Being a man, against all odds

I listened, heavy-hearted, as the story unfolded, as bleak as such tales often are: pain, haunting memories, a present steeped in struggle, and a future shrouded in uncertainty. He spoke in a long, weary diatribe, his voice carrying the weight of despair.

For months, he had trudged each day from Bukoto to the city center, scraping together whatever he could to survive. Some days, luck smiled faintly upon him; others, like today, yesterday, and the day before, it turned its back. Three days without a meal had turned their home into a battleground of bitterness and anguish. His wife, consumed by regret, lamented everything—even the day she had met him.

He rented a small, cramped house in Bukoto for a modest fee of 80,000 Uganda shillings. Yet, after five grueling months on this unforgiving road, he had failed to raise the rent. The once-kind and patient landlord had run out of patience, and the whispers of neighbors grew louder. Tongues wagged, fingers pointed, and friends drifted away, leaving him isolated in his struggle. He did everything he could—mending fences, washing dogs, cleaning offices—searching for any small job that might offer a lifeline for the day.

Nights, which bring rest to most, offered him no solace. He hadn’t slept a wink, his mind racing with worry. At 3:00 am, he had left the house after a bitter quarrel with his wife. She was desperate, her spirit breaking under the weight of their shared suffering. Even hope seemed to avoid them, slipping through their fingers like smoke.

They had met at school, she a few classes below him. They had spoken often, and in their youthful innocence, love had found them—or at least, it had felt like love. It had painted a hopeful future: a family, a life together in the city, a nice home, perhaps even ownership of one. But now, those dreams felt like cruel taunts. “It’s a hard life being a man,” he said, his voice trembling. “At times, I feel like giving up.”

He paused; the air thick with sorrow. “You know, I’ve thought of poison many times, but I fear death. So, my only solace is the church. I come here every day, listen to people’s testimonies, and hope that soon, my testimony will be next.” His words hung in the air, heavy and unrelenting.

He came from a modest home, the sixth child of a union between a Tanzanian truck driver and a Rwandan woman. His mother had named him Nshuti, meaning friend. “Ours was a simple but happy home,” he recalled, a flicker of warmth in his voice. His father had worked at Azam Bakery as a truck driver, but one day, he fell ill and died shortly after—claimed by COVID-19.

He was looking for a job, lifeline something to feed him and his better wife for another day. He scrubbed and cleaned our office meticulously like a man on a mission and then thanked us for the gesture and left with some little payment 

The story ended as it began, steeped in sorrow, a testament to a life marked by unyielding hardship and the faint, flickering hope that someday, the tide might turn.

Also 

If you can offer this gentleman a job. Please this will go a long way. He has no phone at the moment. He uses a number of A shopkeeper in the neighborhood.