The first flower had not even entered the ground when my sister Jane declared war on technology.

“Josh!”

Nothing.

“JOSH!”

Nothing.

Josh was perhaps six metres away, holding a small garden fork and gently moving his head to music only he could hear.

Reggae.

The boy was in Buziga. His soul was somewhere in Jamaica.

Jane was holding a tray of flower seedlings. She wanted her nineteen-year-old son to help her plant them along the edge of the compound.

Josh was technically helping. He was physically present. That was about as far as the evidence went.

“Get those funny things off your ears just now!”

Nothing.

Josh smiled. Not at his mother. At the music.

This was in Buziga, not far from Cassia Lodge, one of those Kampala places where people go for the view, a meal and photographs suggesting that life has treated them exceptionally well.

Josh was a first-year student at Makerere University. Jane was his mother. And I was sitting on the veranda drinking tea and doing what uncles do particularly well when other people are working.

Supervising.

“Josh!”

Jane put down the seedlings.

I recognised the movement. Every child raised by an African mother knows that movement. When your mother carefully puts down whatever she is holding before walking towards you, the diplomatic phase has ended.

Jane marched across the compound. Josh continued nodding.

She stood directly in front of him. His eyes opened.

“Mum?”

She pointed at the headphones.

“Remove those things.”

Josh removed one side.

“What?”

Wrong answer.

Jane snatched the headphones off his head.

“Every time! Every time, Josh! You are in your own world!”

“But Mum, I was helping you.”

“Helping me how? I have called you five times!”

“I didn’t hear you.”

Jane turned towards me. You know the look. The prosecution had just obtained a confession in open court.

“Rwamiti, you hear him?”

I nodded.

“He says he didn’t hear you.”

“Exactly!”

“That seems entirely consistent with wearing headphones.”

“Rwamiti!”

I returned to my tea.

Sometimes wisdom is simply knowing when your contribution has failed.

THE BONFIRE

This was not Jane’s first encounter with the headphones.

She had confiscated them. She had hidden them. She had threatened them.

Once, in a moment of parental innovation that is unlikely to appear in any respectable child-development textbook, she threw a pair into a bonfire.

A real bonfire.

Josh stood there watching his headphones burn. Jane stood beside him. The headphones crackled. Nobody spoke.

Apparently responsible parenting had won a major victory.

The following morning, Jane went out and bought him another pair.

When I heard this, I stared at her.

“You burnt them?”

“Yes.”

“And bought another pair the following day?”

“He needed them.”

“For what?”

“His music.”

I considered this carefully.

“So what exactly did the fire accomplish?”

“Rwamiti, don’t start.”

I didn’t.

There are questions whose work is complete the moment they are asked.

THE REVERSING CAR

Unfortunately, the foolishness had a serious side.

One afternoon Josh was walking across the compound. Headphones on. Music playing. Head moving.

Jane was reversing the car. She checked one mirror. Then the other. The car began moving backwards.

Josh walked behind it.

He didn’t hear the engine. He didn’t notice the reversing car.

Jane saw him at the last moment.

BRAKE.

Josh jumped. Jane jumped out.

“ARE YOU MAD?”

Josh pulled one side of the headphones away.

“What?”

That “What?” nearly caused a second accident.

“I nearly knocked you!”

“But you didn’t.”

There are replies that may be technically correct but should nevertheless never be given to your mother.

“You could have died!”

“Mum, you were the one reversing.”

An even worse reply.

“So now it is MY fault?”

“You were driving.”

“Because you couldn’t hear!”

“You’re supposed to look when you’re reversing!”

“And you’re supposed to look when you’re walking!”

Within two minutes, something magnificent had happened.

The person who nearly drove over somebody and the person who nearly got driven over had each established beyond reasonable doubt that the incident was entirely the other person’s fault.

Human beings have been practising this skill for thousands of years.

I DECIDED TO HELP

Jane had reached her conclusion.

“The headphones have to go.”

Josh had reached his.

“Mum doesn’t understand our generation.”

I had reached mine.

I needed bigger headphones.

So on my next visit to Buziga, I arrived wearing the largest pair I could find.

Not discreet little earbuds. Headphones. Serious headphones.

The sort that make an older man look as though he has recently been appointed resident DJ at a nightclub of questionable reputation.

Jane opened the door.

“Rwamiti, what is that?”

I walked straight past her.

“Rwamiti!”

Nothing.

I entered the sitting room. She followed me.

“RWAMITI!”

I removed one side.

“Sorry?”

“What are you doing?”

“Listening to music.”

“In my house?”

I thought about this.

“I wasn’t aware music had geographical restrictions.”

She stared at me.

Josh appeared. He looked at me. He looked at the headphones.

“Uncle!”

I pointed at my ears.

“What?”

He burst out laughing.

