Alistair

[Ambassador Juju Nsababera @Nsababera_juju]

Back to the Source - The Nile, — the documentary I executive-produced and lived comes home for its National Premiere on 25th April 2026 in Kampala Uganda.

It premiered in Guangzhou, China last December. Now Uganda gets to watch it for the first time.

This is a homecoming🇺🇬📽️🍿

#BacktotheSourceTheNile

[Nkoyoyo Isaac (CRMP) @nkoyoyo3]

Eulogy for Maama Rhodah N. Kalema
By Nkoyoyo Isaac, CEO – Tikvah Rural Development Initiative

We honor the life of Maama Rhodah N. Kalema, a stateswoman whose love for Kiboga and Uganda was unwavering. At 96, she leaves behind a legacy etched in courage, sacrifice, and transformative leadership.

After the war in 1986, when many were uncertain, Maama Rhodah walked—often by night—mobilizing communities, teaching civic responsibility, and championing food security and education. Her bold advocacy for girl-child education through FAWE opened doors for thousands across Uganda.

As Chairperson of Bamusuuta SSS, she didn’t just lead—she inspired. I remember her bringing her daughter, Dr. Gladys, to mentor us. She believed in our future and invested herself fully in it.

Her passion for rural development touched every project and every life. She mothered communities with vision and love.

We thank God for such a fruitful life. Your race is run, Maama Rhodah. Your legacy lives on.
🇺🇬🕊️

[Funny Africa @FunnyAfrica]

Sorry for breathing the same air as you king 😂

[Literally Heather @Shouse34]

Y'all....The people's faces in the background and Peter Griffins voice has killed me. ☠️☠️☠️

[Troll Football @TrollFootball]

Kylian Mbappe arriving at the Santiago Bernabeu like

[Jeremy Kuo @jeremykuoo]

This is Tommy Hilfiger.

He took the world by storm overnight, but not because of his clothing.

Here’s how a genius marketing stunt put Hilfiger on the map before his designs did:

(this story blew my mind)

[Kofi Ntim🇬🇭 @NtimBarima]

Wealth in the 2000s

[Wide Awake Media @wideawake_media]

2020: The year the entire planet became a giant insane asylum, almost overnight. 🤡

Never forget.

[Typical African @Joe__Bassey]

You can’t imagine the mental health of this children who have been orphaned due to the ongoing genocide in Congo and are now living in camps. They are really suffering and need help. #Congoisbleeding

[Historic Vids @historyinmemes]

This is the most spot on Texan view of Texas

[Kara @UTDKarra]

How did Diogo Dalot stop this counter attack 😲🤯

[gwera @notgwera]

Kampala nightlife is not for the weak.

(me, I’m the weak)

[Craig Oyugi @JaKanyanyala]

Truly blessed to be at the Turi Alumni weekend. Had a chance to reconnect with old class mates and Turi Legends.

[Alistair @Ali_Walii]

Onana is truly an African cup of nations goalkeeper

[Karamagi Andrew @karamagi_andrew]

MY HUMBLING EXPERIENCE AS A ‘PLANNED’ KID
By Andrew Karamagi

This week, a screenshot of a WhatsApp message has been the subject of intense debate and commentary on various social platforms. In it, a parent is complaining about the decision of one of Kampala’s privately held elite primary schools to give scholarships to less-fortunate children. The author contends that their “high-cost and highly maintained kids”, for whom they pay so much money, are being mixed with ghetto/street kids without their consent.

The full message is more revolting. My unedited thoughts about this kind of thinking are unprintable.

The debate reminded me of a childhood experience whose results showed up less than a year ago.

I hope that that parent reads my story and picks something from it:

One evening in 2000 (I was then a Primary Seven pupil at Greenhill Academy), my siblings and I had just been picked from school when the doorbell rang.

From his kennel, Ravy the dog barked, with tangible agitation. This was the first learned signal to everyone at home that the canine had smelt a stranger.

“Someone go check out who it is,” my mother instructed. We hated being asked to go see who had called because it meant missing scenes from Power Rangers, Sunset Beach, or suffering the inconvenience of pausing a game on the PlayStation.

Such was our collective relief when we heard Rebecca, one of two house helps, run to the gate.

The visitor was let in.

“Mummy, nayenda kugamba niiwe [Mummy, he wants to speak to you],” Rebecca reported.

“Nooha shi? [who is it],” my mother inquired.

“N’omwoojo; yiija n’egaari [It’s a boy; he came riding a bicycle],” Rebecca answered.

Mom used her feet to feel for her sandals on the ground and walked to the patio where the boy was. A few minutes of conversation got us curious, and one by one, we abandoned whatever we were doing, and jostled for space in a sash window to catch a glimpse of the stranger.

He was a young boy, my age, most likely. Ravy was growling and stomping furiously in his kennel, baying for blood.

At the invitation of mom, the boy wrestled his huge Hero model bicycle (the one without gears) and rested it on its side. She brought him indoors and we hastily left the sash window, racing back to the living room where we were watching TV and playing videogames.

“Come and sit here…iwe Rebecca; omwaana mumureetere ebyokurya [Rebecca, bring food for the child].”

From the dining table, mom scolded us for ignoring a visitor and ordered us to stop what we were doing and come say hello. Reluctantly, with long faces, we ambled towards him and mumbled our quick hellos, eager to return to the fun. Chris, the gregarious one, hugged the stranger. The rest of us didn’t catch more than a glimpse of him, let alone offer firm handshakes. This attracted more scorn from mom.

“After greeting him, switch off everything and go take your baths!” Sulking, we obliged and made for the bedrooms and bathrooms. Our fury was palpable. This boy who didn’t look like us, who clearly wasn’t very well dressed, and didn’t understand the cool stuff we were doing had decided to come at this hour.

Later, after the boy had left, dinner was served and mom narrated the incident to dad. Apparently, he requested mom to let him collect our garbage once a week for a meagre fee. He said he needed the money for his school fees. My parents agreed to find out more about his situation and see what help they could render.

Listening to their conversation, we asked naïve questions about why a young boy had to go through all that. Where were his parents? Wasn’t it dangerous for him to ride such a huge bicycle? At what time did he do his homework? Isn’t it disgusting to carry garbage bags with smelly refuse on a bicycle?
1/3

[Ty Ngachira @anto_ty]

Kendrick performing in Rwanda, surrounded by East African foreheads