“Okubatisa” — The Secret Life Behind Our Suits and Smiles

 

 

By Isaac Christopher Lubogo

 

Introduction: The Gospel According to Slang

 

There is a Luganda slang—okubatisa—that doesn’t appear in dictionaries, nor is it preached from pulpits. It is not the sacred okubaatisa of holy baptism, but its cruel, street-born twin. This okubatisa—spelled the same but pronounced with a sharpened sigh—is no ritual of salvation. No. It is the desperate, gasping, face-contorting struggle of an adult in silent, daily survival.

 

Phonetically it rolls off like: “Koo-baa-ti-sa”—but not gently. It stumbles from the throat like one falling into a ditch: Kuh-bah-TEE-sahh!

 

This is not language. It is an emotion. A whole philosophy. A silent prayer whispered in clenched jaws. A cry behind a smile. A resignation behind a title. A silent scream behind the words: “I’m fine.”

 

And so, today, we borrow from the wisdom of the street—the truest university of pain—and choose okubatisa as our lens. Because that is what we are doing: we are just kubatisa.

 

 

The Lie in Our Lives: When the Title Becomes a Mask

 

We wear neckties like nooses and hold job titles like shields. Senior Analyst. Managing Partner. Director of Programs. Lecturer. Consultant. Founder.

But behind every “Good morning, Sir,” is a mountain of debt, a cabinet of unopened bills, a child sent home for fees, and a car whose engine light is always on.

 

Behind every smiling photo in a suit is a human being standing on the edge of emotional bankruptcy, whispering:

“Nze mbatiddwa…” (Me, I’m just struggling…)

 

You see us walking into conferences with a folder under our arms. You clap when we’re invited to speak. But you don’t know that the allowance from that talk is what will pay our landlord three months in arrears.

We look like we made it—but in reality? Tubatiddwa.

We’re all just kubatisa.

 

The Cruel Joke of School: We Studied to Suffer

 

How I wish our children knew.

 

How I wish someone told them that we didn’t study to succeed—we studied to survive.

 

That our degrees are not wings but chains. That all our years of education only taught us how to suffer professionally. We can speak English while starving. We can draft concept notes while crying. We can teach others while breaking inside. That’s what school gave us.

 

Bachelor of Laws, Master of Finance, PhD in Resilience.

Yet we kneel to landlords. We beg boda-boda men to take half fare. We divide data bundles like medicine.

 

Nga tumanyi mu mutima nti ffe tuli mu kusoma kw’okubatisa.

(Deep down, we know we’re enrolled in the school of “kubatisa.”)

 

And still, our innocent children—full of light and dreams—say they want to be like us.

 

“Daddy, when I grow up, I want to be a lawyer like you!”

And I smile.

But inside I scream: “My son… if only you knew!”

 

Dear Child: Don’t Let Our Pain Become Your Dream

 

My dear child,

 

If you ever see me in a suit speaking big English—know this: it’s not success.

It’s “okubatisa.”

It’s survival.

It’s exhaustion dressed in perfume.

It’s regret coated in eloquence.

It’s fear with a Facebook account.

 

Don’t be deceived by my laptop. It’s not a tool of productivity—it’s a prison.

Don’t envy my car. It’s not a sign of freedom—it’s a moving coffin of loan balances and fuel anxiety.

 

If I ever told you to follow in my footsteps, forgive me. I didn’t mean it.

 

Conclusion: When Will We Stop Baptizing Our Pain in Silence?

 

We, the adults, have become performers in the theatre of “okubatisa.”

We act strong, but we’re breaking.

We laugh loudly, but cry quietly.

We carry the world, yet we’re not even sure where to go.

 

Okubatisa is not just a slang. It is the dictionary of adulthood. The real syllabus of life. The unspoken language of a generation that wakes up every day, fights unseen battles, and returns home with nothing but breath and brokenness.

 

To our children: may you be wiser than we were.

To us: may we someday live lives that don’t require pretending.

 

Until then?

 

Tubatiddwa. Tubatiddwa nnyo.

(We are struggling. We are deeply struggling.)

 

And this is our confession.

About the author:

Isaac Christopher Lubogo is a Ugandan lawyer and lecturer