The Elephant-footed Boy: A Journey Through Shame, Identity, and the Metric of Worth

 

 

By Isaac Christopher Lubogo

 

> “Do not judge the elephant by the elegance of the antelope.”

– African Proverb Rewritten

 

Prologue: The Circle of Shame

 

A long time ago, I carried something that, at first, didn’t trouble me.

I never saw it as a burden—until about Primary Six, at Mwiri Primary School.

 

That’s when they began.

 

It was after one of those midday meals—posho, kawukumi, and beans.

But you see, it was never enough.

We who needed a little more would scramble for the leftovers—the “kiwanda”—scraps stuck at the bottom of the cooking vessels.

 

> “Bando bidhandhali” /ˈbɑn.dɔ bi.ˈd̪ʱɑn.d̪ʱɑ.li/

That was our barter system:

I’d trade beans for your posho. You’d trade posho for my beans.

 

A primitive stock exchange of hunger.

 

And then came that day.

 

Just after we’d licked the saucepans clean, one of the boys—my friend, mind you—gathered a group of us.

He stooped down and drew a shape in the dust.

A massive, flat, fish-like outline—oddly wide.

 

“We’re playing a game,” he said.

 

Each of us was to step into the outline—one by one—to see whose foot fit best.

A harmless game, I thought. Innocent. Silly.

 

I was the last to go.

And I was certain I’d be too small for the shape—surely, someone else had filled it already.

 

So I stepped in with both feet—bibiri—as a joke.

But to my horror… my feet still had space to spare.

 

That’s when it happened.

 

> “Gulu dhene! Gulu dhene!”

(He of the elephant feet!)

Phonetic: [/ˈɡu.lu ˈðɛ.nɛ/]

 

 

 

The chant rang through the circle like a school bell from hell.

Then came the cruel refrain:

 

> “Wandhovu tiyeebiyha, alina akaazi enuuma!”

(Mr. Elephant doesn’t even clean his behind—it stinks!)

Phonetic: [/wʌn.ˈd̪ɔ.vu ti.ˈjeː.bi.ja a.ˈli.nɑ ɑ.ˈkɑː.ki ɛ.ˈnuː.mɑ/]

 

 

 

That day, they didn’t just rename my feet.

They rewrote my existence.

 

From that moment, I became the boy with the curse of size.

The laughingstock. The gulu dhene.

And that name followed me like a shadow until I left Mwiri.

 

Lesson One: The Tyranny of Aesthetics

 

When I joined Namasagali College, I decided I would never be mocked again.

 

This was no ordinary school—it was the kingdom of queens.

A beauty temple. Perfection was worshipped.

Even had beauty contests to confirm it.

 

So I began to hide.

 

I squeezed my feet into narrow shoes. Bought shoe lenses.

Bent bone to fit fashion.

Because I thought: maybe if I reduced myself enough, they’d let me in.

 

But here’s the tragedy of boyhood:

 

> We do not heal from wounds we cannot name.

We wear them like uniforms.

 

 

 

Until Senior Two, when something shifted.

 

I began to notice that everyone had something.

Big noses. Crooked teeth. Dark scars. Rough lips.

And suddenly, the scale tilted—from beauty to brains.

From who was seen… to who came first in class.

 

 

Lesson Two: David, the American God

 

Much later in life, I opened up to my friend David.

Told him how I still often feel… sidelined.

 

Not because I’m lesser.

But because some people come—and go.

They don’t stick.

I never quite fit.

 

David didn’t console me.

 

He looked at me—smirked—and unleashed what I now call his verdict of vanity:

 

> “Muuna Lubogo mwaniwe… ekisooka oliina ogudha oguunene. Ekyokubiri olighumpi. Ekyo kusatu oziira sente.”

(Brother Lubogo—first, your stomach is big. Second, you’re short. Third, you have no money.)

