Nabuguzi. Kiwanuka
I never used to mind broken phones. If yours had a cracked screen, that was your business. But then I got a phone that put me through hell between 2019-2022.
One morning, it powered down and never turned back on. The technician said the battery was dead. Simple fix, right? Wrong. Turns out, Nokia parts aren’t easy to find in Uganda. He “swung the gig” and returned my phone—a shell of what it once was. The selfie camera was foggy because some rubber around it had torn. The screen didn’t sit in the frame properly, so light seeped through the edges. I hated looking at it.
Then came the endless repairs. One day it wouldn’t charge. I emptied my coin tin to fix it. Another time, the microphone died. Fixed that too. Then the sensor. Then yet another thing. Every time I thought I was done, it found a new way to betray me.
At some point, the screen was swapped for a mismatched one, and the technician asked me to “be patient” while he found a better fit. I had no choice. I waited. Then, just as I was about to be free, I dropped it. The screen shattered. The darn phone still has its rubber bands around it. That was my breaking point.
I immediately started looking for a new phone. For two weeks, I was obsessed over YouTube phone reviews, comparing every Pixel and OnePlus model I could find. The stress of it all made me swear—never again. Never again would I repair a phone.
But here’s the thing: Even after replacing it, the experience left a mark. Now, whenever I see a cracked phone—even if it’s a stranger’s—I feel stressed. My jaw clenches. Sometimes I want to share my sympathies with them. I look away. Holding one sends a wave of panic through me. It’s irrational, but it’s real.
Some experiences don’t just end. They settle in our bodies, shaping our reactions in ways we don’t even realize.
What’s something you thought you let go of, but it still shows up in your reactions?
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