We see this commitment when he makes a swift – and somewhat ritualistic ocean dive – right at the edge of the Nile when we eventually choose to dare the world's longest river.
Asked if this is his way of making peace with the gods in exchange for a safe sail, a wry smile is all we get for a response as Emma struts his stuff.
He isn't letting any cats out of his bag, so we let him do his thing.
We are debutants on this side of the world. So we choose to play it safe by opting for flatwater tubing, the recreational equivalent of shallow water swimming.
Our entry point is on the right side of the rocky shoreline, a couple of kilometers off Kimaka Road. We stroll past a herd of unattended cattle barely 10 meters away.
Shortly after noon, the gang and I are ready for the aquatic experience of our lifetime.
By this time, we've had our bodies fastened to the string of towable tubes, each tube connected to the next, and all the five of us at the mercy of Emma's pre-eminent Kayak.
Across the river surface, the Nile looks so deceptively still that one can hardly notice the swift speed with which it makes its way to the Mediterranean.
Meters away, a mass of floating shrubland appears stagnant while, a little farther, a string of what looks like plastic litter bears the look of abandoned luggage. Little do we know the surprises that await us.
Five minutes later, we are right in the middle of the Nile, sailing along its course and delighting in its breathtaking vibe.
The erstwhile still shrub swiftly breezes past us, with the floating plastic giving it relentless chase. We suddenly realize how fast we have been sailing.
I am not about to die with my maalo, so I ask Emma what this sorry sight of plastic bottles is doing in our beloved river.
"These are fish baits," he says in a Lusoga-Luganda dialect, with an occasional smattering of English. "Fishermen use these to catch fish at night."
In vain, we peek through the surface, hoping for any signs of active marine life. Emma says the fish come to the surface at night.
The fish mainly feed at night. Fishermen are well aware of this, so they pounce at the right time.
About 30 minutes later, the closest sign of activity appears by way of a lazy vortex struggling to rise above the Nile's surface.
We soon learn that these are the vestige of what was once known as Bujagali falls. The new dam swiftly submerged the waterfalls, sparking a premature end to the once beautiful marvel, now spoken of like some prehistoric antiquity.
We sail a little more to the sight of a smooth, stone cave on the riverbank. Emma says this was Jjaja Bujagali's haven, where he often retired for his siesta.
"Oyo omusajja yajiranga ku kaliba nga mulaba," swears an animated Emma, his reticent face letting off a tone of authority, like someone confident about what they are saying.
We look on in amusement and shock, careful not to ask silly questions lest our host suddenly decides he's had enough of our company.
"Time for a snack now," he says, as we gradually lose sight of Budhagali's rugged haven.
Our marine snack is a fruit salad of watermelon and pineapple that Emma slices with the sheer expertise of a seasoned five-star hotel prep cook.
Fruit epicarps –
the remainder of our serving – are to be dumped into the water, he says, for
these comprise the fish diet.
After three hours of wafting through the Nile's ambiance and being buoyed by its waters, our exciting expedition draws to its close.
Once more, we sail closer to the river bank, to the sight of derelict, green iron sheet-roofed cottages said to belong to businessman Sudhir Ruparelia.
Our docking area is not as uninviting as the scene ahead of us, and the experience leaves us with enough priceless memories to last a lifetime.
