We Do Not Want Your Seats. We Want Your Wisdom. You could just pass the baton!!!

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I am working on a production that is ideally supposed to be staged sometime next year. There is one thing I know for sure: I do not want to repeat the mistakes I have encountered on other people’s productions. For years now, every production I have been part of has taught me something. Sometimes it has been about lighting. Sometimes budgeting. Sometimes communication. Sometimes leadership. Sometimes simply how not to treat people. I carry a notebook where I write these lessons down. One page is titled Things to Adapt. The next page is titled Things Never to Repeat. So help me God, I intend to use that notebook. Because I have watched too many productions fail not because people lacked talent, but because they refused to learn.

Earlier this month, I was speaking to a fellow young creative. Like many of us, she loves this industry with everything she has. Like many of us, she is also tired of it. The irony of loving something that consistently disappoints you is exhausting. She works for an organization that sub-grants performing artists. Naturally, I assumed the biggest management challenges would come from younger artists who are still figuring things out. I was wrong. Do not laugh. Apparently, it is the elders.

One recipient has still not submitted a script because, according to him, he “writes in the moment.” Interesting. So I suppose everyone else must simply wait for divine inspiration to descend. We should wait for the birds to chirp, the wind to blow in the correct direction, and his artistic moment to finally arrive, for money that has already been disbursed.

Another received funding and allegedly redirected the money elsewhere. Actors were reportedly underpaid, poorly treated, and months later, expenditure reports are still nowhere to be seen.

Then there is another elder. Reports are submitted on time. Communication is clear. The work being implemented matches exactly what was funded. Everything is coordinated with professionalism. No unnecessary drama. No excuses. Just work.

Now someone will tell me to respect all these elders equally. Cut me some slack. Respect is important. Blind admiration is not. Because if one elder consistently demonstrates integrity while another repeatedly demonstrates negligence, why should I pretend there is no difference between the two? Titles do not erase behaviour. Age does not automatically produce wisdom. Years in the industry are not evidence of good character. Yet these are the very people we are constantly told should mentor us.

Last week I had a fascinating conversation with colleagues about mentorship and somewhere along the way, I realized something. We have confused teaching with mentoring. They are not the same thing.

Teaching is the act of transferring knowledge, skills and values. Mentoring is a developmental relationship. It is guiding someone beyond information. It is helping them navigate careers, relationships, failures, opportunities and identity. Teaching answers questions. Mentorship asks better ones. Teaching tells you how something is done. Mentorship helps you discover how you will do it. The difference matters.

Young people reading this, I want you to think carefully about the person you proudly introduce as your mentor. Are they actually your mentor? Or are they simply your teacher? Because those are two very different relationships. I have become deeply invested in the idea of mentorship because I believe the world survives through continuity. Every generation eventually reaches a point where it must hand over the baton. Not throw it. Not hide it. Not clutch it until death. Hand it over.

But here is the thing. Passing on the baton should never mean creating copies of yourself. Some mentors seem determined to produce replicas. Walk like me. Speak like me. Dress like me. Direct actors like me. Think exactly like me. At that point, you are no longer mentoring. You are manufacturing clones. A good mentor works with who you already are. They sharpen your voice. They do not replace it with theirs.

Then there is another interesting phenomenon. Some people believe proximity equals mentorship. Holding someone’s handbag does not make them your mentor. Driving them around does not make them your mentor. Managing their schedule does not make them your mentor. Being constantly photographed beside them does not make them your mentor. Actual mentorship requires intentional investment. I have borrowed this thought before, and I will borrow it again from The 21 Irrefutable Laws of Leadership. John Maxwell argues that real mentorship often happens in informal spaces. Over coffee. During long walks. At family gatherings. In conversations that were never scheduled. In moments where character becomes visible beyond the boardroom or rehearsal room. Sometimes you learn more during the drive home than during the workshop itself. If you have never shared meaningful life outside work with the person you call your mentor, then perhaps they are your teacher. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. Teachers are important. But let us stop confusing the two.

