Lwaaki Oyendha Okunkalakatta? — A Gospel of Public Snapping and Private Kaveras

 

 

By Isaac Christopher Lubogo

 

Prologue: When Breaking Points Speak in Lusoga

 

Some phrases are born in poetry. Others are born in pain. And then there are those forged in emotional combustion, caught on video, in the raw heat of human collapse.

 

One such moment gripped the nation when a woman—clearly tormented, wounded, or perhaps just tired of enduring—erupted in a viral Lusoga clip. With eyes blazing and voice trembling, she shouted the now infamous words:

 

> “Lwaaki oyendha okunkalakatta?!”

(Phonetically: lwaa-kee o-YEN-dha o-koon-ka-la-KA-tta?)

Translation: “Why are you pushing me to the point of emotional explosion?”

 

It wasn’t mere defiance—it was anguish.

It wasn’t simply rage—it was release.

It wasn’t just a phrase—it was the funeral hymn of composure, cried out at the altar of too-muchness.

 

Scene One: The Holy Grounds of Nakulabye and the Man Named Abizaayo

 

Let me take you to the dusty heart of Nakulabye, where sermons echo louder than boda horns and the Holy Spirit competes with the scent of roasted maize and mukene.

 

I was there with my comrade, Pastor B, both of us fire-charged and ready for spiritual combustion. The event was a grand open-air crusade. But this wasn’t just any lineup. No, the pulpit had just been set ablaze by the legendary Pastor O—the very embodiment of gospel electricity, Uganda’s Kirk Franklin, the Wipolo General, a man whose mere microphone check could send demons relocating back to sender.

 

After a powerful, floor-shaking sermon, Pastor O handed the pulpit to none other than the next preacher: Bishop Abizaayo—yes, “The One Who Sends It Back!”

 

> Demons? Sent back. Witchcraft? Returned to sender. Insults? Bounced with interest.

 

With a name like Abizaayo, expectations were set: this man wasn’t here to entertain spirits—he was here to escort them back with receipts.

 

 

Scene Two: Enter the Fish Lady with the Kavera of Confusion

 

And then, as Bishop Abizaayo mounted the steps—heaven still hovering—she entered.

 

A woman. Drenched in the aroma of fermented defiance. In one hand, a kavera suspiciously leaking a fishy substance, in the other, remnants of what might have been lunch, or a sacrifice, or both. Her eyes were bloodshot, her lips already unlocked, and her voice—well-trained in the dark arts of drunken contradiction.

 

As Bishop Abizaayo called upon the heavens, she called back:

 

> “Biveeko!” (Let go!)

“Olumba!” (You lie!)

“Omuubi!” (You’re ugly!)

“Ofaaki!” (You’ll die!)

 

And just like that, the confrontation became liturgical.

 

But one must ask: how do you send back what refuses to go?

 

Scene Three: “Oyoo Namuwaako” — When Deliverance Turns to Debate

 

Bishop Abizaayo, unfazed, pulled out his signature thunder:

 

> “Thou Satanist, go behind me!”

A line straight from Christ’s own rebuke of Peter in Matthew 16:23.

 

But alas, instead of silence or repentance, the woman flung a verbal grenade:

 

> “Oyoo namuwaako!”

(Loosely: “That one? I gave some to him !”)

 

Whether it was the Lord, a man, a preacher, or the last tilapia in her kavera, no one will ever know.

 

But that sentence? That sentence sent back the sermon.

 

The crowd went feral.

People laughed. Some collapsed. Ushers gave up.

Even Pastor O, backstage, was reportedly seen slapping his forehead in disbelief.

 

It was at this moment that Bishop Abizaayo, the grand return-to-sender, realised that not every spirit flees when rebuked—and not every kavera can be thrown back without consequences.

 

Scene Four: The Kalakata Confession — “Muuna…Lwaaki Omuukaazi Ayendha Okunkalakatta?”

 

Now visibly flustered, Bishop Abizaayo turned to his Lusoga interpreter, his microphone still hot and holy.

 

And then it happened.

That moment of tragicomic genius.

He whispered, but it thundered:

 

> “Muuna…lwaaki omuukaazi ayendha okunkalakatta?”

Translation: “Brother, why is this woman trying to drive me mad?”

 

Crowd. Went. Wild.

 

He descended from the pulpit—no longer as a bishop, but as a barefooted pursuer of fish and fury. The woman ran. The kavera jiggled. The demons—if any—were already gone, suffocated by the scandal.

 

And thus, the sermon ended… not with an altar call, but a public chase scene in full view of heaven and all of Nakulabye.

 

The Theology of “Okunkalakatta”: When Human Limits Are Pushed Too Far

 

What does “okunkalakatta” truly mean?

 

From kalakata—to shake, to stir, to provoke violently—okunkalakatta is to be pushed emotionally, psychologically, spiritually to a breaking point.

 

> Not every breakdown is madness.

Sometimes, it is merely unprocessed pressure that found a microphone.

 

Philosophical Reflections: What Causes Kalakata Moments?

 

1. The Accumulated Weight of Unspoken Things

 

You don’t explode because of this moment—you explode because of a thousand moments carried in silence. Bishop Abizaayo didn’t snap because of the woman. He snapped because her kavera activated a thousand unresolved spiritual disappointments.

 

2. The Kavera Principle

 

Everyone carries something hidden:

 

Unhealed trauma.

 

Resentments.

 

Emotional garbage tied in polite smiles.

 

You poke the wrong kavera—and you might just release an odor strong enough to kill the sermon.

 

3. Reputation vs Reality

 

You may be “Abizaayo” in name, but not every demon is afraid of your CV. Some spirits are not to be rebuked but to be understood. Some interruptions are not satanic—they’re socio-psychological cries for attention.

 

4. When You Are the One Who Kalakatted

 

If you’ve ever shouted on the pulpit, sent a regrettable WhatsApp message, or chased someone in public—remember:

 

> “It is not the fall that defines you, but the courage to laugh, heal, and stand back up.”

 

Even Bishop Abizaayo had to sit down later—and maybe eat that fish.

 

Conclusion: The Gospel According to Kalakata

 

This is not just a funny story. It’s a mirror.

It tells us that no one—not even bishops—are immune to provocation.

It warns us that anointing without emotional regulation is a grenade without a pin.

 

So, the next time someone pushes you too far, before you leap off your pulpit and chase them through Nakulabye, breathe… then ask yourself:

 

> “Lwaaki oyendha okunkalakatta?”

And also—how do I avoid ending up in someone’s viral video?

 

 

Postscript: To the Woman, the Preacher, and the Kavera

 

To the woman: We understand. Sometimes fish is the least of your problems.

To the bishop: You tried. Some spirits are just too slippery.

To the kavera: May your contents forever remind us—what we carry inside matters more than what we say.

 

 

By Isaac Christopher Lubogo

SuiGeneris | Because Sometimes, Even the Anointed Need Anger Management