I was the Bestman of my workmate, Eng. Andrew Kasilye.
We met at UCB, 1989–1991. I had just landed my first job. Still wet behind the ears. An intern with a tie too big and shoes too shiny.
He was Chief Plumber & Carpenter in the same breath. A man who could fix a pipe and build you a door before lunch.
For two years, we shared tea, tools, and trouble. We became close. Not WhatsApp close. Workshop close. The kind where you know how the other man holds a hammer.
Then one day he said, "IBM, I am getting married. The Kasiki will be in Kitetika, Gayaza Road. And I want you as my Bestman."
The wedding was elegant. Clean. Well done. White chairs, white tent, the whole village fed.
I stood beside him. Held the ring. Gave the speech. Poured the wine.
And then… the road swallowed us.
That was the last time I saw him.
Not at Kawempe, where he built his home.
I only met him once in 28 years, at the funeral of his father.
Not even for a cup of tea.
We never saw each other again.
And that haunts me.
Because I ask myself now, at 50++: Did I even know what "Bestman" meant?
These days, we pick Bestmen and Matrons like we pick shirts.
We drink together, so you're the Godfather of my son.
You have a suit, so cut the cake."
We met on Kampala Street, so be my wedding witness."
Peer pressure. Excitement. Instagram.
But no weight. No covenant.
Our parents knew better.
A Bestman wasn't decoration.
A Godfather wasn't a title for parties.
They were watchmen.
Not to interfere. To smoothen the voids that marriage throws at you.
To show up when the rent is late and the silence is loud.
To teach your Godchild the Catechism, not just buy him soda.
To walk into Kitagobwa St. Paul Primary School in the early '70s—like my own Godfather, the late Taata Benedicto Kasekende—and say, "This is my boy. Take him. Teach him."
He played a cardinal role in my faith. In my books. In the man I became.
That's what it meant.
Value. Presence. Accountability.
And the Kifuuta Oracles put it even plainer:
"Funna bestman anakubeleelawo nga omwetaga."
Get a Bestman who will be there when you need him. Like Muko Male and Big Brother Muguluma, they have been together for 30 years after the wedding and are still going on.
Not the one who will be there for the photos.
Not the one who will be there for the cake.
The one who will be there when the roof leaks.
The one who will be there when she cries in the kitchen.
The one who will be there when your job disappears and pride tells you to hide.
So I'm asking you now:
If you're going to choose a Bestman, don't choose the one with the nicest suit.
Choose the one who will sit with you at 2am when the marriage is bleeding.
If you need a Godmother, don't pick the one who dances best at the baby shower.
Pick Senga Bennett Ssemanobe from Rubaga. A woman who knows how to cook wisdom and serve it hot.
If you need a Bestman, get Bwanika Kakeeto from Sanje, Kyotera. A man who knows how to build, not just pose for photos.
Because marriage is not a one-day event.
Baptism is not a one-day party.
They are lifetimes. And they need elders, not extras.
I failed Eng. Kasilye in that way.
I wore the suit. I held the ring. I cut the cake.
But I never became the brother he needed after the music stopped.
So let's go back.
Back to what our fathers did.
Back to Kifuuta wisdom. Back to Catholic discipline.
Back to roles that mean something beyond the photo.
Because if we don't, we'll keep having beautiful weddings…
…and broken homes.
Beautiful baptisms…
…and lost children.
The suit is cheap. The role is expensive.
Funna bestman anakubeleelawo nga omwetaga.
Wear it with might. Or don't wear it at all.
