Kampala Traffic: Squeezing Lemonade from the unjuiciest lemons

If you are not quite steady, Kampala traffic will test your spirit. This is not the kind of jam you sing along to; it is the kind that takes two hours to cover a distance of just 10 kilometers.

It is a daily reality for most Ugandans. Kampala traffic will shape your schedules, shrink your rest hours, and demand patience from even the calmest souls.

The story is the same for many of us who wake up earlier than necessary, not to chase greatness, but to simply beat the madness on the road.

This traffic does not care who you are. It swallows everyone whole, from the everyday commuter to the big-shot executive. It does not blink for the soaring fuel prices, and it certainly has no sympathy for your 8 am meeting.

What I have never quite understood is why our tiny roads have to carry the weight of convoys and ministers with no fixed reporting times.

You will find five vehicles, each belonging to the same important person, nudging tens of other road users off their path. And in that moment, all we are trying to do is check off one simple KPI: came to work early.

Then there is the presidential convoy. Say less. If you have ever found yourself in its path, you already know: you might as well shut off your engine, lean back, and accept your fate.

But instead of letting traffic frustrate me, I have made a conscious decision to work with it. No, I have not mastered the art of baking cakes from my car seat yet, but I have tried to squeeze every last drop of lemonade from this bitter lemon called Kampala traffic.

For starters, it has become our family’s bonding space. We have come to terms with the fact that we spend more time in traffic than at home, so we use it to talk, argue, laugh, and catch up.

Some conversations end well, some do not, but either way, we talk. And that is what matters. Thankfully, neither of us has a temper wild enough to storm out of a moving car.

And believe it or not, traffic has also been good for networking. Once, during a particularly frustrating standstill, a stranger in the next car exclaimed, “Christ! What is the problem ahead?” I did not have answers, just a tired smile and a quiet, “I am sorry you feel that way, madam.”

Somehow, that moment turned into a conversation, and that conversation turned into friendship. Just like that. Out of the chaos, something meaningful sprang.

A friend takes it even further; traffic for her is a spiritual retreat. “That is my time with God,” she told me. “I pray, listen to audio sermons, and center myself.”

For her, traffic is a chapel on wheels. Her quiet time. Her altar.

Christine, another friend, sees it as her sacred space for reflection.

“It is my favorite time,” she says. “Just me, my thoughts, and silence. Well, minus the honking and yelling.”

But I get it. For introverts like her, the traffic offers solitude in a crowded world.

Of course, not everything is zen on these roads. Just when you are inching past the worst part, a hungry-looking traffic officer might flag you down for not wearing your seatbelt, even though your car has been moving at 2 km per hour, slower than a lazy afternoon stroll.

And the God you have been praying to all along? Let us just say He is probably stuck in traffic too.

Over time, I have learned the rhythms of this beast. Not through hacks or shortcuts, those rarely help, but through acceptance.

I have grown used to the repairs that come with bad roads, the paranoia that sets in when I need to make a call (windows up, doors locked), and the reminder that what is inconvenient for one might be an opportunity for another.

It is our Kampala story! As much as we complain, the moment there is no traffic, like it was during lockdowns, it feels creepy, almost lonely.

We are all moving in and out of this city, chasing dreams, chasing rest, chasing purpose. And jam, for better or worse, is part of our journey.

So yes, traffic is a mess. But somewhere between the blaring horns and unmoving wheels, I have found connection, reflection, and even joy.

I have found little drops of lemonade in a city that often hands us the driest lemons. Because in the end, we are all just trying to get somewhere.