Why the old man insisted that electric mobility was never really about cars.

People think old men spend their mornings drinking tea because they have nothing left to do. That is a misunderstanding. An old man drinks tea because it gives younger people enough time to reveal what is really on their minds.

That morning I was seated at Horizons Café with my usual cup of African tea. The waitress had long stopped asking whether I wanted sugar.

“When a man reaches my age,” I once told her, “the doctor removes sweetness from his tea so that life itself may become sweeter.”

She laughed politely. Young people are wonderfully generous to old jokes.

Across the room sat four young men arguing so passionately that even the teaspoons seemed nervous. One insisted that electric vehicles would replace every petrol car within five years. Another declared that batteries would soon become the biggest environmental disaster in history. A third had watched so many online videos that he had become an expert without ever opening a bonnet. The fourth simply nodded after whoever had spoken last.

I smiled.

There is an African proverb my grandfather never wrote down:

“The loudest drum in the village is not always the one carrying the rhythm.”

One of the young men recognised me.

“Mzee,” he called. “Come and settle this argument.”

Old men are dangerous people to invite into arguments. We rarely answer the question we are asked. Instead, we answer the one that should have been asked.

I carried my tea to their table.

“My grandchildren,” I said, “you have spent thirty minutes discussing electric cars. You have not spent thirty seconds discussing change.”

Silence.

“You see, people imagine that history changes because someone invents a better machine. It doesn’t. History changes because millions of ordinary people slowly change the way they live.”

They looked unconvinced.

So I asked them a question.

“When mobile phones first appeared, what business disappeared?”

One mentioned telegrams. Another said public telephone booths. The mechanic scratched his head.

I continued.

“When mobile money arrived, did it only change banking?”

“No.”

“It changed how families send school fees. It changed how farmers receive payment. It changed how market vendors save money. It even changed how politicians campaign.”

The table became quieter.

“You see,” I said, “technology never travels alone. It brings new habits, new jobs, new fears and new opportunities.”

“And sometimes,” I added, “new experts who became experts yesterday afternoon.”

Even the mechanic laughed.

I pointed through the café window as a fuel tanker rumbled past.

“That tanker is not the story. Neither is the electric car.”

“The story is what happens to the people who depend on them.”

Will today’s mechanic become tomorrow’s battery technician?

Will today’s petrol station become tomorrow’s energy hub?

Will universities teach yesterday’s skills or tomorrow’s?

Will entrepreneurs wait for change or build businesses around it?

Those are the real questions.

The youngest man finally spoke.

“So, Mzee… are you saying electric cars are good?”

I smiled.

“My grandson, you are asking me whether rain is good.”

“The wiser question is this.”

“Have you prepared your roof?”

Around the table, no one spoke for several moments.

The waitress returned to refill my cup.

“Mzee,” she asked, “did you solve the argument?”

I shook my head.

“No.”

“I merely gave them a better one.”

As I walked towards the car park, I remembered another proverb my grandfather might have invented had he lived to see this century.

“The future never knocks on the door. It quietly rearranges the furniture while people are busy arguing about the colour of the curtains.”

Perhaps that is why every generation struggles with change. We keep looking at the machine when we should be looking at ourselves.

And that, my grandchildren, is why electric mobility was never really about electric vehicles.

Dr Petero Wamala, DBA
Making Sense of Change Through Ethical Storytelling.