There is an unspoken truth in Uganda: we would rather endure familiar hardships than face uncertain solutions. This isn’t laziness—it’s survival wisdom forged through generations of instability. When your grandparents lived through coups, economic collapses, and broken promises from leaders, “change” becomes synonymous with danger rather than opportunity.
Uganda is a land of resilience. We’ve seen empires fall and leaders rise. We’ve danced through blackouts, joked through traffic jams, and built businesses with no capital. But if there’s one thing that consistently rattles our core—it’s change.
In Uganda, we don’t always fear the unknown. We fear losing the little we know.
Mukiibi Hamza Katende
I’ve seen this in my own family. My uncle still farms with a hand hoe despite knowing tractors exist. “At least I know this hoe won’t break down,” he says. His resistance isn’t ignorance—it’s calculated risk assessment from a life where new things often failed him.
From Kampala to Kabale, from students to seasoned elders, there’s a quiet resistance that lingers anytime something “new” shows up. A new system, a new technology, a new leader, a new way of thinking—it doesn’t matter. The default reaction is hesitation, suspicion, or outright fear.
But why?
The Wounds of History
Uganda has scars. And like any person who’s been hurt, we’ve learned to flinch when things shift.
We’ve seen promises of liberation turn into regimes of silence. We’ve watched policies roll in with hope, only to leave communities poorer and more fractured. So when someone says “let’s change things,” people don’t always hear opportunity. They hear danger.
There’s a generational trauma here—passed down in conversations at dinner, in the warnings of elders, in the way mothers tell children to “stay safe” not by being bold, but by being quiet.
For many, change has never been about progress—it has been about survival.
Comfort in the Familiar
In Uganda, we find rhythm in routine. We eat the same foods, tell the same stories, worship the same way, vote for the same faces. There’s comfort in repetition—it gives us control in a country where control is rare.
And so, even when the familiar is flawed, it’s safe. The taxi conductor who overcharges you is still easier to deal with than learning to use a ride app you don’t understand. The teacher who uses a chalkboard seems more trustworthy than an online course. The old job that pays little still feels better than risking something unknown.
This isn’t laziness. It’s emotional economy—people are saving energy in a system that drains them daily.
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Who Owns the Change?
Another reason Ugandans fear change is because it rarely feels like ours. Too often, change comes from the top down—from politicians, NGOs, or foreign voices that assume they know what’s best.
There’s a quiet resistance to being told how to live, especially by those who don’t understand our context. So we resist—not because we don’t want growth, but because we don’t want to be dictated to.
Real change must feel collaborative, not forced. It must grow from the roots—not just drop from the sky.
The Cost of Being Different
In Uganda, standing out is still dangerous. Speak too loudly, and you’re silenced. Try something new, and you’re ridiculed. The moment you challenge tradition, culture, or power—you become a threat.
So change becomes an internal struggle. You want to evolve, to break the mold, to build something bold—but you’ve seen what happens to others who dared.
And fear isn’t irrational when it’s based on real consequences.
But Still… We Change
Despite all of this, Ugandans do change. Slowly. Quietly. Creatively.
We see it in the young coders building apps from university dorms. In the mothers starting businesses on WhatsApp. In activists who dare to speak in digital spaces. In boda riders now tracking orders through smartphones.
The fear is real, but so is the will to transform. It just doesn’t look like fireworks—it looks like persistence.
Final Thoughts
The fear of change in Uganda isn’t a weakness. It’s a reflection of a nation that’s been bruised but not broken. We resist because we’ve learned to protect ourselves. But protection must never become a prison.
To grow, we must teach each other how to trust again. Trust the process. Trust ourselves. Trust that we deserve better.
And most importantly—trust that we can change on our own terms.
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