The quiet crisis of educated adult children whose parents are working harder at their careers than they are

Uncle Rwamiti met Ssalongo Kato at a wedding reception in Kampala. They had not seen each other for several years. After the usual inquiries about blood pressure, grandchildren, disappearing hairlines and people who had become rich without explaining exactly how, Ssalongo brought out his phone.

“My son Andrew is back.”

“Back from where?”

“UK. He finished his master’s in International Business.”

Uncle Rwamiti nodded approvingly. “Very good. What is he doing?”

There was a small silence.

“Well…we are looking for something for him.”

Uncle Rwamiti knew that sentence.

In Uganda, “we are looking for something for him” can become a family occupation.

Andrew was 29. He had attended a good secondary school in Kampala, completed his first degree at Makerere University and later obtained a master’s degree from a respected British university.

The graduation photographs were magnificent. Andrew in his gown. Andrew with his mother. Andrew with his father. Andrew pointing thoughtfully at a university building. One photograph had even been enlarged and framed in the sitting room.

Three years later, Andrew was still waiting for the photograph to produce dividends.

But Ssalongo Kato was working extremely hard.

At weddings, he carried Andrew’s CV on his phone. At funerals, he networked. At Rotary meetings, he networked. After church, he networked. If somebody mentioned that their cousin worked at the Ministry of Finance, Ssalongo immediately became interested in the cousin.

“Please, if you hear of anything for the boy…”

Meanwhile, Andrew lived at home. His mother provided meals. His father provided fuel. There was also a small family Toyota Premio which had somehow become Andrew’s permanent means of transport.

Occasionally Andrew obtained a short contract. One lasted four months. Another ended after disagreements with his supervisor. A friend invited him into a business venture, but they quarrelled. There had also been talk of importing something from Dubai. That disappeared quietly.

Ssalongo sighed. “The problem in Uganda is connections.”

Uncle Rwamiti continued eating his matooke.

“The boy is very intelligent.”

“I believe you.”

“He just needs someone to give him an opportunity.”

“I hear you.”

“And these employers want experience. How does a young person get experience if nobody gives him experience?”

Uncle Rwamiti put down his fork.

“Ssalongo, may I ask you a bad question?”

His friend laughed. “You have been asking bad questions since 1987.”

“Good.”

Uncle Rwamiti leaned closer.

“When did Andrew’s unemployment become your full-time job?”

Ssalongo stopped laughing.

“You are looking for opportunities. You are making telephone calls. You are circulating the CV. You are talking to Permanent Secretaries. You are providing the house, the food, the fuel and the car.”

He paused.

“What exactly is Andrew doing?”

That question stayed on the table longer than the dessert.

Because Andrew was not lazy. That would have made the problem easier.

He was educated. Intelligent. Presentable. Confident. He knew things. Lots of things.

But somewhere between knowing things and doing useful things that other people would willingly pay for, something had failed to connect.

Uganda has many Andrews.

They have degrees. Some have master’s degrees from London, Manchester, Birmingham, Toronto, Melbourne and elsewhere. Their parents made extraordinary sacrifices to educate them. Nobody expected that at 29, 32 or 35, the parents would still be buying fuel.

And because these families love their children, they do what loving families naturally do.

They help.

Then they help again.

Then they make one telephone call. Then another. Somebody knows somebody at URA. Another person knows somebody at a bank. An aunt knows a director at an NGO.

Soon an extraordinary thing happens:

The parent becomes more active in the adult child’s economic life than the adult child.

Uncle Rwamiti did not tell Ssalongo to throw Andrew out of the house. He did not tell him to confiscate the Premio. He did not call Andrew lazy.

He asked only one more question:

“Before we find Andrew another opportunity, shouldn’t we first find out why the previous opportunities produced so little traction?”

That is a very different question.

Perhaps Andrew does not need another CV. Perhaps he does not need another degree. Perhaps he does not even need another job connection.

Perhaps somebody needs to sit with Andrew and carefully examine what he knows, what he can actually do, what repeatedly goes wrong, what value he could create, what somebody might pay him for—and what small experiments could begin converting his knowledge into evidence.

That work has a name:

Knowledge Activation.

As Uncle Rwamiti likes to say:

“Before buying another sack of charcoal, first find out why the stove is not lighting.”

Somewhere in Kampala today, another parent is forwarding a CV.

Perhaps the first question should be different.

Uncle Rwamiti tells the stories. Petero does the work.

Private Knowledge Activation Advisory
For educated adults with qualifications, knowledge and potential—but who have struggled to convert them into independent productive traction.

Petero Wamala (Dr)
From knowledge to story. From story to action. From action to traction.
PeterosPaths.org
mbunifueastafrica@gmail.com
+256 772 988 640