Sundays have become my quiet hours; a small island of peace where I sit alone, let the week settle like dust after a long walk, and think about people, moments, and the little truths life keeps whispering.
I’m not a motivational writer; and surely not a philosopher or a moralist. I’m just an observer; one of those simple folk who pay attention to the unnoticed; a tone in a message, a pause in a voice, the look in someone’s eyes when they’ve stopped pretending.
On quiet mornings like this, I often find myself remembering people who taught me, without ever knowing it, what strength, wealth, and happiness truly look like.
When I was a boy in Karagwe, in northern Tanzania, there was an old man named Tibyakushemera; “it can’t shine without the grace of God.” Everything about him carried that grace. He had a vast banana plantation and hundreds of mango trees that danced with fruit every season.
We children couldn’t resist sneaking in to steal mangoes. And when he caught anyone; which he often did; he never shouted, never raised a stick. He would simply lead the culprit to his house, offer water, talk softly about honesty and patience, and then hand over a broom to sweep his yard.
That was his way of teaching; not through punishment, but through quiet correction. His calmness had power. He owned less than many, yet somehow, he was the wealthiest among us. Not because of the plantation; but because he was content, peaceful, and generous. His wealth was measured in what didn’t trouble him.
Later, during my school years in Rakai District, southern Uganda, I met a teacher who, to me, embodied happiness. She had been divorced three times, had no children, and lived alone in a small staff house that smelled faintly of chalk and jasmine.
But she was radiant; always smiling, humming while marking papers, always ready to share the little she had. She never complained, never spoke ill of anyone. Life had tossed her around, but she had somehow landed softly. Her joy was quiet, steady; like morning sunlight on old wood.
And then there was another teacher; young, strikingly beautiful, intelligent, but always angry at the world. She carried herself like a storm; quick to take offense, forever restless. Her words could slice the air; her presence brought tension even before she spoke.
I used to wonder how two people could live such different lives under the same roof, breathing the same air; one glowing with peace, the other burdened by her own fire.
Now that I’ve grown, I see these patterns more clearly. The strongest people are not the ones who shout to be heard; they’re the ones who remain calm when everything else shakes. The wealthiest are those whose hearts are not burdened by desire. The happiest are the ones who’ve made peace with what life didn’t give them. And the wisest? They’re the quiet listeners; the ones who don’t rush to speak, but whose silence feels full of understanding.
This week, we bid farewell to a decent and celebrated soul; Ingabire Immaculate. I listened and watched the eulogies, and one lingering thought refused to leave my mind; why do people sound so kind to the dead, yet so cold to the living? I’ve seen it many times; people who, when someone dies, write long, glowing words about how good they were, yet while that person was alive, they withheld kindness, help, or even a listening ear.
It’s a strange thing about us humans. I know there are people who will say good things about me when I’m gone, but who wouldn’t sign me a contract today if I needed it; who wouldn’t stand by me when things get rough; or those who call on Police to arrest me for investigating corruption or injustice instead of protecting me. And yet, they’ll find beautiful words when I die. Life has a way of exposing such ironies; not to make us bitter, but to remind us to live honestly, to love loudly, and to support people while they can still feel it.
And I keep wondering; what has changed in us? In the 90s, 80s, 70s, 60s and before, people seemed wiser, humbler, happier, and kinder. Neighbors shared food; disagreements ended in handshakes; elders spoke once and everyone listened. There was peace even in poverty, dignity even in struggle. What happened to that spirit? Today, people find pride in harming others, in gossiping, in proving they are right. Greed has replaced generosity; arrogance has replaced humility. We have become louder, but emptier; more connected, yet lonelier.
These things amuse me and sadden me in equal measure. Maybe that’s why I treasure my Sundays. I sit quietly, breathe deeply, and give thanks for the life I’ve been given; imperfect, unpredictable, yet mine to live and learn from.
So these are my Sunday musings; not lessons, just reflections. Thoughts that drift in as I watch the sun slide down behind the hills, the same way it used to behind Tibyakushemera’s mango trees. He’d be out there even in the fading light, walking slowly between the rows, inspecting his fruits, never in a hurry. He knew, I think, that life ripens best when you don’t rush it.
Maybe that’s the grace he lived by; the same grace I try to remember each Sunday; that nothing truly shines without calm, nothing lasts without peace, and nothing; not even love; should wait until we’re gone to be expressed.
I wish you a fruitful week ahead, see you on this page next Sunday.
