Sometimes the money is hiding inside a problem nobody respectable wants to touch.

David was well educated.

This was not a secret.

His father knew it. His mother knew it. The neighbours knew it. LinkedIn knew it. Judging from the framed certificates in their sitting room, even the wall knew it.

What nobody seemed to know was what David should do with all that education.

For almost two years, he had been looking for what he called “a suitable opportunity.”

Every morning he opened his laptop.

Project Officer.

Programme Coordinator.

Business Development Manager.

Management Trainee.

Anything requiring impressive qualifications attracted his attention. Anything saying “three years’ experience required” caused him to abuse employers quietly.

Then he applied.

And waited.

His father had stopped asking how the applications were going. That question had become dangerous in the house.

One Saturday morning, David was standing outside a supermarket when an old schoolmate shouted his name.

“DAVID!”

David turned.

It was Musa.

They had attended secondary school together. Musa had not gone very far academically. In fact, if certificates were ammunition, Musa could not have defended himself in a small quarrel.

But Musa was smiling.

Behind him stood a small cesspool-emptying truck.

David immediately noticed something else.

The truck smelled.

Not metaphorically.

It smelled.

“My brother!” Musa shouted, embracing him.

David attempted the kind of embrace that allows friendship without unnecessary contact with sewage.

They talked.

David explained that he was exploring opportunities.

Musa explained that he was also “around.”

Then Musa’s telephone rang.

“Yes, madam. We shall reach Ntinda at two. Please send the location.”

Another call came.

“Boss, tell the driver to finish Muyenga first. The Lubowa customer can wait.”

David looked at him.

“How many trucks do you have?”

“Three.”

David thought he had misheard.

“Three?”

“Three. But one is giving me problems.”

“How many people work for you?”

“Twelve. Sometimes fourteen.”

David looked again at the dirty little truck.

“You mean you actually chose this business?”

Musa laughed.

“No, David.”

He pointed towards the truck.

“I chose the problem. The smell came with it.”

David laughed.

But the sentence followed him home.

That evening his father made the mistake parents have been making since the invention of children.

He offered advice.

“Why don’t you talk to Musa? Maybe there is something you can do together.”

David almost dropped his tea.

“Papa! After all my education, you want me to deal in sewage?”

The silence that followed was so complete that even the television seemed embarrassed.

Unfortunately for David, I was sitting on the veranda.

I am Uncle Rwamiti.

And at my age, one develops the unfortunate habit of hearing conversations young people wish one had not heard.

“David,” I called.

He came outside.

“Do you want to empty septic tanks?”

“No!”

“Good.”

He looked surprised.

“Do you have enough money to buy a truck?”

“No.”

“Do you understand the regulations?”

“No.”

“Do you know whether Musa is actually making money?”

“No.”

“Then why are we discussing your dignity before discussing the business?”

He became quiet.

I told him something I wish universities told more students.

Education should increase the number of problems you are capable of understanding.

But sometimes something strange happens.

As our education increases, the number of problems we consider worthy of us can decrease.

We begin looking at the world through our certificates.

Banking?

Suitable.

Consulting?

Suitable.

International NGO?

Very suitable.

Waste?

Hmm.

Informal traders?

Not really.

Small farmers?

Perhaps after the World Bank funds a project.

Sewage?

God forbid.

There is nothing wrong with wanting a prestigious career. There is nothing noble about dirt, poverty or unpleasant work.

And a smelly business is not automatically a good business.

A bad business can smell just as badly as a septic tank.

But before rejecting a problem, separate the questions.

Does the problem exist?

Does solving it create value for somebody?

Can they pay, or is there another sustainable way of creating that value?

What skills and resources are required?

What are the risks?

What could I contribute?

And then there is another question.

A quieter one.

A dangerous one.

“What will people think if someone with my education works on a problem like this?”

That question is allowed.

Just don’t let it secretly answer all the others.

David went away irritated.

Young people often become irritated when an old man refuses to give them either condemnation or permission.

I heard nothing for several weeks.

Then Musa telephoned me.

He was laughing.

“Uncle, your educated man has invaded my business!”

“What happened?”

Apparently David had spent a few days with him.

Not emptying septic tanks.

Watching.

He noticed that Musa was running three trucks largely through telephone calls, scraps of paper, WhatsApp messages and memory.

Customers sent poor directions.

Drivers crossed Kampala unnecessarily.

Emergency jobs disrupted planned routes.

Payments were recorded badly.

Repeat customers were sometimes forgotten.

One truck could be travelling towards Entebbe while another returned half-empty from the same direction.

David saw something Musa had stopped seeing.

Not sewage.

A logistics problem.

He began building a simple system for customer records, scheduling, locations, payments and truck dispatch.

Musa knew septic tanks.

David understood systems.

The problem needed both.

That afternoon I sat under my usual tree thinking about universities.

For years we give students questions.

Question One: Compulsory.

Answer any three questions from Section B.

Discuss.

Analyse.

Evaluate.

Then one day we dress them in gowns, take photographs, eat chicken, hand them certificates and send them into the world.

And something extraordinary happens.

The examination paper disappears.

Nobody tells them which question to answer.

Some continue searching for somebody to give them one.

A vacancy.

A job description.

A supervisor.

An institution saying:

Here is the problem. Apply what you know.

There is nothing wrong with that route. Organisations are powerful precisely because they bring people, knowledge and problems together.

But what happens when that route is crowded?

What happens when the job does not come?

Perhaps we need to ask a different question.

Not only:

“What job fits my qualification?”

But:

“Which problem deserves what I know?”

That does not mean every graduate should start a business.

It does not mean unemployment is caused by educated people being proud.

Money matters.

Connections matter.

Infrastructure matters.

Opportunity matters.

Discrimination matters.

Luck matters.

But even after acknowledging all those things, one question remains:

Which problems have I dismissed before properly examining them?

Sometimes the answer will still be no.

No money.

No market.

Wrong skills.

Too risky.

Against my values.

Not interested.

Excellent.

A considered no is a decision.

But occasionally the answer may be more uncomfortable:

“There is a real opportunity here. I simply never imagined it was an opportunity for someone like me.”

That is different.

David never became a cesspool emptier.

He did something much more interesting.

He stopped asking whether sewage was respectable enough for his education and started asking whether there was a problem inside that world worthy of his knowledge.

His education had not failed him.

His qualifications had not become useless.

And he had not lowered himself.

He had simply changed the direction in which he was looking.

Perhaps that is one of higher education’s unfinished lessons.

Universities spend years teaching us how to solve problems somebody else has selected.

After graduation, the first difficult problem may be deciding which problem is worth solving.

And sometimes the opportunity everybody despises is not worthless at all.

It is simply waiting for somebody willing to look beyond the smell.

Uncle Rwamiti

Making sense of change through ethical storytelling.