There’s a strange experience that grips anyone who has tried to get something done in Uganda—be it as simple as renewing a permit, making a business transaction, or waiting for service at a local store. You feel yourself aging as the minutes drag by. Time becomes irrelevant because the concept of urgency seems to evaporate in the Ugandan air. You wait, watch, and eventually something creeps in—a frustration so deep it feels supernatural, as though some invisible force, a jinn, has taken control of the situation and is toying with your patience.
It starts with a simple request. Perhaps you need assistance in a store. You approach the attendant, only to find that their very first instinct is to avoid eye contact. They glance at you and then look away, as if your existence is a mere inconvenience. Maybe they’re preoccupied with their phone, laughing at some video. You wait. You clear your throat. No response. It’s almost as if your presence offends them. The feeling that they’re doing you a grand favor by acknowledging your existence is overwhelming.
It’s not just the dishonesty that gets to you—although that is certainly a prime feature of the frustration. There’s a dishonesty so casual, so integrated into the everyday way of doing things, that it’s practically an art form. You ask for something to be done, and without hesitation, they’ll tell you it’s no problem. But deep down, you know they’re lying. You can sense it. They’ll assure you that it will be handled immediately, only for you to discover days later that not a single step has been taken. Worse still, when you follow up, they look at you with an expression that says, "What’s your rush? Don’t be so dramatic."
It’s as if there’s an unwritten rule: everything can be postponed, deferred, delayed—sometimes indefinitely. And heaven forbid you insist on some urgency, for that is when the game really begins. When you ask why something hasn’t been done, the excuses that roll out are laughable, absurd even, but they’re given with such sincerity that you almost feel guilty for doubting them. "The system was down," they say. "The person in charge stepped out," they add. "I forgot," they might even admit, but somehow, in all of this, it’s never their fault. It’s the system, the process, the circumstances—anything but them.
It would be one thing if it were just slowness, just a laid-back attitude that you could adjust to, but the real dagger is the shrewdness, the cunning play that gets under your skin. There’s a quiet, almost eerie way in which people seem to enjoy watching others struggle. It’s not enough that things aren’t working—they want you to feel the weight of it. They’ll lead you in circles, give you half-truths, and then sit back, feeling sweet, as if your suffering entertains them. It’s like being stuck in a game where the rules are never fully explained, and the goalposts are always moving.
And make no mistake, there is a sweetness in it for them—a sweetness in knowing that they have you at their mercy. They delight in the power that comes from knowing you need something from them, and they can delay it just enough to make you squirm. It’s a quiet, unspoken dominance. They’re in control, and you, poor you, are just the latest fool in line, trying to push a stone up a hill that keeps getting steeper with every interaction.
It’s baffling, the extent to which self-importance seeps into the smallest of actions. There’s a performative arrogance in every encounter, as if you should be grateful they’re even considering doing what you asked. It’s as though by the very nature of requesting a service, you’ve placed yourself beneath them, and they now have the authority to treat you with as much indifference as they like. You can see it in the slow, deliberate movements as they handle your request, the exaggerated gestures that scream, "Look how busy I am!" when in fact, they’re doing the bare minimum, if that.
Then comes the final insult, the thing that grinds you down to the core—the complete disregard for accountability. You can call them out on their dishonesty, their slowness, their shrewdness, but the result is always the same: a shrug, a blank stare, or worse, a smirk that says, "What are you going to do about it?" It’s as if they’ve mastered the art of pretending to care while simultaneously communicating that they really couldn’t be bothered.
And let’s not forget the overinflated egos that walk hand in hand with this attitude. The excess show of self-importance is so glaring that it borders on the ridiculous. The person who takes two hours to process a simple request will look at you as though they are the busiest and most important person in the world. They’ll make you feel like you should apologize for taking up their time, even though it’s their job to assist you. There’s an almost comical level of self-aggrandizement that makes every interaction feel surreal, like you’ve entered a world where the normal rules of service and decency no longer apply.
You’d think this kind of attitude would be reserved for high-ranking officials, but no—it permeates all levels of society. From the boda-boda rider who drives off with a smirk after overcharging you, to the shopkeeper who deliberately gives you the wrong change, to the civil servant who acts like you’re asking for a miracle when all you need is a signature—every interaction feels like an uphill battle against a system that thrives on frustrating you.
But what’s even more perplexing is that this behavior is so normalized that most people don’t even notice it anymore. It’s become a part of the fabric of daily life, woven so tightly into the culture that it’s hard to imagine a different way of doing things. People have grown accustomed to the dishonesty, the slowness, the shrewdness, and the self-importance, to the point where they’ve stopped expecting better. And when you do call it out, you’re met with indifference at best, hostility at worst.
So what happens when you live in a society that frustrates you to the level of a jinn? What happens when every interaction feels like a test of your patience, your integrity, and your sense of self-worth? You adapt, of course. You learn to lower your expectations, to expect delays, dishonesty, and arrogance at every turn. You develop a thicker skin, a jaded outlook, and a quiet resignation that this is just how things are.
But deep down, it eats at you. It chips away at your sense of fairness, your belief in accountability, your hope that things could be different. You become cynical, mistrustful, and, eventually, you stop caring as much. It’s a slow erosion of your soul, one frustrating interaction at a time. You stop expecting people to keep their word. You stop believing that things will get done on time. And you start to accept the dishonesty, the slowness, the shrewdness, and the self-importance as inevitable.
Yet, there’s a deep sadness in this acceptance, because it’s a tacit admission that things aren’t going to change. It’s the recognition that dishonesty has become so entrenched, slowness so widespread, shrewdness so normalized, and self-importance so overbearing, that fighting against it feels futile. And so, like everyone else, you learn to navigate the system as best as you can, frustrated to the level of a jinn, but too tired to keep pushing back.
In the end, it’s not just about the dishonesty, the slowness, or the shrewdness. It’s about the collective weight of it all—the way it wears you down, the way it makes you feel small, insignificant, and powerless. It’s about the soul-crushing realization that this is the reality, and there’s no escape from it. You either adapt or you break. And most of us, we adapt, frustrated, but still moving forward, because what else can we do?
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