The silent crisis may begin long before the educated adult child becomes unemployed.

Uncle Rwamiti tells this story about his old friend, Mzee Ssentamu, who lives in Kampala.

One Saturday morning, the two men were sitting outside a small café in Ntinda.

Kampala was already doing what Kampala does best.

Boda bodas squeezed through spaces that did not appear to exist. A taxi conductor was shouting destinations with the urgency of a man announcing the last evacuation from earth. Somewhere nearby, somebody was leaning on a car horn as though sufficient pressure might remove the traffic jam.

Ssentamu stirred his tea.

“My son worries me,” he said.

Uncle Rwamiti continued watching the traffic.

“What has he done?”

“That is the problem. Nothing.”

“How old?”

“Thirty-one.”

“Education?”

“University graduate.”

“Drinking?”

“No.”

“Drugs?”

“Never.”

“Police?”

“Nothing.”

“Then what exactly is the problem?”

Ssentamu sighed.

“He is just there.”

Uncle Rwamiti understood immediately.

In Kampala, “he is just there” can describe an entire economic condition.

The young man wakes up. He has a smartphone. He has internet. He has qualifications. He has clothes. He has somewhere to sleep.

He may even have access to the family car.

But ask the uncomfortable question—

What is he building?

Silence.

What problem is he solving?

Silence.

Who pays him because of something he can do unusually well?

More silence.

Ssentamu’s son was not lazy.

That was what troubled his father most.

“He is a good boy, Rwamiti. Very respectful. We gave him a good education. I don’t understand what happened.”

A mosquito landed on Uncle Rwamiti’s arm.

He slapped it.

Missed.

He inspected his palm with disappointment and returned to the matter.

“Tell me about him when he was a child.”

“What do you mean?”

“What was he good at?”

Ssentamu thought for a moment.

Then he laughed.

“That boy! He used to dismantle everything.”

“What things?”

“Everything! Radios. Bicycles. Fans. Toys. Even things that were working perfectly.”

Once, Ssentamu remembered, his wife had bought a new blender.

Within two weeks, their son had dismantled it.

His mother almost cried.

“Why can’t this child leave things alone?”

The boy explained that he wanted to see how the motor turned the blades.

Nobody was impressed.

The blender had cost money.

“Anything else?” Uncle Rwamiti asked.

“He was always making things. Cars from wire. Small machines. He once connected some batteries and bulbs in his bedroom. Nearly burnt my house!”

They both laughed.

Then Uncle Rwamiti asked:

“What happened to all that?”

Ssentamu shrugged.

“We stopped the nonsense.”

Uncle Rwamiti stopped laughing.

⸻

THE NONSENSE

At eight, the boy was struggling with mathematics.

The school called his parents.

His mathematics needed attention.

A tutor was hired.

At twelve, mathematics was still not his strongest subject.

More lessons.

At fourteen, physics became another concern.

Another tutor.

During school holidays, while other children played, Ssentamu’s son sometimes remained behind with revision papers.

Mathematics.

Physics.

Chemistry.

Improve the weak subjects.

Raise the grades.

Pass the examinations.

Meanwhile, the boy who could spend an entire afternoon dismantling a bicycle hub and putting it together again was repeatedly told:

“Leave those things and concentrate on your books.”

The boy who wanted to know why machines worked was told:

“First finish your homework.”

The boy who enjoyed making things with his hands slowly learned an important lesson.

Those things were hobbies.

School was serious.

Marks were serious.

Examinations were serious.

Certificates were serious.

Curiosity could wait.

So the adults did what loving adults often do.

They identified his weaknesses.

And attacked them.

Nobody was trying to harm him.

Quite the opposite.

They were preparing him for success.

⸻

THE REPORT CARD BECAME THE CHILD

This happens in homes across Kampala.

A report card arrives.

English: 78.

Fine.

ICT: 82.

Fine.

Art: 86.

Fine.

Mathematics: 43.

Emergency!

Suddenly the entire family meeting is about mathematics.

Nobody spends thirty minutes asking why the child who scored 86 in art spends evenings designing buildings.

Nobody investigates why she can edit videos for three hours without being reminded.

Nobody asks why another child naturally organizes every football match in the neighbourhood, negotiates disagreements and somehow gets twenty children to cooperate.

We look at the 43.

That is where the tutor goes.

That is where the holiday lessons go.

That is where parental anxiety goes.

That is where the money goes.

The 86 receives congratulations.

The 43 receives investment.

Slowly, children can receive a strange message:

Your weaknesses deserve more attention than your strengths.

Of course weaknesses matter.

A child needs basic numeracy, literacy, discipline and broad competence.

Nobody is suggesting that a child who dislikes mathematics should never learn arithmetic.

But there is a difference between achieving necessary competence and building an identity around repairing deficiencies.

One asks:

What must this child know?

The other, equally important question asks:

What might this child become exceptionally good at?

Too often, we answer the first and neglect the second.

⸻

THEN KAMPALA SETS A DIFFERENT EXAMINATION

Eventually, Ssentamu’s son graduated.

There were photographs.

A gown.

A family lunch.

Congratulations.

He had done what everybody had asked him to do.

Then something strange happened.

The examination system disappeared.

No teacher gave him the next chapter.

No timetable told him where to report at 8:00 a.m.

No examiner announced:

Question One. Twenty marks.

Instead, Kampala asked completely different questions.

What can you do?

Whose problem can you solve?

Why should somebody choose you?

Can you turn what you know into something useful?

Can you demonstrate it?

Can you persuade somebody to pay for it?

These questions were not on the report card.

Ssentamu’s son knew how to pass examinations.

But the marketplace was not setting examinations.

It was looking for value.

⸻

“WHAT HAPPENED TO THE BOY WHO DISMANTLED RADIOS?”

