You know that friend who knows everything—the economy, football, relationships, politics, even how to run your business better than you. They’ll diagnose your problem, prescribe a solution, and yet have never run a kiosk, let alone a company.
That, right there, is the virus quietly killing many Ugandan businesses—the know-it-all syndrome. I caught a mild dose of it myself back in the day. I was lending informally, no office, no license, just hustle and heart. Clients knew me by name and trust, not by signboard or brand. It worked—until I realised “working” isn’t the same as growing.
Then came that turning point. At the time, I was Head of Investment at UNBS Sacco, and part of my job was to find a speaker for our Annual General Meeting. Someone recommended a seasoned money-lending expert. We couldn’t take him on—his speaking fee was higher than our Sacco could afford. But I personally reached out to him later, curious and hungry to learn. He didn’t mince words.
“I charge one million per hour,” he said—and that was in 2014, before “consultant” became a fashionable title. I laughed nervously. Me? Pay one million just to talk? I was still renting office space in my head, not in real life. But as he talked, something in me knew I needed what he had—structure, discipline, perspective.
So I paid. Not immediately, of course—I first wrestled with pride, fear, and that little inner voice that says, “You already know this stuff.” But business pressure humbled me. I sent the money through his PA, and our mentorship journey began.
His first assignment for me was surgical: register the business formally, get an office, hire at least one staff member, and obtain a money-lending licence. And then the kicker—“Don’t waste my time. If you don’t take action, don’t call me again.”
I didn’t rush. Typical of us who want growth without the grind, I dragged my feet. But when I tried to seek another appointment to discuss a bad loan, his PA politely asked for evidence that I’d completed the earlier assignments. No proof, no meeting. He wasn’t being rude; he was teaching me accountability—something many entrepreneurs pray for but rarely practise.
That lesson hit home. I realised that success doesn’t come from what you know—it comes from what you apply. You can have the best information in the world, but without someone holding you to it, you’ll stay stuck in “I know” territory.
And here’s the bitter truth: most entrepreneurs fail not because they lack knowledge, but because they’re unteachable. They read one motivational book, watch two YouTube videos, attend three workshops, and suddenly believe they’re Warren Buffet in Kikuubo.
Meanwhile, the real players are quietly learning, unlearning, and paying for mentorship. Look around—from salons in Kamwokya to boda garages in Katwe, from boutique owners in Mbarara to forex dealers in Jinja—the story repeats itself.
A business starts with promise, but pride soon moves in. Advice becomes interference, and feedback sounds like hate. Before long, the business dies, and the owner blames the economy, not the ego.
I’ve seen it firsthand. One of my clients once borrowed money to open a hardware shop in Kyaliwajjala. I advised him to separate business funds from personal use. He nodded—the Ugandan version of “I’ll think about it.”
A year later, the shop was gone, and he said, “The economy is bad.” No, brother. The problem wasn’t inflation; it was information unheeded. When I finally followed my mentor’s guidance—got an office, hired a team, formalised Jonakee Holdings—everything changed. The clients I used to chase started calling me. Banks that ignored me began offering facilities.
And I discovered something powerful: growth respects order, not noise. Even spiritually, this isn’t new. Proverbs 12:15 says, “The way of a fool is right in his own eyes, but a wise man listens to advice.”
Every empire has advisers. Every king has counsellors. Yet every small business owner wants to be the CEO, accountant, HR, and legal officer—all rolled into one, powered by Google and guesswork.
When I paid that one million, I didn’t just buy advice; I bought discipline. I bought accountability. I bought a mirror that reflected my blind spots. And it paid off far more than the cost. Because, truth be told, what costs you nothing rarely changes you.
At UMI, when I personally paid for my Postgraduate course in Project Planning and Management, I arrived before the lecturer. I was alert, attentive, and serious. Yet at Makerere University, where the government paid my tuition, I was a professional latecomer. Why? Because when you don’t pay the price, you don’t value the lesson. It’s that simple.
Many of us already have the information we need—in books, podcasts, mentors, or even that friend who’s ahead of us—but we ignore it because we think we already know. The “know-it-all” mindset is deceptive because it feels empowering, but it’s actually a comfort zone wrapped in confidence.
Uganda’s business landscape is littered with tombstones of ideas that were once brilliant but buried by arrogance. Some refuse to hire experts. Others won’t listen to staff. A few even fear mentorship because they think it will expose their weaknesses. But as my mentor told me, “You can’t grow in the same soil that’s limiting you.”
In the end, knowing it all will cost you everything. Humility, on the other hand, opens doors even your knowledge can’t unlock. Because in business—just like in life—you’re either learning or you’re losing. And if you think you know it all, you’re already halfway out of business. How about we commit to continuously learn?
