Epigraph
“Words live twice—once in ink, and once in sound. And it is the second life, the spoken one, that often decides whether they wound or heal.” – Israel Y.K Lubogo.
Introduction: The Inheritance of Words
I stand here not merely as a Budonian, but as the son of a Mwiri boy.
In the hills of Mwiri, he learned that education is not the memorization of facts, but the awakening of meaning. And today, in the courts of Budo, I bear witness that words do not die when chalk is wiped from the board. They walk. They walk from Mwiri to Budo, from father to son, from classroom to destiny.
As the Roman poet Horace once said: “A word once spoken can never be recalled.” That is the burden—and the beauty—of language.
The Walking Stick That Walks
My father told me of Mr. Balidawa, Mwiri’s master of biology, who once asked:
“What is the difference between a walking stick and a walking stick?”
It sounded absurd, but it was philosophy in disguise.
1. A walking stick (emphasis on stick): the staff of the weary traveler.
2. A walking stick (emphasis on walking): the insect hidden in nature’s camouflage.
3. A walking stick (literal): a stick that walks by itself—proof that imagination is also knowledge.
So Mwiri taught: letters may be fixed, but speech is alive, volatile, and transformative.
Aristotle warned us: “The greatest thing by far is to be a master of metaphor—it is a sign of genius.” And here, Mwiri’s metaphorical riddle still walks into my generation.
The Son’s Letter That Spoke Twice
Then came Mr. Mirondo with a story.
A son wrote:
“Dear father, how are you? I am studying hard. Please send me new shoes.”
The father could not read English.
One neighbor read harshly:
“DEAR Father! HOW are you? I NEED shoes!”
The father’s heart hardened.
Another read gently:
“Dear father, how are you? I am studying hard. I need new shoes because mine are torn.”
The father’s heart opened. Help came.
Same words. Different music. And, as the African sage proverb teaches: “The tone of the drum determines the dance of the village.”
Philosophy in Motion
From these Mwiri classrooms, my father learned—and I now proclaim at Budo—that words are triplets of power:
Spelling gives them bones.
Pronunciation gives them flesh.
Tone gives them breath, a soul.
This is why St. Augustine observed: “For it is not the words which are spoken, but the intention of the mind which is heard.”
Indeed, a single sentence—“I never said he stole the money”—can bear six different verdicts, depending only on stress.
Language, then, is not ornament, but weapon. Not ink, but fire.The Call of Our Generation
So what is demanded of us—Mwiri’s heirs, Budo’s custodians?
Pronounce with precision. Careless speech is careless leadership.
Read with fairness. To twist words is to twist truth.
Write with foresight. For our ink will be judged by voices we will never meet.Between the walking stick and the walking stick lies not a joke, but a philosophy: words live twice—once in ink, and once in sound.
And as Socrates taught: “Speak, so that I may see you.”
Closing:
Mwiri planted the seed in my father.
Budo sharpens the voice in me.
And together they declare through my lips:
Let your words never crawl. Let them never limp.
Let them walk—walk tall, walk true, and walk into history.