“Omu-kaali Ta-ha-ya: Requiem for Conversation in an Age of Digital Absence” is not merely an ethnographic reflection on a Lulamogi folk song from Gadumire—it is a cultural scalpel, slicing open the quiet tragedy of our times.The refrain “Omu-kaali ta-ha-ya”—loosely translated as “a woman rarely has time for meaningful conversation”—encapsulates more than a homestead’s rhythm. It speaks to a broader existential and societal dislocation: our collective abandonment of meaningful presence in favor of performance, distraction, and digital saturation.

This piece asks a haunting question: When the woman no longer sits, what else begins to fall apart?

Drawing from what may first appear as a simple village rhyme, this discourse elevates the “ka-to-no” refrain—the constant postponement of connection—into a metaphor for modern life. What once denoted survival-driven chores in a rural homestead now echoes eerily in our tech-driven routines. We are no longer pounding millet or fetching water; we are scrolling endlessly, responding selectively, living virtually while those closest to us emotionally wither.

In this context, “The Woman Rarely Sits” becomes both a literal cultural observation and a symbolic critique of our fragmented social fabric. The homestead chore becomes the scrolling thumb, and the fireplace conversation becomes the blue-lit silence of phones between family members on festive days. We have become the omu-kaali ta-ha-ya of the digital age—not too busy to talk, but too distracted to listen.

Thus, this work functions not just as an essay but as a philosophical requiem. It is a lament for the fading art of human-to-human presence, a mirror to our emotional abandonment of elders, and a plea for the revival of intentional conversation. It reflects the intellectual weight of titles such as “Echoes from Gadumire”, “Ka-to-no and the Death of Conversation”, and “When the Woman No Longer Sits”—each a thematic pillar beneath the overarching canopy of this requiem.

Let this be our cultural wake-up call:

If we do not return to the art of sitting, of speaking, of truly being with one another,

we will one day sit alone—remembered not by our presence, but by our absence.

This lulamogi song from Gadumire otherwise wise known as "Half London". The lyrics are deceptively simple, yet profoundly revealing:

“Omu-kaali ta-ha-ya…”

(oh-moo-KAH-lee ta-HAH-yah)

A woman rarely has time for meaningful conversation.

 “Ka-to-no, kaa-ti n-jya-ba kwoh-zah…”

Just a little—I’m going to wash something.

 “Ka-to-no, kaa-ti n-jya-ba koo-soom-bah…”

Just a little—I’m going to pound millet.

 “Ka-to-no, jyahm-bah mah-ee-zee…”

Just a little—I’m going to fetch water.

And then again, the chorus returns:

 “Omu-kaali ta-ha-ya…”

The woman rarely has time for meaningful conversation.

This refrain—repetitive, rhythmic, almost playful on the surface—is in fact rich with generational insight. Loosely translated, the song describes the common reality of a woman in the homestead who, though present physically, is always on the move. She never quite settles long enough to engage in meaningful, uninterrupted conversation. Just as one begins to enjoy her company—perhaps to share a heartfelt thought, reflect on the day, or simply sit in silence—she rises. She excuses herself. Not rudely, but dutifully. She must wash something. Stir the pot. Sweep the compound. Fetch the water. And just like that, the moment vanishes—not in conflict, but in obligation.

This cultural moment is familiar. It belongs not only to the Lulamogi people but to all of us who were raised by women who embodied movement. They were never idle, and if you sat too long, you were suspected of laziness. Conversations—especially long ones—were a luxury. The song reflects this truth with humor, but also with a subtle melancholy.

Now shift this to our time, to our generation. Especially those of us in the working-age bracket—mid-thirties to fifties—who go through the pressures of modern life, and at the end of a long day, crave just one thing: real conversation. Not a transaction, not a meeting, not a catch-up on logistics. Just a moment to talk, to laugh, to be heard, and to hear someone else.

But we are now becoming the lonely figures we used to observe from afar. Like the man in the song, we sit quietly at the end of the day. We pick up our phones to call a friend, a cousin, a neighbor. And what do we hear?

“Ka-to-no… let me get back to you.”

“Ka-to-no… I’m in a meeting.”

“Ka-to-no… I’ll text you later.”

Later never comes.

The people we reach out to aren’t washing clothes or pounding millet. They aren’t sweeping the compound or tending to goats. They’re scrolling. On WhatsApp. On TikTok. On social media. Busy, yes—but busy consuming curated fragments of strangers’ lives, while ignoring the full hearts sitting right beside them.

What we’re witnessing is a slow, cultural erosion of presence. Even on festive days, in gatherings with extended family, we’re physically near but emotionally absent. Everyone is “around”—but no one is available. We sit in circles around the fireplace, each of us staring into our private fires: smartphone screens.

And so, the same fate befalls us that once befell the homestead woman. We too become omu-kaali ta-ha-ya—not because we’re sustaining households, but because we’re buried in distractions. We have become passive listeners in active company. Touch has been replaced by text. Presence has been traded for performative connection.

And the most painful effect? Our elders—our grandparents, parents, uncles, and aunties—are now the ones sitting alone, longing for even a moment of deep connection. They call us. They ask to talk. They’re not asking for money, not requesting errands. They just want to be heard. But we, like the woman in the song, have a hundred ka-to-nos ready: just a little… later… another time.

Unlike the grandmothers of old, whose absence from conversation meant food would be on the table and clothes would be clean, our absence carries no such purpose. It is absence without productivity. Distance without necessity. Silence without honor.

And so our elders shrink—not physically, but emotionally. They feel unneeded. Then forgotten. Then invisible. And yet, all they really wanted was a few minutes of attention. A voice that says: “I see you. I hear you. Sit with me.”

So what can we do?

We must revive the art of sitting. We must return to the spirit of the firestone, the courtyard, the shared meal. We must call back. We must listen—not with one ear on the screen, but with full, human presence.

Let us not become the omu-kaali ta-ha-ya of this digital age—too busy to sit, yet not saving a home. Let us become intentional again about time, about people, about love expressed through conversation.

Because one day, we too will grow old. We too will sit alone. We too will call. And if we have taught no one how to sit with us, how to truly hear, we will be met not with voices, but with echoes.

Let us say less of “ka-to-no” and more of “I am here—sit with me.”

By Isaac Christopher Lubogo

President of Optimistic International Uganda Chapter, CEO of Suigeneris Legal Legacy Incorporated with LLB, LLM, and LLD fellow.

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