The age-old wisdom among the people of Buganda carries a blunt but important caution: “Olumanyi manyi lukukwasa embwa yamuganzi wo mukamwa.” The idea is simple. Even if you are familiar with the owner of a dog, that relationship does not remove the need for caution around the dog itself. Otherwise, you may still end up bitten.
Fear is often grounded in information. This is why children climb trees, approach fire, or engage in risky behaviour with little hesitation—they simply do not know better. They lack the knowledge of what can go wrong and what the cost might be.
A child may approach a hot pan with bare hands without fear, not out of courage, but ignorance. At the same time, the parent is gripped by panic and urgency, fully aware of the danger and the little time available to prevent harm. In some extreme cases, a child may even play with a snake, unaware of the risk.
Ignorance is, indeed, a form of bliss. The key difference between the child and the parent is information—the parent knows what the hot pan or the snake is capable of, while the child does not.
This analogy applies strongly to many aspects of life in Uganda, particularly in politics, public health, governance, corruption, and everyday risk-taking.
I often hear people question why Ugandans are not “brave enough.” Ironically, many of those asking such questions no longer live in Uganda. Perhaps the more difficult question is why many of the “brave” ones left in the first place.
Fear—or the absence of it—is often shaped by information asymmetry. Those without knowledge tend to approach danger casually, while those who are informed respond with caution, urgency, or even withdrawal.
If we are serious about fighting corruption, for example, we must create conditions in which the consequences of stealing public funds are unmistakably severe and widely understood. Fear of consequence is not irrational; it is often a product of clarity.
In politics and governance, this divide is equally visible. Many ordinary Ugandans, especially in rural areas or among younger people without historical context, engage with the political system with relative fearlessness—voting, speaking online, or criticising leaders without fully appreciating the risks involved.
They may not fully understand past experiences of repression, enforced disappearances, electoral violence, or other forms of political intimidation. A great deal has happened in this country that gives those who know it reason for caution.
By contrast, more informed citizens—opposition politicians, journalists, activists, and sometimes even judicial officers—often exhibit a higher degree of fear. This is reflected in self-censorship, exile, avoidance of sensitive topics, or cautious public expression due to awareness of surveillance, arrests, and other risks.
In this sense, the “child” (the uninformed public) may casually touch the “hot pan” of political expression, while the “parent” (the informed citizen) reacts with alarm and restraint. Days such as Janan Luwum Day serve as reminders of what has happened when people ignored dangers they did not fully understand.
Too often, fear is wrongly equated with weakness or cowardice. In reality, fear is sometimes simply knowledge. People know what to fear, whom to confront, and when restraint is wiser than action. What could be more rational than such calculated judgment?
It is therefore misguided to encourage people to expose themselves to known harm in the name of political idealism or rhetorical bravery. That, in itself, reflects a form of ignorance.
We must learn to respect the decisions people make in the interest of self-preservation, because each person has only one life to live, and self-protection is not a crime.
I wish there were a clearer way to disentangle patriotism from recklessness. Finally, if this point needs further emphasis, consider this: even soldiers—the people we often describe as the bravest in society—move with protection, weapons, and layers of security because they understand, perhaps better than anyone else, the real and perceived risks involved.