God made no mistake with the tongue and luck
It’s small. It’s soft. But it’s the toughest thing you carry. It’s the first to taste poverty and the first to taste power. Bitter herbs in the morning. Sweet honey at night. One tongue. Two lives.
With that same tongue, I have seen men crowned and men buried. On Monday it says, “You will make it.” By Friday it says, “You are finished.” That tongue will write your life story before your hands ever touch a pen.
So I learned early: Watch your tongue. Because the grave is full of people who talked themselves out of their own blessing.
But here’s the part most people miss: There is something stronger than the tongue. And it’s called luck.
Knowledge will hand you a hook and teach you how to tie bait. Wisdom will walk you to the lake and point to the deep water. But luck? Luck is the one that makes the fish bite when your line drops.
I have sat with professors from Buddu who went home with empty baskets. I have watched boys who can’t spell “university” come back with boats full because luck woke up and chose them at 5 a.m.
My name is Benedicto and Immanuel. They mean someone born with luck and God is with us. I don’t wear it like a crown. I carry it like a scar. Because I know what it costs. I’ve seen luck lift me, and I’ve seen luck test me.
When the child is born, the mother whispers using her tongue. That first word over the baby is prayer, is welcome, is destiny. The father lifts the child, uses his tongue to bless the kid. That blessing becomes the child’s shadow. When you take the kid to the naming ceremony, it’s the tongue that says the name, and the name becomes the road.
But the tongue can also close roads. One day, my dad was very annoyed with my sister, and he used his tongue to bad-mouth her. Since that day, she has never seen luck. The words landed like a curse and grew roots.
So, parents, don’t anyhow use your tongue on your kids, “Basenga.” Your words are seeds. Plant mangoes, not thorns. The child you curse today is the adult you’ll beg tomorrow.
And children, hear this: never tempt your parents to bad-mouth you. Disrespect is a shortcut to empty hands. Provoke your mother’s anger, provoke your father’s wrath, and luck will not follow you. It will hear their words and turn away.
So let me tell you the life narrative they don’t put in books:
• Your lucky charms are not in shrines. They are in people.
Your lucky charm is Jjajja Zaidi Luswata, who never once told me to drop my Catholic cross. Your lucky charm is my late Kojja BMK, who put a rosary in my hand and not a sermon in my ear. My lucky charms are Namaata, Nakyajja, and Namayanja. When those girls laugh, my bad days get deported. If it brings me peace, it opens my doors, it keeps me human—that’s my lucky charm. Name yours. Protect it.
• Luck is a matatu, not a mansion.
It doesn’t park and wait for you to finish overthinking. It hoots once. Maybe twice. Then it goes. Every luck meant for you will come to your stage. Your job is to jump in. Don’t say, “Next time.” Next time belongs to someone else. I have picked luck in Kifuuta, in Kyotera, on roads with no names. Because I moved when it moved.
• Luck expires.
Yes. You can waste it. You can insult it with a reckless tongue. You can cheat it by refusing to share. Then one day, you call its name and only an echo answers. I water my luck. I thank it. I give it away because luck multiplied is luck preserved.
• No man can close your luck outside.
They can lock the office. They can whisper in bars. They can say, “Benedicto is done.” But if God wrote your luck, their padlocks are plastic. The Kabaka did not campaign for reverence. It was sent from above, and all gods recognize him. Your portion works the same way. If it’s yours, it will find you in the dark.
So this is how we live:
Bridle the tongue, because it can spit in your own soup. Feed your luck, because it can carry you where your degrees can’t. And when you hear your name in the wind, answer.
The tongue will taste bitter. The tongue will taste sweet. The tongue will speak life. The tongue will speak death. But luck? Luck decides who gets called tomorrow.
My door is open. My tongue is guarded. My luck is walking.
The question is not if it will pass by you. The question is: Will you be ready when it does?
As the Oracles of Kifuuta, Kyotera, say: “Omukisa tegwekweka; gulinda akuma olulimi lwe.”
Luck does not hide; it waits for the one who guards his tongue.
Find me in Kifuuta, Kyotera, Buddu.
