When the student and his teacher arrive at the same interview, perhaps the problem is bigger than either of them.

David had done everything properly.

Bachelor’s degree.

Work hard.

Master’s degree at Makerere University.

Work even harder.

His master’s thesis had been supervised by a professor David greatly admired. The professor was brilliant, widely published and enormously knowledgeable. During supervision meetings, David sometimes struggled just to keep pace with him.

This, David thought, was what intellectual success looked like.

Then an international NGO advertised a senior position.

The salary was excellent. The benefits were even better. Medical insurance. Transport allowance. Opportunities for international travel.

David applied.

His qualifications fitted the requirements beautifully.

When he received the invitation for an interview, he could hardly contain himself.

Perhaps, finally, the long academic journey was about to pay off.

The Surprise in the Reception Area

David arrived early.

Good suit. Polished shoes. Documents carefully arranged in a folder.

Then somebody entered the reception area.

David almost jumped from his chair.

“Professor!”

It was his master’s supervisor.

They greeted warmly.

The professor asked about David’s family. David thanked him again for guiding him through his thesis.

Inside, David was delighted.

Wonderful.

Perhaps Professor was sitting on the interview panel.

Surely having one’s former supervisor there could not hurt.

Then the receptionist appeared carrying a clipboard.

She called several names.

“David…”

David stood.

Then she called another name.

His professor stood too.

David looked at him.

Professor looked at David.

There was an awkward silence.

“Professor…?”

The professor smiled.

“I am also here for the interview.”

David sat down again.

For the first time since completing his master’s degree, he wondered whether somebody had forgotten to explain something important about education

Under the Mango Tree

David did not get the job.

Neither, as far as he knew, did Professor.

On his way home, still trying to understand what had happened, David found Uncle Rwamiti sitting under his usual mango tree.

The old man was examining a radio whose batteries had apparently died several years earlier.

“Uncle,” David said, “today I competed for a job with the professor who supervised my master’s degree.”

Rwamiti looked up.

“Did you defeat him?”

“Uncle!”

“I am only asking.”

“This is serious.”

Rwamiti put down the radio.

“Then sit.”

David told him everything.

When he finished, Rwamiti remained silent for a while.

Then he laughed.

Not at David.

Not at Professor.

At the situation.

“My son,” he finally said, “two men can climb a very tall tree and discover that neither knows how to come down.”

David frowned.

“What does that mean?”

“It means your professor has climbed higher than you academically. Much higher. But today both of you were standing underneath somebody else’s tree asking for fruit.”

David protested.

“But Professor has enormous knowledge.”

“Exactly.”

“And experience.”

“Exactly.”

“Then how can we be in the same boat?”

Rwamiti smiled.

“Because boats do not ask who has the bigger certificate. They ask who knows where the paddle is.”

Knowledge Is Not Traction

Rwamiti drew three circles in the dust.

In the first he wrote:

KNOWLEDGE

In the second:

VALUE

In the third:

TRACTION

“You and Professor,” he said, pointing at the first circle, “may possess enormous knowledge.”

He pointed at the last.

“But both of you were looking to the NGO for traction.”

David stared at the circles.

Rwamiti continued.

“The university taught you to acquire knowledge. It taught you to analyse problems, read literature, construct arguments and defend a thesis.

“These are valuable things.

“But there is another question.”

He tapped the earth with his walking stick.

What can your knowledge now make happen?

David said nothing.

“Can it solve a problem somebody cares about?

“Can it improve an institution?

“Can it produce a better system?

“Can it create an intervention?

“Can it influence public thinking?

“Can it become a product, method, framework, enterprise, policy, tool or service?

“Can you demonstrate its usefulness before somebody gives you a job?”

David began to understand.

“That is knowledge activation?”

“Now the young man is waking up.”

The University Degree Is Not the Problem

David expected Uncle Rwamiti to attack universities.

He didn’t.

“Never insult education because employment disappointed you,” he said.

“Knowledge is precious.

“Your master’s degree is not useless.

“Professor’s scholarship is certainly not useless.

“The problem begins when we quietly assume that accumulating more knowledge automatically produces greater economic or social traction.”

He paused.

“A granary can be full while the village remains hungry.”

David laughed.

“Another proverb?”

