Uncle Rwamiti Opens Warren Buffett’s World to John Okello

John Okello was the kind of young man Ugandan parents used to pray for.

At Makerere University, he graduated with a First Class degree in engineering. Then came a scholarship to a prestigious university in the United Kingdom, where he specialised in robotics and advanced automation.

The family celebrated.

At the graduation party, relatives spoke confidently about his future.

“This one will not look for jobs,” one uncle announced. “Jobs will look for him.”

Seven years later, the jobs were still looking.

John had returned to Uganda with excellent qualifications, intelligence and confidence. What he had failed to acquire was traction.

He had worked for several companies but somehow never stayed long. One employer was “too backward.” Another “didn’t understand innovation.” A third had “toxic management.”

He tried consulting.

Clients admired his presentations but complained that assignments sometimes remained unfinished.

He entered business partnerships.

They usually began with excitement and ended with accusations.

Yet John was not suffering.

That was because John had Auntie Eseza.

Eseza was his mother’s elder sister, a successful businesswoman who loved her nephew enormously.

When John returned from Britain, she gave him one of her apartments in Mbuya.

Rent free.

When transport became a problem, Auntie Eseza bought him a new Subaru.

When a consultancy delayed payment, she helped.

When a business collapsed, she helped.

When John was “between opportunities,” which happened rather frequently, she helped.

At thirty-something, John had somehow achieved the lifestyle of a successful professional without the inconvenient requirement of becoming one.

Then one afternoon he met Uncle Rwamiti at Horizons Café.

Uncle Rwamiti was drinking tea slowly, as retired African men do when they have nowhere urgent to go but several opinions urgently requiring distribution.

John joined him.

After the usual greetings, John began explaining Uganda.

There were no opportunities.

Companies didn’t appreciate sophisticated skills.

Government didn’t understand technology.

Investors were conservative.

Ugandans feared innovative people.

Uncle Rwamiti listened.

This was usually dangerous.

When John finally finished, the old man stirred his tea.

“John, do you know Warren Buffett?”

John almost laughed.

“Of course, Uncle. Berkshire Hathaway. One of the world’s greatest investors.”

“Good. At least Makerere did not completely waste its fees.”

John smiled.

“Do you know how he raised his children?”

John hesitated.

“No.”

“Ah,” said Rwamiti. “Then today we leave Uganda alone. Uganda has suffered enough from your analysis. Let us travel to Omaha.”

Welcome to Buffett’s House

Warren Buffett became one of the richest men in history.

Yet his three children did not grow up with the idea that their father’s billions were their career plan.

They went to ordinary public schools. They had chores. Their parents did not insist that they reproduce Warren Buffett.

One became involved in farming, business, conservation and philanthropy.

Another pursued music.

The daughter built her own path, including substantial philanthropic work.

None became Warren Buffett II.

And Buffett famously believed that children should have enough resources to pursue possibilities, but not so much that they could simply choose to do nothing.

Uncle Rwamiti stopped.

“Do you understand that sentence, John?”

“Yes.”

“No. You have heard it. Understanding will take longer.”

He called the waiter.

“Another tea.”

Then he turned back to John.

“Your Auntie Eseza loves you very much.”

“She does.”

“She gave you the apartment?”

“Yes.”

“The Subaru?”

“Yes.”

“She sometimes supports you when things are difficult?”

John shifted slightly.

“Yes.”

Rwamiti nodded.

“Excellent woman.”

John relaxed.

Then came the knife.

“Unfortunately, she may be financing your unemployment very efficiently.”

John stared at him.

SUPPORT AND INSULATION ARE NOT THE SAME THING

Uncle Rwamiti leaned forward.

“My son, there are two ways to help a young bird.

“You can feed it while its wings grow.

“Or you can keep feeding it until it forgets why God gave it wings.”

John laughed reluctantly.

Rwamiti continued.

“Your auntie thinks she is protecting you from hardship. Perhaps she is. But hardship is not always an enemy. Sometimes hardship is information.”

