When I was at campus, pocket money wasn’t just scarce — it was almost mythical. You heard people talk about it, you assumed it existed somewhere in the universe, but in your own pocket? That was another story.
Yet I was pursuing a BSc in Industrial Chemistry, a course that came with serious academic demands and an even more serious appetite for industrial visits. Learning didn’t stop in lecture rooms; it followed us onto buses and into factories spread across the country.
We visited places like Kilembe Mines in Kasese, Coca-Cola in Mbarara, Uganda Breweries in Jinja, Kakira Sugar Works, among others.
The exposure was priceless. You would walk through massive plants, see machines turning raw materials into products worth billions, listen to managers explain processes and value chains — and then step outside to face a very personal problem: what am I eating today?
The university would pay for accommodation, which helped. But feeding? That one was left to you and your survival instincts.
You would wake up in a strange town, prepare for a long day of learning, and start calculating whether you could afford a decent meal or whether a cup of tea would have to carry you to evening. Hunger humbles you, but it also sharpens you. It forces you to stop waiting for miracles and start thinking.
That’s when it hit me: survival would not arrange itself. I had to think. Now, here’s a truth many people forget when they romanticise campus struggle — not everyone was broke.
Pressure at that level was real, yes, but there were students who were big spenders. Some always had money. They dressed well, ate well, and moved as though the economy had never heard of hardship.
The difference was access businesses back home, parents in powerful positions, relatives abroad.
And this is where instinct comes in.
Some students were wise enough to understand that when money is scarce, you don’t isolate yourself you position yourself. They intentionally befriended the loaded ones, not by begging, but by bringing value.
Many of those friendships were built on being among the best in class — helping with coursework, explaining difficult concepts, sharing notes, being dependable.
It taught me something quietly powerful: when cash is low, social intelligence becomes currency. If money is scarce, develop rare instincts.
Be useful. Be excellent. Insulate yourself from running completely dry.
Around that same time, I had an uncle who wasn’t just family — he was my close friend. He loved me deeply. He was working in Iraq, at a time when the war was active, providing security services.
Anyone who remembers that period knows one thing the risk was high, but so was the pay. Very high. Whenever he came back for vacation, he came with friends who were also working in similar environments.
These were people who had money, exposure, and gadgets. Whenever introductions were made, my uncle would casually say, “This one knows electronics.” That sentence became my positioning statement.
I wasn’t an engineer. I didn’t own a shop. I didn’t have certificates to flash. But I understood gadgets well enough. I could transfer good music from an external hard drive to a phone, organize playlists, clean storage, troubleshoot small issues. Simple things.
Ordinary things. The kind people overlook — until they need them urgently. And you would be shocked how much money sits around simple problems.
Someone would hand me a phone and say, “Put nice music here.” Ten minutes later, they’d cough UGX 100,000 as casually as if they were paying for parking. Another would complain about a slow device, and once it was fixed, they’d say,
“By the way, I’m selling this one cheaply I upgraded abroad.” I would broker such deals, buying low and selling to someone else who wanted something classy but affordable.
Slowly, quietly, without drama, I transitioned. From a student calculating lunch money during industrial visits to someone holding some of the latest gadgets of the time. Not because I was lucky. Not because I had capital. But because I was useful.
That experience shattered a dangerous lie. When you don’t have money, you start believing everyone else is also broke. You assume the economy is dry. You say things like, “There’s no money in this country.”
But that’s rarely true. Money is almost never missing. It’s usually sitting next to problems — waiting for someone willing to solve them.
Even today, people say, “These days people don’t have money.” But boda riders don’t complain. Chapati sellers don’t shut down because of economic hardship.
Mobile money agents are never idle. Why? Because they are positioned exactly where daily problems exist.
According to UBOS, over 65% of Uganda’s working population earns income from informal or semi-formal activities. That means money changes hands every single day, outside offices, outside payrolls, outside job titles. People pay for convenience. They pay for speed. They pay for reliability.
What I learnt early is this: people are willing to spend money where value is obvious. Sometimes the money even comes easily not because the work is hard, but because the solution is timely. Serve one client well, and referrals follow. Someone watches how you handle their problem, trusts you, and suddenly you’re being introduced as “the one who can help.”
That’s where responsibility begins. Referrals are fragile. One careless mistake can destroy five future opportunities. Once opportunity shows up, your real work becomes consistency — delivering value again and again, even when the excitement fades.
Irrespective of the level you are at, you can still provide a solution to a problem and be paid. The pay may feel small. It may feel unfair. It may even feel uncomfortable. But it’s a starting point. And starting matters more than waiting for perfect conditions.
Many people despise small pay, forgetting that small pay is often the doorway to bigger problems — and bigger pay. Nobody starts by solving million-shilling problems. You grow into them by solving ten-thousand-shilling problems well.
Today, many young people want salaries before skills, clients before competence, applause before value. But the market doesn’t reward noise — it rewards usefulness. Degrees open doors, yes, but value keeps them open.
During campus, I didn’t wait to “get a job” to start earning. I observed. I positioned myself. I showed up consistently. And money responded. That principle hasn’t changed.
Whether you’re a student, a graduate, a hustler, or a business owner money flows toward people who solve problems efficiently and reliably.
Look around you. Someone needs help setting up a phone. Someone needs their CV fixed. Someone needs deliveries made. Someone needs accounts balanced. Someone needs speed. Someone needs clarity. Someone needs trust.
The World Bank notes that over 80% of jobs in developing economies come from problem-solving activities outside formal employment. Opportunity doesn’t sit in offices it sits in gaps.
So, if money isn’t coming your way today, don’t conclude that money doesn’t exist. Look again. Money is there. People are spending. The uncomfortable but liberating question is simple: what problem are you solving — and how well are you solving it? Because the moment you position yourself correctly, money stops hiding.
