From Wallace Black to the Floods: The Journey of Building and Losing Straight out of university, my husband and I founded WALLACE BLACK a brand born from downtown hustle, courage, and faith. It started with online deliveries, sleepless nights, and the support of our local investors Anwer, Mansur, and “Sabayilibi” Lawrence who trusted me with stock to sell, take a small cut, and return their money. Sadly, most of them later faced the wrath of taxes, COVID-19, that drove them out of business. In 2016, Before graduation, I began as a small time hustler a muyilibi, running around Kampala streets, delivering shoes one order at a time. But determination took me further. I eventually opened two outlets, and later made it to China, where I began importing tonnes of quality men’s footwear, supplying clients across the region. Then came COVID-19. Two years of lockdowns and closed borders wiped out everything I had built. The banks offered “loan holidays” that only multiplied interest, leaving many of us gasping for air. Landlords gave us brief grace periods to pay months we hadn’t worked. China closed out on foreigners, fearing the spread of the virus, and supply lines collapsed for nearly two years. Desperate to keep the dream alive, I resorted to online ordering only to receive over 40 boxes of wrong designs. That final blow sank WALLACE BLACK. Frustrated, bitter, and exhausted, God gave me a new vision: to build small-scale production. I took time to research, consult and later gathered all my monthly payment and started a small cottage factory. The very word manufacturing terrified me, but the desire to try pushed me forward. Our first samples came out beautifully the quality was beyond expectation and the market’s reception was overwhelming. I collected fresh graduate tailors and finally begun to find our identity as self-made creators. I took another loan to improve our designs and sizing, believing this was the beginning of something lasting. Then came Friday. The Kampala floods swept through everything. And I mean everything. The stock 6,000 singular products, Several dozens and boxes gone within hours. Behind those numbers were 38 bayilibi homes and over 190 direct beneficiaries whose livelihoods depended on that dream. But what broke me most wasn’t just the loss it was the mockery from the state. We’ve watched as government offers land, tax holidays, and incentives to already established investors, yet makes it nearly impossible for local small manufacturers to even register a cottage business buried under endless, unrealistic requirements. And when calamity strikes, all we hear is “Tujja bawayo ka relief” Pocket change. offered in exchange for a lifetime of effort. If you choose to pursue compensation, you’ll wait at least six months and face an endless list of legal requirements. But how many small traders have shops registered in their own names? How many small enterprises in Uganda have insurance beyond employee medical coverage? When I attended the traders’ meeting at OPM yesterday, I left prematurely disheartened. Watching the applause that followed hollow promises reminded me of the pain that once pushed me to represent the people in Rubaga North vulnerable, hustlers being played, fooled, and lied to. Being straightforward comes at a price. I refused to exploit people’s vulnerability. My principles do not allow me to profit off broken souls. So I lost conceded and stepped away from politics. And here we are back to zero. My grandfather warned me a while ago : “The system won’t let you.” I insisted pushed on. The Baganda say, “Ow’empaka akunama ebiiri“ Today, I face the truth in his words. With a fresh bank loan to service every 15th of the month, criticism from frustrated political voices, and exhaustion from systems designed to drain rather than empower, I still stand wounded, and tired. If only, instead of mocking us with “Their Pocket change,” ( Which I don’t defy because it may work for some traders) Government should also consid
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