“No. Hunger.”

Rwamiti continued.

“We have become very good at filling granaries.”

Bachelor’s.

Master’s.

PhD.

Postdoctoral research.

Professional certificates.

Workshops.

Conferences.

Publications.

“The question is not whether these things are valuable. Many are enormously valuable.

“The question is whether we have built equally strong mechanisms for taking what people know and turning it into things society can use.”

When Knowledge Waits for Permission

Rwamiti picked up the dead radio.

“Suppose I know how to repair this radio but spend twenty years waiting for somebody to employ me as Chief Radio Repair Officer.”

David laughed.

“What happens?”

“The radio remains dead.”

“And my knowledge?”

“Very impressive.”

David laughed harder.

“That is cruel, Uncle.”

“No. Cruel is spending twenty years polishing knowledge that has never touched a real problem.”

Then Rwamiti became serious.

“Your professor may know things that ministries need.

“Companies may need them.

“Communities may need them.

“Young people may need them.

“International organisations may need them.

“But if the only recognised mechanism for converting that knowledge into livelihood is applying for a vacancy, then Professor and student eventually meet at the same door.”

That sentence stayed with David.

The Missing Bridge

Rwamiti drew a line in the dust.

At one end:

WHAT I KNOW

At the other:

WHAT THE WORLD NEEDS

Between them he drew a bridge.

“Universities spend enormous energy strengthening this side,” he said, pointing to knowledge.

“Society spends enormous energy advertising jobs on that side.”

He tapped the empty bridge.

“But who teaches people how to cross?”

Knowledge activation, he explained, was that crossing.

Not entrepreneurship alone.

Not everybody should start a business.

A researcher can activate knowledge.

A civil servant can activate knowledge.

A teacher can.

A retired professional can.

An artist can.

A mechanic can.

A young graduate can.

Activation begins when knowledge leaves storage and encounters reality.

You identify a problem.

You bring your knowledge against it.

You test.

Reality answers back.

You modify.

You communicate.

You demonstrate usefulness.

Others begin to trust what you can do.

Something changes.

That change creates traction.

“Knowledge,” Rwamiti said, “must eventually acquire legs.”

But What About Professor?

David still wasn’t satisfied.

“So what should Professor have done?”

Rwamiti laughed.

“Why are you worried about Professor? Professor supervised your thesis. He did not appoint you supervisor of his life.”

David burst out laughing.

Then Rwamiti softened.

“Professor may have perfectly good reasons for wanting that job. There is nothing shameful about employment. A good job can itself be an excellent place to activate knowledge.”

He paused.

“The interesting question is different.”

“What question?”

“Whether the NGO was one opportunity among many available to Professor — or whether, despite decades of accumulated knowledge, it had become his only visible path to traction.”

David went quiet.

There was the uncomfortable distinction.

The Same Boat

The sun was beginning to disappear behind the houses.

Rwamiti returned to his radio.

“Uncle,” David said, “you still haven’t explained why you said Professor and I are in the same boat.”

Rwamiti smiled.

“My son, Professor may have twenty more years of knowledge than you. You may have twenty more years of energy than Professor.

“But this morning both of you carried certificates into the same building hoping that somebody sitting behind a desk would choose you.”

He inserted two new batteries into the radio.

Music suddenly filled the compound.

Rwamiti grinned.

“The batteries were always capable of producing energy.”

He turned up the volume.

“They simply needed to be connected to something that could use it.”

David looked at him.

Rwamiti looked back.

“That is your problem, young man.”

He pointed towards the road.

“Stop asking only:

Who will employ me?

Start asking:

What do I know?

Who needs it?

What can I make happen with it?

How can I demonstrate that on a small scale?

And what evidence can I produce that I am useful?”

David picked up his folder.

For the first time that day, it felt slightly less important.

Not worthless.

Just incomplete.

As he walked away, Rwamiti called after him.

“And David!”

“Yes, Uncle?”

“Tomorrow, begin activating that master’s degree.”

David smiled.

“And Professor?”

Rwamiti picked up his newspaper.

“If you meet him again at another interview, ask him whether he has found the paddle.”
Dr Petero wamala,DBA
Mbunifueastafrica@gmail.com

Making sense of change through ethical storytelling.