In Uganda, the quickest route to wealth isn’t theft, graft, or even bribes! It’s simple, elegant, and shamefully effective: sycophancy! Yes, the art of flattery. The verbal contortion of morality. The fine skill of nodding, bowing, and verbally simpering at exactly the right moment.

Flattery is the only industry immune to inflation, recession, or famine. While ordinary citizens worry about the price of beans, fuel, and school fees, somewhere in Kampala, a modest clerk transforms overnight into a tycoon, all because he has mastered the sacred words: “Your Excellency is immortal. Your wisdom eclipses the sun.” Today he bows in the office lobby; tomorrow he owns a fleet of SUVs, a sprawling villa in Nakasero, and perhaps a direct line to the State House kitchen for life. 

The market for praise is infinite. Leaders’ egos are insatiable—always hungry, always empty, always needing topping up. One well-timed compliment can yield:

• A government contract for your cousin, who has never worked a day in his life.

• Land in your name, cleared and ready for mansion construction.

• Immunity from audits, investigations, or even common sense.

• Diplomatic postings where you can enjoy exotic food without paying.

• Ministerial appointments, even if your only qualification is speaking in exaggerated metaphors about the leader’s spectacles.

For those truly ambitious, the rewards escalate: poems, songs, murals, and interpretative dances dedicated to the leader’s greatness. One epic tribute can transform a pauper into a palace insider. Two flattering concerts, and suddenly your name is in the budget, under “Consultancy Fees for Political Praise.” Three, and a state-owned bank will send you a thank-you letter with a cheque large enough to buy a small village.

But timing, volume, and absurdity are key. A whisper of admiration earns a clap. A bellowed ode earns a mansion. A flamboyant recital—perhaps comparing the leader to a solar eclipse, a baobab tree, and the Nile all at once—earns a medal, a fleet of government vehicles, and possibly your own ambassadorial post to a country you’ve never heard of.

Of course, sycophancy is not for the faint-hearted. It requires stamina, creativity, and sometimes the ability to cry on cue. It demands memorising speeches that include lines like, “Your Excellency’s insight is the only thing keeping the nation afloat, more than the budget itself.” Missing a syllable can be career suicide. Overdoing it can be dangerous too: if you sound like a robot, the leader might think you are insincere and exile you to a dusty office with no perks at all.

The industry is booming. Some have even started schools for praise, offering workshops:

“How to Nod Like a Pro Without Getting a Crick in Your Neck.”
“Advanced Euphemisms for Absolute Obedience.”
“How to Turn One Compliment into Ten Titles.”

Aspiring millionaires flock from every corner of the country. Forget entrepreneurship. Forget trade. Forget innovation. Why bother building a factory when you can build a career on exaggerated adoration? Why worry about taxes when the only audits that matter are those checking if you truly meant “Your Excellency is the sun in our political sky” or just kind of, you know, said it. 

And it’s not just personal wealth. Sycophancy opens doors for entire families. Cousins, uncles, in-laws, and distant neighbours all benefit. One loyal worshipper can literally rewrite the social map of a village. Suddenly, your family is in local government. Your brother-in-law runs a hospital. Your dog, if you so choose, could become an honorary mascot for a state-owned enterprise.

In Uganda, praise isn’t just a skill—it’s a survival strategy. Honesty? Moral, yes, but costly. Innovation? Futile. Hard work? Overrated. Sycophancy? Lucrative beyond imagination. The louder you bow, the higher you climb. The more absurd your words, the faster you ascend. One day, you are applauding in a dusty office; the next, you are applauding in a golden chair while the same citizens you ignored queue for water.

So, aspiring millionaires and billionaires of the nation, forget business plans, forget savings accounts. Learn the fine art of verbal gymnastics. Memorise exaggerated metaphors. Compose songs in praise of spectacles, noses, hairlines, and eyebrows. For in Uganda, the economy may fail, the roads may crumble, and taxes may devour the common man—but the industry of flattery? It is eternal. Immortal. And absurdly, wildly, hilariously profitable.

After all, who needs merit when one can master mouthpieces? Who needs hard work when applause pays better than gold? Welcome to Uganda, where sycophancy is king, and the louder you praise, the heavier your wallet becomes.