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Among the Banyankore there is an old proverb that has survived generations because of its painful truth: " Ekyeba juba n'obworo n'obugumba. " Literally translated, it means, "What is forgotten most easily is poverty and barrenness." It is a proverb about human nature. It teaches that once people escape hardship, they often lose touch with the suffering they once knew.
Many years ago, I experienced this wisdom in a way that permanently changed how I judge those who occupy public office.
I had gone to seek assistance from a senior government minister. During our discussion, he wrote a letter and instructed me to deliver it to another government office approximately ten kilometres away before returning to him for another assignment.
What appeared to him to be a simple errand turned into a long struggle.
I boarded a public taxi. Along the way, we were trapped in the notorious traffic congestion along Jinja Road, then Lugogo, and finally Nakawa. A journey that should have taken less than an hour consumed nearly three hours.
When I finally returned, the minister looked disappointed.
"Why have you taken so long?" he asked.
I explained that the traffic jam had been overwhelming.
His next question surprised me even more.
"Why didn't you use a boda boda?"
I respectfully answered that I could not afford one. I only had ten thousand Uganda shillings in my pocket, enough for taxi fare but insufficient for a motorcycle ride.
He paused.
"The whole of you, you only have ten thousand shillings?" he asked in disbelief.
"Yes, Sir," I replied. "The circumstances that brought me before you seeking assistance have left my pockets and bank account empty. Even the transport I use to come here is usually borrowed from friends or contributed by people who believe in my struggle."
His expression immediately changed.
He slowly nodded his head.
"Well... I understand. You are dealing with dangerous people... ruthless and ghost-like mafias. I am sorry if I have insulted you."
I assured him that no offence had been taken.
As I left his office that day, something profound had changed within me.
I stopped blaming individual leaders alone.
Instead, I understood the painful wisdom hidden inside our Ankole proverb.
Poverty is forgotten very quickly by those who escape it.
The truth is uncomfortable, but it is universal.
Many of today's ministers, Members of Parliament, commissioners, presidential advisers, senior civil servants, generals, judges, ambassadors, and other high-ranking public officials did not begin life in privilege. Many grew up walking dusty roads, studying under paraffin lamps, sleeping hungry, or sharing the same struggles ordinary citizens continue to face today.
Yet public office gradually changes one's daily reality.
Government officials are often provided with official vehicles, government drivers, security escorts, fuel allowances or government-paid fuel, official residences or housing allowances in many positions, medical coverage, travel allowances, accommodation during official duties, communication facilitation, office staff, paid domestic and foreign travel for government business, sitting allowances, pensions for qualifying offices, and other employment benefits established under Uganda's laws and regulations. Senior officials also spend much of their time in environments insulated from the daily experiences of ordinary citizens.
None of these benefits is inherently wrong. Public officials require resources to perform their responsibilities effectively.
The danger arises when comfort slowly replaces memory.
When every journey is made in an official vehicle, traffic becomes an inconvenience observed through tinted windows rather than endured in an overcrowded taxi.
When fuel is no longer purchased from one's own earnings, the rising cost of transport becomes someone else's problem.
When medical care is readily available, one may forget the anxiety of citizens waiting for treatment in under-resourced public health facilities.
When official allowances cover meals and travel, the daily calculations made by a parent deciding whether to buy food or pay school fees become almost unimaginable.
Luxury does not always make people cruel.
Sometimes it simply makes them forget.
And forgetting is one of the greatest enemies of good leadership.
Power creates distance.
Distance weakens memory.
When memory weakens, empathy slowly fades.
This explains why leaders occasionally make statements that leave ordinary citizens wondering whether those in authority still understand how most Ugandans live.
The gap is not always created by malice.
Often, it is created by prolonged separation from everyday reality.
This is precisely why citizens have a responsibility that extends beyond voting every election.
We must become the living memory of our nation.
Whenever we have an opportunity to meet our leaders, we should respectfully remind them that the poverty they once escaped still lives among the people they represent.
We should remind them that many citizens still walk long distances because transport fares are beyond their reach.
We should remind them that many graduates remain unemployed despite years of education.
We should remind them that countless patients still purchase medicines from private pharmacies because government facilities frequently face shortages.
We should remind them that farmers continue to battle poor markets, poor roads, expensive agricultural inputs, and climate uncertainty.
We should remind them that mothers still struggle to feed families while fathers continue searching for opportunities that seem forever out of reach.
These reminders should not come from hatred.
They should come from hope.
A nation cannot prosper when its leaders forget its people, but neither can it prosper when its citizens abandon dialogue and replace every disappointment with bitterness.
Sometimes a simple conversation is enough to awaken a sleeping conscience.
My conversation with that minister taught me another important lesson.
When he realised my circumstances, he apologised.
His apology reminded me that humanity still survives beneath official titles, security convoys, and government offices.
Sometimes leaders do not intentionally neglect the people.
Sometimes they simply need someone to remind them where they came from.
That is why we should remind before we condemn.
Correct before we curse.
Encourage before we surrender.
For leadership is strongest when it remembers, and citizenship is noblest when it speaks truth with respect.
The future of our country will not only depend upon electing better leaders.
It will equally depend upon producing citizens courageous enough to remind those leaders that beyond the gates of Parliament, State House, ministries, barracks, and government offices, millions still live the poverty they once escaped.
Our leaders may have left poverty behind.
But poverty has not yet left the people.
Until that day comes, reminding them is not an act of disrespect.
It is an act of patriotism.
And perhaps that is the deepest meaning behind our timeless Ankole proverb: "Ekyeba juba n'obworo n'obugumba." The greatest danger is not that poverty exists, but that those entrusted to fight it may one day forget what it feels like.
About the Author
Evan Sande Ndahura is a Ugandan political and legal commentator, columnist, poet, and social justice advocate whose writings focus on governance, constitutionalism, democracy, and the political economy of power in Africa. He is widely published on issues of judicial accountability, electoral justice, human rights, and institutional reform, with a particular emphasis on Uganda's political and legal systems. Ndahura writes from a Pan-African critical perspective, interrogating the failures of state institutions and the lived realities of ordinary citizens under entrenched systems of power. He believes that the liberation of Africa will occur through a mighty pen, not the gun.