I often wonder how future generations will look back at this era of coding and hacking. But right here, in my small home in Kampala, Uganda, I live the comedy daily — caught between my granny, Mama Amina, who believes computers are some kind of magical boxes, and my baby nephew, little Taji, who thinks the whole world is a keyboard. Watching them both interact with technology is like watching the sun and the moon argue about who is brighter.

Let me paint the scene. My granny, Amina, is a woman of experience. She has raised six children, cooked more matoke than I can count, and her hands are quick with a hoe and a grinding stone. But when it comes to computers, she moves like she’s tiptoeing through a lion’s den. I remember the first time she saw me coding a Python script on my laptop. She squinted at the screen and asked, “Levi, are you talking to the machine, or is the machine talking to you?” I laughed, but inside, I knew the question was sincere.

In Granny’s world, coding is witchcraft disguised as letters and numbers. “Why are these small animals running across the screen?” she once asked, pointing to my cursor moving on a terminal window. I had to explain that no, those aren’t animals, it’s just my mouse. She shook her head slowly, muttering something about “mayezi ya teknolojia” — African technology is tricky.

Contrast this with my baby nephew, Taji. At six months old, he already knows that screens are portals to magic. If I open an IDE to write JavaScript, Taji crawls across the floor like a tiny hacker in a hoodie, trying to press keys. He giggles when the terminal spits out errors, as if the computer is talking to him now. “Ah! Mama Levi, it no work!” I swear he almost codes in his diapers.

Granny sees the world in symbols of survival: cows, crops, the sun, and the stars. She believes coding is too “foreign” and “dangerous.” Taji, on the other hand, sees the world in symbols of power: Wi-Fi, emojis, and app icons. Where Granny warns about wasting time on a screen, Taji insists on unlocking my phone to watch an animated cat dance. And somewhere in between, there I am — trying to bridge the gap between African wisdom and modern hacking.

One day, I decided to humor Granny. I opened a simple Python program and printed “Hello, World!” on my screen. She widened her eyes. “So, you are making the world speak?” she whispered, like I was summoning spirits. I chuckled. I explained that this is just a simple greeting program — nothing spiritual. She wasn’t convinced. The next day, she went to the market, loudly telling people, “Levi is talking to the world through his little magic box!” I couldn’t stop laughing.

Taji, of course, sees this differently. He crawled onto my lap the moment I opened the laptop. His tiny fingers tapped the keyboard, and magically, my code started highlighting in a different colour. I looked at him and said, “You are going to be the youngest hacker in Africa!” He grinned, as if confirming his destiny. Unlike Granny, Taji doesn’t need explanations — he understands through interaction. He touches, presses, and laughs, experiencing code not as abstract instructions but as playful magic.

The funniest moments happen when both worlds collide. I sometimes try to teach Granny simple HTML. I show her <h1>Welcome to My Blog</h1> and explain that this is how we display headings. She squints, then says: “Levi, why do you not just write on paper? This is too complicated. Can your computer eat ugali?” I laughed so hard I almost dropped my laptop.

Then, Taji comes along and touches the screen, swiping an imaginary banana emoji across the display. He babbles in what I swear is binary baby talk: “Ga-ga 101!” He’s creating chaos in my code, but in a way that feels… almost natural. I watch him, and I realize something profound: children are born to adapt to the digital world, while elders often need stories, metaphors, and humour to understand it.

Granny and Taji also reflect a cultural contrast. Granny sees code as foreign and distant, something the “smart boys from America or India” do. Taji sees code as immediate and approachable, something that reacts to him instantly. Yet both are African, both are learning — one slowly, one by instinct. And me? I am the bridge, translating code into stories for Granny and games for Taji.

Let’s talk about debugging. Granny thinks debugging is literally “talking to the devil in the box.” Every time my code throws an error, she gasps. “Levi! The machine is angry! Did you offend it?” She insists on sprinkling a little holy water on my laptop — I kid you not. Taji, meanwhile, sees errors as funny noises. When Python yells SyntaxError: invalid syntax, he claps and laughs, delighted that something so small can make so much noise.

Africanisation comes naturally in my storytelling. I often explain algorithms using examples from our culture. For Granny, I say: “Imagine you are sorting yams by size, Mama Amina. That is what a sorting algorithm does.” She nods knowingly. To Taji, I say: “Your toys are the nodes, and your hands move them — that’s like the computer moving data!” He tries to grab everything at once and laughs. Both methods teach — one through experience, one through instinct.

Granny’s fear of technology is humorous because it clashes with her daily life. She uses a smartphone, but only to call relatives. She texts in Kiswahili, asking about ugali recipes or when we will visit the homestead. She avoids online banking because she fears the “microchip money” will run away. Taji, on the other hand, swipes through banking apps like a tiny fintech prodigy.

There’s also the matter of language. Granny calls variables “names of spirits,” loops “ritual circles,” and functions “magic recipes.” She giggles when I explain recursion: “So you are telling the same story to the same child until they sleep?” Taji doesn’t need metaphors. He interacts. He doesn’t ask “why”; he asks “what can I touch?” Africans, like Granny, understand through metaphor. Babies, like Taji, understand through direct engagement. And me? I narrate, guide, and sometimes just sit back and watch the comedy unfold.

Watching Granny and Taji, I realise coding is not just logic; it’s storytelling. Granny brings wisdom, caution, and humour. Taji brings instinct, curiosity, and chaos. And me, Levi, I bring translation, African flair, and storytelling. Together, we form a spectrum of understanding: from reverent awe to playful mastery.

The lesson? Coding is not just for the young, the technical, or the foreign. Coding is a human experience, influenced by culture, humour, and perspective. Granny may never write Python fluently, and Taji may never need explanations. But both teach the same truth: in Africa, technology doesn’t just enter lives — it dances with them, it is questioned, played with, laughed at, and celebrated.

Next time you see an elder shaking their head at your terminal, or a baby babbling at your laptop, remember: the world of code is more than logic — it’s storytelling, culture, and a touch of magic. And yes, I am privileged to witness it firsthand.