When the Night Betrays the Dream: A Discourse for the Wounded Warriors of the Primaries
By Isaac Christopher Lubogo
DISCLAIMER:
This discourse is not for the faint-hearted. It is for those whose pillows were soaked with silent pain, for those who spent the night in a thousand deaths of thought. It is for the dreamers who bled at the altar of ambition, and the warriors who, though stabbed by betrayal, still breathe. If you are one of them—then come, sit with me in this fellowship of heartbreak and hope.
“The darkest hour,” wrote Thomas Fuller, “is just before the dawn.”
But what he didn’t say is that sometimes, the dawn delays—and when it does, the soul questions everything: God, man, meaning, and self.
Last night, you tasted the betrayal of those you fed. You watched friends become shadows, and shadows become strangers. Your campaign manager—silent. Your trusted mobiliser—missing. Your allies—celebrating another. Some even danced on the grave of your trust.
You didn’t sleep. Not really.
You lay awake, not because of fatigue, but because your very spirit was bruised.
“Did I fail?”
“Why would they do this to me?”
“Was I that naive?”
“Am I that forgettable?”
“Was I merely a bridge for someone else’s journey?”
Questions. Endless questions.
But hear me now—you did not lose.
1. The Primary Is Not the Prophecy
Let no one deceive you. Primaries are not a prophecy of your worth. They are merely events—flawed, politicized, emotional, and often manipulated. They reveal people’s games, not God’s plans.
You filled in yesterday not just for a position—but for purpose.
You showed up. You registered. You stood amidst vultures and liars, lovers and haters, truth-tellers and whispering devils.
If the system bruised you, let the bruise not become your burial. Let it be your badge.
> “I am not what happened to me,” said Carl Jung.
“I am what I choose to become.”
2. When Your Name Is Not on the List, It May Be on a Scroll
Some of you looked at the register and your name had been scratched off. Not by the ink of bureaucracy but by the politics of fear. And yet, hear me well:
God writes names in scrolls, not registers.
He does not delete destiny because of dishonour at a polling station.
This was not your death—it was your X-ray.
Now you see who was with you. And who wasn’t.
Now you know who to keep. And who to forgive and release.
3. Betrayal Is a Curriculum of Leadership
You feel betrayed? Then welcome.
Welcome to the syllabus of all great leaders.
Joseph was betrayed by his brothers.
Mandela was betrayed by his comrades.
Museveni, in 1980, cried betrayal too.
Jesus? Sold with a kiss.
> “Every great leader must carry the Judas tax,” wrote Lubogo.
It is the tuition you pay for stepping into destiny.
So cry, but do not collapse.
Bleed, but do not break.
4. The Throne is Not at the Polling Station—It’s in the Soul
Power is not just in the position—it’s in the influence.
Whether or not your name is called tomorrow, your voice must still speak.
Your village still knows you. Your people still need you. Your relevance is not erased by a ballot gone wrong.
> “I am still me,” you must say.
“Even if they didn’t pick me yesterday—I will pick myself today.”
5. You Are Not Alone in This Wilderness
We are many.
Many dreamers, many wounded, many walking with invisible wounds. You are not mad. You are just becoming. And becoming hurts.
> “Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls,” wrote Khalil Gibran.
“The most massive characters are seared with scars.”
And so today, put on your coat. Rise slowly. Breathe.
Drink tea. Walk. Reflect. But do not curse.
For even this disappointment carries the fingerprint of destiny.
6. Advice from the Ashes
Do not call them. Let them explain their betrayal in silence.
Do not fight. Let your wisdom wage war for you.
Do not retreat. Regroup. Replan. Re-strategize.
If you must cry, cry—but make sure your tears water the seed of your next comeback.
7. Parting Words for the Wounded
If you feel like dying today, it means something inside you is waking up. Not to be bitter—but better. You are more than this election. More than this moment. You are a movement.
> “You may write me down in history,” wrote Maya Angelou,
“With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt—
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.”
Signed:
Lubogo Isaac Christopher
“Still picking myself—no matter what they did.”
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