There is another uncomfortable conversation we need to have. Some mentors encourage young people to work for free. Meanwhile, they themselves would never accept the same conditions. That should concern us. If your mentor repeatedly tells you to sacrifice your worth while fiercely protecting their own, perhaps they are not developing you. Perhaps they are benefiting from your desperation. There is a difference.

Then there is the culture of public adoption. “My daughter.” “My son.” “My boy.” “My girl.” “My child.” At first it feels beautiful. It feels affirming. It feels like belonging. Until you realize that being publicly adopted often comes with invisible expectations. Because now everyone assumes you belong to them too. Someone wants you to facilitate for free because your “parent” said you would. Someone expects favors because “after all, you are family.” Someone suddenly feels entitled to your time, your energy, your decisions, your relationships and sometimes even your private life. The boundaries quietly disappear. Yet let life humble you one morning. Find yourself genuinely stuck. Call this public parent for help. Watch how quickly the relationship changes. The same people introducing you as their children in public suddenly become unavailable when parenting actually requires sacrifice. Titles are easy. Responsibility is harder.

What fascinates me today is that something is beginning to shift. Quietly. Young people are building their own spaces. They are creating things. Producing plays. Winning grants. Leading organizations. Curating conversations. Building networks. Travelling internationally. Doing the work. And now something interesting is happening.

The very elders who once guarded access are beginning to approach these same young people asking for introductions. “Can you connect me?” “Can you recommend me?” “Can you bring me onto this project?” I find myself asking a difficult question. Why would I connect you to spaces you deliberately refused to connect me to? You once asked me to send you a proposal. I stayed up writing it. I shared it. You received it. Then silence. No feedback. No acknowledgement. No response. Nothing. But now that you need something from me, suddenly a late-night phone call can be arranged. Now there is urgency. Now there is respect. Now my time matters. Relationships built only when needs arise are not relationships. They are transactions.

Recently someone accused young people of wanting elders to die so we can occupy their spaces. No. We do not want you to die. We want you to mentor. We want you to teach. We want you to document. We want you to intentionally transfer knowledge. We want you to create systems that survive you. Legacy is not measured by how long you occupy a chair. Legacy is measured by what continues to function after you leave it. If an institution collapses because one person retired, that is not legacy. That is dependency disguised as leadership.

Sometimes I imagine what would happen if institutions genuinely embraced succession. Imagine the Uganda National Theatre, not simply replacing one or two people, but intentionally bringing in new, competent, passionate theatre practitioners across every level, from the Board to the last rank. Not because experience has no value, but because fresh thinking has value too. Imagine systems designed around service instead of survival. Imagine no more double bookings. Imagine timely communication. Imagine customer care that actually cares. Imagine staff who answer emails. Imagine attention to detail becoming ordinary. Imagine artists feeling welcomed instead of tolerated. Imagine professionalism becoming the culture rather than the exception. Would theatre become less valuable? Or would it become stronger because one generation finally trusted another with the future?

I keep thinking about that notebook I mentioned at the beginning. Every production gives me another page. Another lesson. Another reminder of what I hope never to become. Perhaps that is the real inheritance I am receiving from this industry. Not just techniques. Not just directing styles. Not just funding opportunities. But a very clear picture of the kind of leader I want to be and the kind I refuse to become. Because one day, if I am fortunate enough to be called an elder, I hope young people remember me not because they carried my bag or called me “Mama.” I hope they remember that I answered the email. That I returned the proposal with feedback. That I shared the opportunity instead of hoarding it. That I introduced them into rooms without expecting ownership over their futures. That I taught them generously. That I mentored them intentionally.

And when the time came, I handed them the baton without making them feel guilty for running faster than I ever could. Because that is the whole point of a relay. The race is bigger than the runner.

@UlokcwinyuUbia.

Written by

Ulokcwinyu Ubia

A writer and arts administrator

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