Phonetic:

[/ˈmuː.nɑ lu.ˈbɔ.ɡɔ ˈmwa.ni.wɛ/]

[/ɛ.ki.ˈsɔː.kɑ ɔ.ˈliː.nɑ ɔ.ˈɡu.d̪ɑ ɔ.ˈɡuː.nɛ.nɛ/]

[/ɛ.ˈcɔ.ku.ˈbi.ɾi ɔ.li.ˈɣuːm.pi/]

[/ɛ.ˈcɔ ku.ˈsa.tu ɔ.ˈziː.ɾɑ ˈsɛn.tɛ/]

 

 

 

And then, as if that wasn’t enough, he lifted his chin:

 

> “Linga waano nze nnina Americani height, sikiini eyaakabi, nnina sente.”

(Look at me—I have American height, flawless skin, and I’m loaded.)

Phonetic:

[/ˈli.ŋɑ ˈwɑː.nɔ n̩.ˈzɛ ˈniː.nɑ/]

[/ɑ.ˈme.ɾi.kɑ.ni haɪt/]

[/si.ˈkiː.ni ɛ.jɑː.ˈkɑ.bi/]

[/ˈniː.nɑ ˈsɛn.tɛ/]

 

 

 

It was a triple blow:

Body. Height. Wallet.

 

 

Lesson Three: When the World Weighs a Man

 

So I ask again:

What should a man be?

 

A mirror of envy?

A mannequin in capitalism’s showroom?

A bank account in shoes?

 

Because once, they mocked my feet.

Now, they audit my account.

 

But it’s the same old rejection, just in branded clothes.

 

Lesson Four: The Evolution of Shame

 

In childhood, I feared mirrors.

In adulthood, I feared meetings.

 

But in time, I saw something liberating.

 

I saw boys with bad teeth still laugh.

Girls with limps still dance.

Men with scars still lead.

Women with rough hands still love.

 

And I realized:

 

> I was never the flaw. The mirror was broken.

 

 

 

We were being caged by imported standards:

Pointed noses. Thin lips. Tall genes. Light skin.

Deep pockets. Shallow values.

 

 

Lesson Five: Reclaiming the Elephant Foot

 

Let me now say this with thunder:

 

I no longer shrink.

I no longer muffle my footsteps.

I no longer apologize for the terrain I was born to walk.

 

The gulu dhene they laughed at…

 

> Phonetic: [/ˈɡu.lu ˈðɛ.nɛ/]

…is now a monument of defiance.

 

 

 

My steps weren’t too big.

They were just too loud for those who whisper through life.

 

Yes, the elephant walks slowly.

But it never forgets.

And when it charges—

They no longer talk about the feet.

They respect the force.

 

 

Final Act: Jajja Mwami’s Gospel & The Hyper Dupa Level

 

These days, when people question my looks, my height, or my worth—

 

I remember the wisdom of Jajja Mwami:

 

> “Omusaja akhadiwa nsaawo.”

(A man is only as old as his pocket.)

Phonetic: [/ɔ.mu.ˈsɑ.d͡ʒɑ ɑ.kʰɑ.ˈdi.wɑ ˈn̩.sɑː.wo/]

 

 

 

And when they push further, I smile…

I raise my head…

And I say:

 

> “Just Google Lubogo dot org.”

Phonetic: [/lu.ˈbɔ.ɡɔ dɔt ɔɹ.ˈɡiː/]

 

 

 

The screen lights up.

The room goes quiet.

And the whole white world nods:

 

> “He is not just a man… he is a movement.”

 

 

 

> He is hyper dupa level.

A SuiGeneris evolution in flesh and thunder.

 

 

Epilogue: A New Circle

 

To the Davids—may your height never become your god.

To the children drawing fish feet in the soil—draw inclusion instead.

And to the boy with elephant feet—walk.

Run.

Dance.

Stomp.

 

> Your sound is the music they feared.

You are not what they mocked.

You are what you overcame.

 

 

> “Those who mocked your feet will one day kneel to kiss the ground you walk on.”

– Lubogo, Philosophy of the Outcast Soul

 

 

 

> “You may laugh at my feet—but remember: even mountains need wide bases.”

 

 

 

“I Am Not Like the Others.”