Lubogo vs. Lubogo: The Independent War Within

By Isaac Christopher Lubogo

There comes a silence that screams louder than a campaign crowd. That’s what Lubogo discovered in the wake of his political defeat. Once the darling of village gatherings, hailed as “our son”, greeted by ululations, handshakes, and waragi toasts, he now sat alone—no drums, no voters, no yellow banners. Just silence. And in that silence, another voice rose—not from outside, but from within.

That voice wasn’t kind. It was sharp, familiar, and truthful. It reminded him that what he thought was loyalty might have been slavery draped in party colors. “You bled yellow, Lubogo,” the voice said, “but they bled you dry.” He couldn’t argue. He had danced in funerals, contributed to weddings of strangers, sacrificed land to print campaign posters, and dined with the very same elders who, in the end, sold him out for a 2,000 shilling note and a packet of salt.

Yet here he was, contemplating whether to stand again—this time as an independent. The thought both liberated and haunted him. Was this courage or was it bitterness in disguise? Could he really carry the same message after being publicly rejected by the very machine he had oiled for decades? Or was this his ego, dressed up as resilience, demanding a rematch not for justice but for revenge?

His conscience, unrelenting, replayed his past. 2011—he was asked to wait. 2016—they chose another “more seasoned” cadre. 2021—finally, he rose, only to fall again in 2025, not to a better candidate, but to one with a better wallet and a louder DJ. He felt betrayed, but the real sting came from realizing he had betrayed himself first. He had known—deep down—that the system was transactional. That love in politics is not love—it is leverage.

And now, with the party moving on without a backward glance, he stood at a crossroads: retreat into the shadows as a forgotten cadre, or walk the thorns of independence. But that path, too, was not romantic. The odds were brutal. Independents are often mocked as bitter men in oversized posters. They lack structure, lack fuel money, lack the protective cloak of the party. And worse, their victories—when they come—are seen as accidents, not triumphs.

Still, something within him stirred. Maybe, for once, this wasn’t about winning the election. Maybe this was about winning himself back. He had lost his voice somewhere between the district chairperson’s endorsements and the sugar-laced rallies. Now, for the first time in years, he could hear it again—his own voice, uncloaked by strategy and unfiltered by party loyalty.

He thought of his children—how they once looked at him like a giant. How his wife used to introduce him as “Honourable” and now simply says “my husband.” He thought of the boda rider who told him, “Ssebo, twakulabako. We once saw you.” The past tense hit harder than the defeat. They once saw him—but no more.

So what was left?

Dignity.

That, at least, he could salvage. If he chose to run, it would not be to prove a point, but to carry one: that principle should never be an underdog in politics. And if he chose not to run, it would not be in surrender but in wisdom. Either way, this time, it would be his choice—not one engineered by a caucus or handed to him by a party primary where money spoke louder than merit.

He folded his campaign suit and placed it gently in the drawer—not out of defeat, but out of rebirth. The next steps would be taken barefoot, grounded, and conscious. No more dancing for borrowed applause. No more smiling through betrayal. He would either run with truth or walk away with peace.

Because sometimes, the most powerful campaign you can launch… is the one against your own illusion.

Isaac Christopher Lubogo

For every man who has stood, fallen, and dared to rise—not for power, but for purpose.

# Suigeneris