In Kampala, we have sayings that sound poetic until the rain comes to test them. “Don’t buy a car until you can afford ten of them,” one of those philosophical financial slogans goes. It sounds noble, almost disciplined.
But the problem with such advice is that it forgets one crucial detail — life doesn’t always wait for your ideal moment. The skies don’t ask if your emergency fund is complete before pouring. The potholes don’t check your savings balance before swallowing your shoe in the morning downpour.
When it rains in Kampala, the city transforms into a mosaic of chaos — bodas become boats, pedestrians morph into stranded statues under verandas, and the taxis triple their fares. Suddenly, that “luxury” car becomes the Noah’s Ark you wish you’d built. Because at that point, it’s not just convenience; it’s survival.
I remember vividly during my time at UNBS, we had one of those endless debates that make you question who invented lunch breaks. The argument? Whether to buy a car first or land. One gentleman, very passionate about his point, insisted that land is king.
“Land doesn’t depreciate,” he said. “A car is a liability.”
We all nodded politely, until one fateful morning.
It had rained heavily that day — the kind of Kampala rain that doesn’t just fall; it performs. The road near Pepsi in Nakawa had turned into a brown river, and everyone without a car was stranded.
The man who always argued for land found himself stuck by the flooded stream, helplessly watching as cars passed. Then came the other guy — the “car-first” advocate — cruising by, window lowered, wearing that subtle smirk only vindication can produce.
He shouted, “My brother, sit on your land title and cross the stream!” and drove off. The laughter that followed in office that week could have powered the national grid.
That morning taught me something deeper than economics. Sometimes, value isn’t in what appreciates on paper, but in what serves your reality. That car might not yield interest like land, but it could save your time, your clothes, your dignity, and sometimes, your job.
See, many of us have grown up in a culture of self-sacrifice. We’ll walk under the rain so someone else can ride comfortably. We’ll stay in rent for a decade because we’re funding cousins, church projects, and village funerals.
Don’t get me wrong — generosity is a virtue. But self-neglect disguised as kindness is not holiness. It’s financial self-harm. The people you keep sacrificing for often move on faster than the rain dries. And when you’re the one stuck, you’ll discover their phones go off faster than a boda in a traffic jam.
In Luganda, they say, “Tewekubako njawulo.” Roughly translated, don’t deny yourself all enjoyment. There’s wisdom in that. A Member of Parliament once told me he had been allocated Shs300 million to buy a car. In his attempt to appear humble, he bought a small Noah instead.
Days later, he was involved in a terrible accident that nearly claimed his life. He survived, but the moral lesson was loud — sometimes humility can cost you safety. A good car isn’t about showing off; it’s about showing up — alive, dry, and on time.
So, when people mock others for buying cars “too early,” I often smile. Because many forget that money is a tool, not a trophy. If that car allows you to take your kids to school without praying the rain stops, or lets you reach clients in Gulu, Jinja, or Lusaka without begging for a lift, then it’s serving its divine purpose. That’s not vanity; that’s stewardship.
The Bible actually agrees. Ecclesiastes 5:19 says, “When God gives any man wealth and possessions, and enables him to enjoy them, to accept his lot and be happy in his work — this is a gift of God.” It’s not a sin to enjoy what you’ve earned. It’s ungratefulness to act like you didn’t.
There’s a special kind of peace that comes with driving your own car after years of using taxis that double as saunas and churches on wheels. The kind where everyone’s praying the driver sees the pothole before the pothole sees them. That small air-conditioned silence after you lock your car door — that’s not pride; that’s progress.
But, of course, wisdom must balance the equation. Don’t buy a car to impress the very people who’ll never fuel it. Buy one because it fits your season. Because it makes sense for your lifestyle. Because it helps you move from surviving to living. Don’t stretch to the point where the car owns you. But don’t live small just to fit into people’s opinions either.
So yes, maybe you can’t afford ten cars. Maybe you can only afford one decent one right now. But if that one car means you can arrive dry, on time, and alive — then congratulations, you’re already ten times richer in peace of mind.
Because, in this city called Kampala, sometimes wisdom isn’t measured in square meters of land, but in the ability to drive past a flooded road, wave politely, and whisper to yourself, “Let him sit on his title.”