Lose a client and rent becomes difficult.

Lose three clients and you begin asking what you are doing wrong.

Fail to finish a consultancy and electricity still needs paying.

Leave another job in anger and the landlord does not accept a PowerPoint presentation explaining toxic organisational culture.

Consequences teach lessons that universities cannot.

But John had been living in an unusual laboratory.

His experiments could fail without changing his life.

Job fails.

Apartment remains.

Consultancy fails.

Subaru remains.

Partnership collapses.

Dinner remains.

Another year passes.

Lifestyle remains.

“So tell me, John,” Rwamiti asked, “what exactly has failure been teaching you?”

John was silent.

THE EDUCATED ADULT CHILD

Across Kampala, there are thousands of families living softer versions of John’s story.

Their children are educated.

Sometimes extraordinarily educated.

Bachelor’s degrees.

Master’s degrees.

Professional qualifications.

Foreign universities.

Yet somewhere between knowledge and adulthood, movement stopped.

And because the parents can afford it, they quietly build bridges over every uncomfortable consequence.

Father pays the rent.

Mother provides the car.

Auntie finances another business.

Uncle finds another job.

The family makes another telephone call.

A cousin speaks to somebody at a ministry.

Everyone is working extremely hard.

Except, sometimes, the educated adult child.

And because everything is done in the beautiful language of love, nobody notices that the family may have created a sophisticated dependency system.

Uncle Rwamiti finished his tea.

“John, your problem is not that Auntie Eseza has helped you.”

He paused.

“Families should help each other.”

John looked relieved.

“The problem is what the help is producing.”

That was different.

BUFFETT’S REAL GIFT

Warren Buffett could have removed virtually every obstacle from his children’s lives.

He had the money.

Instead, one of the greatest gifts he gave them was room to become themselves without turning his fortune into their permanent life-support machine.

That is the distinction many successful parents struggle with.

They worked hard precisely so their children would not suffer as they suffered.

They remember walking to school.

Their children must have cars.

They remember struggling with rent.

Their children receive apartments.

They remember looking desperately for capital.

Their children receive businesses.

It feels like progress.

Sometimes it is.

But there is a hidden danger.

In removing the struggle, we may accidentally remove the learning that struggle once produced.

Uncle Rwamiti looked through the café window at John’s gleaming Subaru.

“Beautiful car.”

John smiled.

“Auntie bought it?”

“Yes.”

“Then take very good care of it.”

John laughed.

“But when you drive home tonight, ask yourself one question.”

“What question?”

Rwamiti picked up the bill.

“If Auntie Eseza stopped paying for my life tomorrow morning, what part of my knowledge could feed me?”

John stopped smiling.

The old man stood.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he turned around.

“And don’t misunderstand me. I am not telling you to become poor. Poverty has never been an educational qualification.”

John laughed.

“I am saying something else.”

He tapped John gently on the shoulder.

“Your auntie paid for your education. She bought you comfort. She gave you opportunity. Be grateful.”

Then came the lesson.

“But there is one thing Auntie Eseza cannot buy for you.”

“What?”

“Traction.”

Rwamiti walked away.

John remained at the table.

Outside was the Subaru.

In Mbuya was the apartment.

On his wall were two magnificent university certificates.

For the first time, perhaps, John looked at all three differently.

The certificates proved what he knew.

The apartment proved how much his aunt loved him.

The Subaru proved how generous she was.

But none of them answered Uncle Rwamiti’s question:

What can John Okello now make happen without Auntie Eseza?

And perhaps that is a question worth carrying into many comfortable homes.

Because there comes a point when parental love must quietly change its job.

From providing to provoking.

From rescuing to requiring responsibility.

From financing activity to demanding evidence.

From protecting qualifications to encouraging usefulness.

From knowledge…

to action.

And eventually—

to traction.

Petero Wamala (Dr)
Making sense of change through ethical storytelling.