By: Isaac Christopher Lubogo
Martina’s Way
I have a friend in Germany, Martina. On her birthday, she did something I will never forget. She looked at her husband and said:
“Don’t buy me flowers. Don’t plan a party. Don’t waste money on me. Instead, send out tokens to all of my African friends.”
It was her day. She could have sat on the throne of attention, but she stepped down. She chose not to be celebrated, but to celebrate. While most of us count how many people remember us, Martina counted how many she could remember.
It moved me deeply, because it exposed something: sometimes the truest way to feel alive is not to wait for others to clap for us, but to make others clap because of us.
Father Grimes and the Pink Chit
Then I remembered Father Grimes of Namasagali College. He had seen the loneliness of birthdays in a boarding school far away from home. Some students would sit quietly in the corner on their birthday, watching others get cakes and visitors, while their own day slipped by unnoticed.
He couldn’t stand it. So he created the pink chit. If your birthday had passed silently, he gave you one. That little slip meant recognition, dignity, belonging. It told you: You are not invisible. You are not forgotten.
To those who received it, it wasn’t just paper. It was love disguised as ink.
My Birthday Yesterday
And then there was me. Yesterday.
The machines remembered—MTN, Airtel, Stanbic, Housing Finance. Facebook too, like a friend who doesn’t really know me.
But humans? Only two. Percy and Moses. And even they, nudged not by love but by possibly Facebook’s cold reminder.
Yet at least Percy sent this:
> “Happy Birthday to the Master of Words, Christopher Isaac Lubogo!
Wishing a super happy birthday to the word wizard who’s spun so many tales! Your books and articles are like caffeine for readers—they get hooked, can’t stop turning pages.
Here’s to another year of plotting twists, crafting characters, and making readers laugh (or cry… but mostly laugh ). May your pen never run out of ink and your ideas never run out of awesomeness!”
And I replied to Percy:
“Thank you, my friend, for the generous words. To be called a ‘Master of Words’ is itself a reminder that words do not belong to us—we are but their temporary custodians. Words existed before us and will outlive us; we merely arrange them into shapes that mirror our time, our joys, and our sorrows.
If my writings have become ‘caffeine for readers,’ it is only because life itself is sleepless—ever questioning, ever searching, never allowing us to rest until meaning is drawn from chaos.
Birthdays are not so much celebrations of age as they are checkpoints of purpose. Each year is an interrogation: have you deepened the wells of wisdom, or merely added more pages to the calendar? May my own answer always be found not in the number of books written, but in the number of souls stirred toward thought, courage, and truth.
With gratitude and humility,
Isaac Christopher Lubogo.”
But… even my children—the very ones whose birthdays I have celebrated with gifts, cakes, and prayers—forgot.
I sat with that silence. And it stung. Because birthdays are not about cake or song—they are about being seen, being remembered, being loved. And yesterday, I felt invisible.
The Whisper of God
But in the quiet, another voice came through—not from a phone, not from a friend, but from Scripture:
> “That I may know Him, and the power of His resurrection, and the fellowship of His sufferings.” (Philippians 3:10)
Suddenly I understood. The fellowship of suffering is not only about crosses and nails. Sometimes it is about being forgotten on the one day you hoped to be remembered. Sometimes it is the ache of scrolling through silence while the world carries on.
The Tear That Taught Me
Here is what I learned—through the sting, through the silence, through the tear I wiped away quietly:
I asked to be remembered, and I was forgotten—so I learned to remember others.
I asked to be celebrated, and I was ignored—so I learned to celebrate others.
I asked for gifts, but none came—so I learned that life itself is the gift.
And so—
I got nothing that I prayed for, but everything that I hoped for.
I am, among men, most blessed.
For Everyone Who Knows This Ache
Maybe you too have known this. Maybe your birthday passed with no phone call, no song, no knock at the door. Maybe you smiled in public but cried in private.
Let me tell you—you are not alone. That silence does not define your worth. Sometimes it is God’s way of drawing you closer. Sometimes it is life’s way of teaching you to give what you never received.
Martina gave.
Father Grimes remembered.
And I—wept, prayed, and discovered: to be forgotten by men is to be remembered by God.
And yes, Martina wrote to me and asked: “Isaac, how many people have wished you happy birthday?”
I answered her: “Tina, I am glad I have you. And I celebrate millions like you and others. That is what counts.”
So, my friends out there, I am not angry that you did not remember. Perhaps you did not know. I am only glad. Tell me your birthdays—I will still celebrate you and others regardless. Because like St. Francis of Assisi said, “Every heart can produce sweet music if you pluck it well.”
So don’t worry. I still love and celebrate all of you.
The New Way of Birthdays
Let us change the script. Let our birthdays not be days of waiting, but days of giving. Let them not be about counting who remembered us, but about making sure no one else feels forgotten.
Because in remembering others, we are remembered.
In blessing others, we are blessed.
And in giving, even through our tears, we receive the sweetest gift of all.
The Crown of the Forgotten
So yes—yesterday was silent. Yes—it stung. But in that silence, I found a crown. And today I know: the forgotten birthday is not emptiness. It is fullness. Not rejection—it is redirection.
And with tears still drying on my face, I can say—
I am, among men, most blessed.