For the next ten minutes, Josh and I communicated mainly through hand signals. Jane became increasingly irritated.

Then she made a mistake.

She asked whether I wanted tea.

I took out my phone. Her phone pinged.

WhatsApp from Rwamiti:

Yes please. No sugar.

Jane was standing perhaps three metres away.

She looked at the message. Then at me. Then at the message again.

My phone rang.

Jane.

I answered.

“Hello?”

“Remove those stupid things.”

“Sorry. Music is rather loud.”

She hung up.

Josh was now bent over laughing.

This was when I realised my intervention had developed a small problem. I had acquired an ally.

Unfortunately, it was Josh.

He disappeared into his room and returned wearing his own headphones.

Soon two males were sitting in Jane’s house wearing headphones. One nineteen. The other old enough to know better.

Jane stood before us. She looked at Josh. She looked at me.

Then she walked away without saying anything.

I immediately removed my headphones.

An African mother who is shouting still believes dialogue is possible.

Silence means the matter has moved to another department.

TWO DEFENDANTS

Later, the three of us went outside.

The flowers were still waiting. They had been extremely patient throughout the crisis.

Jane picked up the seedlings. Josh picked up the garden fork. The headphones were around his neck now.

Nobody had ordered him to put them there. Perhaps the joke had made its point. Perhaps he simply needed a break from reggae.

We began planting.

After a while, I asked:

“Josh, what happened with the car?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Uncle, when somebody is reversing, they’re supposed to check behind them.”

“True.”

He looked pleased.

I continued digging.

“And when somebody is walking behind a reversing car?”

He looked at me.

“That person should also check.”

“Seems reasonable.”

“But she was driving.”

“Yes.”

“She nearly hit me.”

“Yes.”

“She should have seen me.”

“Yes.”

He waited. I kept digging.

“You’re saying I was also wrong.”

“No.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I am planting flowers.”

He shook his head.

A few minutes later Jane joined us.

“Your nephew thinks I don’t understand his generation.”

Josh looked up.

“You don’t.”

“What don’t I understand?”

“Mum, headphones are normal. Everybody uses them.”

“So everybody should be knocked by a car?”

“You were driving the car!”

And off they went again.

I raised my hand.

“Please. One small question.”

They stopped.

I looked at Jane.

“You were reversing?”

“Yes.”

“Was there a human being behind the car?”

“He just walked there!”

“Jane.”

She sighed.

“Yes.”

“Could you have checked again?”

Silence.

Then I turned to Josh.

“You were walking behind a reversing car?”

“Yes.”

“Could you hear it?”

He hesitated.

“No.”

“Could you have looked?”

Another silence.

“If I’d looked.”

I nodded.

Nobody appeared happy with me.

This was understandable. Both had brought me into the matter expecting a judge.

Instead, I had somehow produced two defendants.

THE SECOND MOVE

I visited Buziga again the following week.

The headphones were still alive.

This surprised me.

No confiscation. No hiding. No bonfire.

Jane had not won. Josh had not won either.

Something much less satisfying had happened.

They had adjusted.

When Josh walked around the compound listening to music, one ear was usually uncovered.

When Jane wanted to speak to him, she no longer stood twenty metres away shouting instructions at a boy wearing equipment specifically designed to stop outside sound from reaching him.

She got his attention first.

Then spoke.

Nobody announced the new arrangement. There was no family meeting. No contract. No motivational poster appeared on the refrigerator.

They simply started behaving slightly differently.

Not perfectly. Differently.

One afternoon I found them planting another row of flowers.

Josh had music playing through one ear. Jane was pointing at the flower bed.

“Put that one there.”

“Here?”

“No. There.”

“Here?”

“Josh, are you blind?”

He removed the remaining earphone.

“Mum, are we planting flowers or conducting a military operation?”

I sat down on the veranda.

Peace had returned to Buziga.

Not complete peace.

Complete peace in a house containing a mother and a nineteen-year-old son would require investigation.

Jane walked over to me.

“You see?”

I nodded.

“Much better.”

“So you finally trained him?”

She smiled.

“Yes.”

From behind us came Josh’s voice.

“Uncle!”

I turned.

“Ask her who nearly reversed over me.”

Jane spun around.

“Josh!”

“What? It’s true!”

“You walked behind the car!”

“You were driving it!”

“I was reversing!”

“Exactly!”

I looked at Jane. I looked at Josh. Then at the headphones. Then at the car. Finally, I looked at the flower bed.

“Personally,” I said, “I think the flowers are the only innocent people in this family.”

Josh laughed.

Jane tried not to.

She failed.

And somewhere inside those headphones, the reggae continued without accepting responsibility for anything.

UNCLE RWAMITI: YOUR MOVE
The uncle your parents probably shouldn’t have introduced you to.

Created by Dr Petero Wamala