capabilities.

I leaned forward.

“My daughter…”

“I don’t think you ever left the Police.”

She looked puzzled.

“I left years ago.”

“No.”

“You left the uniform.”

“You never left the capabilities.”

She became very quiet.

“Tell me,” I continued.

“What does a good police officer need?”

She answered almost immediately.

“Observation.”

“Discipline.”

“Reading people.”

“Remaining calm.”

“Resolving conflict.”

“Keeping records.”

“Managing difficult situations.”

“Spotting trouble before it becomes danger.”

I smiled.

“And what does a successful restaurant owner need?”

She stopped speaking.

Slowly…

A smile spread across her face.

“They’re almost the same.”

There it was.

The second story.

The one nobody had ever told.

People thought Maama Jane had reinvented herself.

She hadn’t.

She had transmuted herself.

The market had changed.

The building had changed.

The uniform had changed.

But the engine underneath remained remarkably similar.

She had carried her capabilities from one profession into another.

I picked up a menu.

“My daughter…

This menu is not your business.”

She looked surprised.

“The tables are not your business.”

“The kitchen is not your business.”

“The restaurant is not your business.”

“So what is?”

“You are in the business of creating environments where strangers feel safe, respected and cared for.”

She looked around the room as though seeing it for the first time.

I continued.

“A police officer creates public order.”

“A restaurant owner creates social order.”

“In both places people arrive with different emotions, different expectations and different personalities.”

“In both places someone must observe, anticipate, calm, organise and lead.”

“The setting has changed.”

“The capabilities have not.”

⸻

As I prepared to leave, I asked one final question.

“If tomorrow every restaurant in Uganda closed…”

“…what would remain?”

She answered without hesitation.

“I would still know how to lead people.”

“I would still know how to read situations.”

“I would still know how to build disciplined teams.”

“I would still know how to solve problems.”

“I would still know how to make people feel safe.”

I smiled.

“My daughter…”

“Now you know what business you have really been in all these years.”

As I walked towards the taxi park, I wondered how many lives are trapped inside a single story.

We call someone a teacher.

Yet perhaps they are really a builder of confidence.

We call someone a nurse.

Perhaps they are an exceptional educator and communicator.

We call someone a police officer.

Perhaps they are quietly becoming an outstanding entrepreneur.

The tragedy is not that people change careers.

The tragedy is that many never recognise the capabilities they have been carrying with them all along.

Perhaps that is why so many fear starting again.

They think they are leaving everything behind.

They are not.

They are taking their greatest assets with them.

Not their uniforms.

Not their job titles.

Not their industries.

Their capabilities.

And those, unlike uniforms, travel well.

Dr. Petero Wamala

Every profession teaches capabilities. Every capability can create value far beyond the profession in which it was learned. The challenge is not acquiring more knowledge. It is recognising the hidden capabilities you already possess—and learning how to carry them into your next chapter.