Back at the café, Uncle Rwamiti returned to the question.

“That boy who dismantled your radios. What happened to him?”

Ssentamu laughed again.

“I told you. We stopped that nonsense. The boy had to concentrate on serious things.”

Uncle Rwamiti picked up his cup.

“My friend, perhaps that was the problem.”

“What problem?”

“You spent twenty years repairing what the boy was bad at.”

He took a sip.

“Who spent twenty years developing what he was good at?”

Ssentamu did not answer.

A boda boda passed carrying what appeared to be half a hardware shop.

Uncle Rwamiti watched it disappear into Kampala traffic.

Then he said:

“My son, school spent twenty years teaching you how to pass examinations in your weaknesses. Then the world asked you to earn a living from your strengths.”

Ssentamu put down his cup.

That sentence bothered him.

It should bother us too.

⸻

THE SILENT CRISIS MAY BEGIN BEFORE GRADUATION

We often notice the problem much later.

At twenty-eight.

Thirty.

Thirty-five.

An educated adult child is at home.

Parents are paying rent.

Perhaps providing fuel.

Perhaps sending mobile money.

Perhaps calling relatives:

“Don’t you know somebody who can help the boy get something?”

We call it unemployment.

Sometimes it is.

Uganda has a difficult labour market. Jobs are scarce. Networks matter. Economic structures matter. No amount of positive thinking magically creates enough formal employment.

But unemployment does not explain everything.

There is another question worth asking.

Did we educate the young person to recognize, develop and activate what they can uniquely contribute?

Or did we mainly educate them to satisfy institutional requirements?

Those are not necessarily the same thing.

A person can become highly successful at education while remaining uncertain about how to create value outside educational institutions.

That is the Knowledge Activation problem.

⸻

KNOWLEDGE IS NOT YET VALUE

A degree tells us something important.

It tells us that a person has completed a structured programme of learning.

But the market asks another question:

What can happen because you know what you know?

Can you diagnose something?

Design something?

Repair something?

Explain something?

Organize something?

Sell something?

Improve something?

Teach something?

Create something?

Connect people?

Reduce a cost?

Increase revenue?

Make somebody’s life easier?

Knowledge becomes economically powerful when it moves.

From knowledge to capability.

From capability to application.

From application to value.

From value to trust.

And eventually, perhaps, from trust to income.

The tragedy is not merely that some educated young adults cannot find jobs.

The deeper tragedy is that some may possess valuable abilities that nobody ever helped them recognize, develop, test and activate.

⸻

PERHAPS THE RADIO WAS TRYING TO TELL US SOMETHING

Imagine if somebody had looked differently at Ssentamu’s troublesome little boy.

Not:

“Why does this child keep destroying things?”

But:

“Why is this child fascinated by how things work?”

Perhaps somebody might have taken him to a workshop.

Perhaps he could have spent holidays beside an experienced technician.

Perhaps he could have learned electronics.

Perhaps he would have discovered industrial design.

Perhaps automotive technology.

Perhaps solar installation.

Perhaps robotics.

Perhaps none of those.

That is not the point.

The point is that curiosity itself was evidence.

It deserved investigation.

Not every childhood interest becomes a career.

Not every strength becomes a business.

And children should not be imprisoned inside labels assigned to them at ten years old.

But strengths deserve at least as much curiosity as weaknesses.

⸻

A DIFFERENT CONVERSATION AROUND THE DINNER TABLE

Perhaps parents should occasionally put the report card aside.

Ask different questions.

What does this child do without being chased?

What kinds of problems attract their attention?

What do other people naturally ask them for help with?

What can they spend hours doing without noticing the time?

Where do they learn unusually quickly?

What have they made, organized, repaired, explained or improved?

Then comes the most important question:

How might we expose this ability to the real world?

Because strength alone is not enough either.

A talented child protected permanently from reality can become a talented dependent adult.

Strength must meet problems.

It must meet customers.

It must meet deadlines.

It must meet criticism.

It must meet failure.

It must meet the uncomfortable question:

Will anybody outside your family find this useful?

That is where activation begins.

⸻

YEARS LATER, WE GO LOOKING FOR THE CHILD WE CORRECTED OUT OF EXISTENCE

Uncle Rwamiti and Ssentamu eventually stood to leave.

The Kampala traffic had become worse.

Ssentamu looked thoughtful.

“So what do I do with him now?”

Uncle Rwamiti adjusted his cap.

“Perhaps stop asking only where he can get a job.”

“And ask what?”

“Ask him what happened to the boy who dismantled your radio.”

Ssentamu smiled.

Uncle Rwamiti did not.

“I am serious.”

He pointed towards the road.

“Your son is thirty-one. Do not choose another career for him. You have already done enough choosing.”

Then came the final lesson.

“Go and find out what still makes his eyes light up. Then help him test whether somebody in this city has a problem that ability can solve.”

That is a very different kind of parental support.

Not another qualification.

Not another tutor.

Not another application sent on his behalf.

Not another saucepan delivered whenever he becomes hungry.

But an invitation to rediscover capability—and expose it to reality.

Because perhaps the question we should ask our children is not only:

Where are you weak, and how can we repair you?

We should also ask:

Where are you strong, and how far can that strength travel?

The world will certainly expose their weaknesses.

But somewhere between Kampala’s classrooms, graduation halls, offices, workshops, markets and traffic jams, they will eventually have to discover what they can contribute.

And perhaps Uncle Rwamiti was right:

School may teach you how to pass examinations in your weaknesses.

But sooner or later, life asks you to earn your place through your strengths.

That examination has no marking guide.

And graduation day does not mean you have passed it.

Dr Petero Wamala, DBA
Making sense of change through ethical storytelling.